Yeah Yeah Yeah (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

7. Flying Under the Radar

October 1965
London

Paul

In retrospect, it probably wasn't the best of ideas to go to Mick's housewarming party the night before we were due at Buckingham Palace.

Here's the thing, though:  the whole MBE thing was really fucking with our heads. Ever since we'd been notified that we'd made the cut, my emotions swerved between thinking it was no big deal and feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. I mean, me, a Member of the Order of the British Empire? I was a 23-year-old musician trying to sort out his life, not an elderly fellow who had dedicated his life to the Commonwealth.

It didn't help that the press had gone mental the moment the list of honorees was announced. Half of the ensuing articles waxed poetic about how progressive a choice it was; the other half condemned the Queen for inviting such subversive elements to the palace. Just that morning, I'd read that a former general had protested by returning 12 medals he'd received during the war. The world was going mad.

This is all to say that we felt a bit out of sorts on the eve of the investiture. We were finally on a groove with the LP, and we'd opened up a few bottles of French wine to encourage the creative energy. I'll admit, we weren't the soberest we'd ever been. I was sitting at the piano trying to get the final take of 'In My Life,' when I suddenly segued into Jerry Lee Lewis' 'Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On.' John joined in on vocals, and soon we were all in on it.

"Yeeeehaw!" John shouted at the end. "Let's call it a night, fellas. I fancy stopping by Mick's on the way home."

"That's a terrible idea," George said as he began to pack up his Rickenbacker. "We've gotta be fresh tomorrow."

I looked up with interest. "I heard Mick has two telephone lines in his new flat."

"Well, Paul," John replied lazily. "Why don't you come along and find out? Maybe you can meet a girl who actually lives in the same town as you while you're at it."

"Mind your own business," I  grumbled even though I'd had the same thought more than once.

"Yeah, sure, sorry, sorry," he said as he knocked back the rest of his drink. "I'll mind my own business when you stop writing songs about your angst."

He leaned closer to the mic and started to strum his Stratocaster. When I call you up, Jane, your line's engaged, Jane / I've had enough, Jane, so act your age, Jane/ We've lost time, Jane / And I'm losing my goddamn mind, Jaaaaaaane.

"Fuck off," I said, laughing despite myself.

George chuckled next to me as he stood. "I'm off. Rings, you need a ride?"

Ringo looked over at me. "Two telephone lines? Really?"

I nodded. "That's what I heard."

Ringo looked thoughtful. "I didn't even know you were allowed to have two lines in one flat. That's proper luxury right there."

"Are you lot coming, or are you coming?" John asked into the mic, wincing at the screech of feedback.

We should have said no. But, instead, the three of us piled into John's car and headed to Marylebone. Someone pulled out a joint during the ride, so we were extra jolly when we alighted at John Street. We walked down the small mews until we reached a narrow building with the basement level lit up in psychedelic colors and The Byrds' latest single blaring from within.

"Think this is it?" I asked.

"Fucking hope so, 'cause wherever this is is where I'm going," replied John as he bounded down the short staircase. We tumbled in the door, all untucked shirts and tousled hair. It was an open floorplan, very hip, and the room was thick with smoke, music, and beautiful people.