Lonely People

Kirchherr

The Indra Club was like a different universe than the Cavern Club. It was bigger, smellier, and meaner than what we were used to. People sneered rather than smiled, and they looked at us as if sizing up their meal. The entire place reeked of sour milk and sweaty men. The club manager gave us long hours and shitty living conditions, but we endured. For the band, we endured.

We had only played one show there, technically half a show. The power went out halfway through and we had to leave. There was another show that night, and it was planned to be nearly eight hours long. I wasn't sure how we would survive an eight-hour long show. The most we've ever done was four hours.

I sat at the drum kit. I wasn't able to bring my drums from home because they technically belonged to The Cavern Club. That left me with new drums that seemed unfamiliar to me. This entire town was unfamiliar. I felt out of place like a match in a candle store. 

What started as a dream turned out to be a confusing nightmare. With long hours, unliveable conditions, mean people, and a loneliness brought on by being in a place unfamiliar to us, we had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. 

At the time, I was the only one on stage. The lads were getting ready, and they were taking forever. It gave me enough time to organize the drums to my liking.

That's when I met her. You've probably heard a million different versions of how we met Astrid Kirchherr. Some say Stuart met her first, which would have been only fitting, but the truth is, I met her first. Had they been on the stage at the time, things would have played out differently.

"Guten tag."

I glanced up from my drums. She was standing at the foot of the stage, a camera in her hands and a kind look on her face. As soon as I saw her, I had to hold back a gasp. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life. Blonde hair the color of golden sunshine was cut so close to her head, it was nearly shaved. She wore all black, and her top was a turtleneck. Blue eyes stared at me with all the kindness in the world. It took me a moment to regain my ability to speak.

"Er-hello," I replied.

The woman smiled, "Are you the drummer?"

I had completely forgotten I was holding the drumsticks and sitting at the drum kit. For a moment, I was confused, but I quickly realized what she was talking about. Spinning the sticks around in my fingers, I grinned.

"Yes, that's me. Amelia McCartney, pleasure to meet you."

"I'm Astrid Kirchherr," she replied, "I heard your band was playing."

She spoke with a thick German accent, just like the rest of the town. Most people's accent was coarse and rough, like it was cutting into you. Hers was smooth. It made me smile when I would usually shrink away.

I nodded, "It's technically our first show. The power went out during the first one."

"That's too bad. Where is everybody else?"

"Getting dressed. They take forever, and then they call me slow."

She giggled. I could feel heat rise to my cheeks, but I blamed it on the humid room. Everybody was sweaty and smoking, and it didn't help the atmosphere. The summer air outside only added insult to injury, making the entire club a sauna. All of this combined and John still made us wear leather jackets. 

"I was hoping to take some photographs," Astrid held up her camera.

I smiled, "I'm sure they'd be up for that. They always enjoy anything that has to do with them."

Astrid laughed once again. That was the moment the rest of the boys decided to come up to the stage. All four of them arrived at once. Paul looked between Astrid and me and asked, "Melly, you made a friend?"

"Lads, this is Astrid Kirchherr," I gestured to the woman, "Astrid, this is my brother Paul, John Lennon, George Harrison, and Stuart Sutcliffe."

Each boy nodded once they heard their name. Stuart hadn't been looking until I said his name. He glanced up, his eyes connecting with Astrid's. For a moment, the air changed. It became electrified with something unknown to me. Their very gaze seemed to be pumped with static.

"Say, what's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?" Stuart asked.

George elbowed him. Astrid giggled, smiling at him the entire time. She raised her camera and replied, "I was hoping to photograph you."

"You can take pictures of me whenever you like," Stuart winked.

"For God's sake, Stuart," I sighed, "Can you stop flirting for half a second?"

Stuart glared at me, "Sod off, McCartney."

"What did I do?" Paul asked.

"Not you."

The group laughed, except for me. I rolled my eyes and grabbed the drumsticks, hitting the drums a few times. Astrid took a step back and smiled, "Pose for me?"

"Gladly."

Everybody got into position. The boys pretended to play their guitars while I pretended to hit the drum. Astrid snapped a few photos before smiling, "Danke."

"Is that all?" Stuart asked.

Astrid shook her head, "I'll take more during the show."

Stuart smiled. They stared at each other for an uncomfortable amount of time. John eventually cleared his throat, "Show starts in five minutes, Stuart."

"Right, sorry."

He continued to tune his guitar. Astrid vanished, though we knew she wasn't far. The club began to fill. People of all shapes, sizes, colors, and emotions came to watch us play. Everybody was an adult, as nobody under the age of eighteen was allowed in that club. Jokes on them, George and I not only got in, but we were paid to do so.

"Ready, lads?" John asked.

We all nodded. I twirled the drumstick in my hand, smiling as I did so. John pursed his lips, "First show, let's bloody win it."

"Here here," Stuart and Paul replied.

They all turned to face the audience. Several tired faces gazed back at us, each one no different than the last. John glanced back at me and nodded. I started the beat.

***

Seven hours into the show, and I felt like I couldn't go anymore. My fingers had blisters, my muscles had become putty, and my lungs had faded from existence. Playing for seven hours nonstop took a large toll on the body. Sweat coated every inch of me, making my hair hang damp like a wet paper towel.

The boys were no better. All I could see were the backs of their saturated shirts. John and Paul had nearly gone hoarse. George's fingers had begun to bleed, but he ignored it. They continued to play no matter what.

It was only our first day, I told myself, we would get used to it. Eventually, eight-hour shows would be nothing for us. It would be like riding a bike. We just had to get used to it, is all.

By the time the show was over, I felt as if my hands would fall off. I dropped the drumsticks and took a deep breath. The boys bowed, and they almost couldn't get back up. We left the stage and headed towards our room in the basement. All of us nearly fell over, but we made it.

The room was a shithole. We had two sets of bunk beds and a pullout couch. There was a bathroom and a closet, both were small and not fit to accommodate five people. The only other furniture we had was a small table and two metal chairs.

Paul fell onto the couch. He had claimed it as soon as we arrived. George and I had the two top bunks while John and Stuart had the bottoms. We all climbed into our beds and promptly collapsed.

"Good show," Stuart mumbled.

Nobody had the energy to reply. Within seconds, I was surrounded by four sets of snores. I followed not too long after. 

(Photo- self-portrait, 1960. Taken by Astrid Kirchherr.)