The seguinte day, Paul, Winston, Ringo, and Geo woke up in their hotel room, refreshed and ready for a new dia of performing.
"Today we've got to really get them to notice us," Winston told his friends, over a breakfast of toast, bacon, and eggs. "No mais playing in little parks waiting for them police to throw us out. We need a bigger place."
So the little band took their instruments and went to choose their venue. Madison Square Gardens caught their eyes once again, but they weren't going to play their first performance there. No, they would play there when people would come and queue up and buy tickets to see them.
Finally, the band chose a large department store to set up their instruments in. Paul was a little nervous - was this legal, and, if it wasn't, was it bad enough for the police to take him to the station and try to send him back home? But he didn't want Winston to start making fun of him again, so he said nothing.
"What are we playing?" Ringo asked, tapping his drumstick against his címbalo, cymbal eagerly.
"How about Winston's song?" Paul suggested. "He's got a great one about a morango field. Wait till you hear it!"
"They don't know that one yet," Winston reminded him.
"We'll watch you and figure it out," Geo said.
So Winston began to play the chords to his song, and Geo watched him and moved his fingers along the fretboard, making riffs in the same key, and Ringo beat out the rhythm expertly, and Paul watched Winston's fingers too, mentally planning out a baixo line.
It didn't come out perfectly right away. But the boys just seemed to feel each other out when playing music, and before too long they had gotten everything in sync, happily playing the song as if they'd been doing it for years.
"Let me take you down, 'cause I'm going to
morango Fields,
Nothing is real,
And nothing to get hungabout,
morango Fields forever...."
At first, the people in the store didn't seem to notice them. It was noisy in there, and crowded, everyone doing their own thing with no time to notice four teenage boys playing instruments with no amplifiers. But as the song began to take form, people's heads began to turn. The people could feel the melody inside them, and began to look around to see where the enchanting sound was coming from.
"Living is easy with eyes closed,
Misunderstanding all you see
It's getting hard to be someone, but it all works out,
It doesn't matter much to me...."
The boys were beginning to draw a crowd. Some people forgot their shopping as they drifted towards the beautiful sound; others tried to ignore them, wearing disapproving frowns at the sight of four young boys making a scene in public like this.
"No one, I think, is in my tree,
I mean, it must be high or low
That is, you can't, you know, tune in, but it's all right,
That is I think it's not too bad...."
Paul had no idea what the words meant, but he happily played along as they went back into the chorus, grinning at Winston and throwing a few winks into the half-enchanted, half-bemused audience. He did think he knew what one part of the lyrics meant. He had been in Winston's árvore the dia they'd met. Paul wondered if someday he could write a song in which the lyrics had no meaning.
"Always, no, sometimes, think it's me..."
At least, that was what Paul thought Winston sang; it could have been "Always know, sometimes think it's me".
"But you know, I know when it's a dream
I think I know, I mean, ah, yes, but it's all wrong...
That is, I think I disagree...."
The lads from Liverpool (would that work as a band name?) sprang once mais into the chorus, now under the combined gaze of admiring teenage girls, envious teenage boys, some adults marvelling at how well these boys could play, and other adults marvelling that the boys' parents let them out of the house when they would cause a scene like this.
"Strawberry Fields forever...
morango Fields forever...
morango Fields forever...."
As the song began to fade away, Winston jumped progressivo, para a frente toward their audience as if he planned to make a speech, and shouted for all to hear: "I'm very bored!" He couldn't have looked less bored. Some people laughed. Others looked like they wanted to drag him away and throw him out of the store. Most didn't seem to know what to do.
Then a lady who worked at the store marched up to them. "What are you doing in my store, young men?"
"Performing," said Winston with a perfectly straight face, for all the world as if new bands came into department stores to try out their songs on the public every day.
"What did you think we were doing?" inquired Geo, with his usual frown.
"Did you like it?" Ringo asked hopefully.
"Do you want our autographs?" Paul had always looked progressivo, para a frente to becoming famous enough to sign autographs. As he said this, though, it occurred to him that he was going to have to sign "James" for a while and not "Paul", if he didn't want his cover blown.
The lady, though, did not seem to want their autographs. "Out of my store! Get on your way! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! I suppose your parents don't know you're doing this?"
Paul went white. "Of course they do!" he retorted quickly. "All our parents know... um, that we're here and... well, doing this! Every one of our parents knows! Why would you think they...."
He felt Winston's steadying hand on his arm. "That's enough, James."
The lady stared at him hard. "James?" For one chilling second, Paul was afraid that the police somehow knew that he was in New York and going por his first name, and had set out a manhunt after him. Then it occurred to him that she probably just figured that teenagers who were comfortable revealing their names in public couldn't be guilty of too much.
Ringo took it a different way entirely. "That's our band: James, Winston, Geo, and Ringo. We'll be doing a show somewhere soon." He looked at her with his blue eyes and wide mouth, looking sweet and boyish and very hard to dislike.
"Well, it won't be in my store, this show of yours! Out!"
The band left, waving at the crowd and telling them they'd been a lovely audience as they did. A couple of girls were clasping their hands together and gazing adoringly after them, and Paul heard one say to the other, "I just amor British accents!"
The four boys laughed good-naturedly. "We've got an advantage with the birds here! Good thinking to come here, James."
"Better thinking than he had in the store." Winston nudged Paul playfully. "She got the point, James, our parents all know we're out here playing in department stores."
Paul blushed. He was just about to respond when he saw a police station just ahead. Instantly, he put his head down and tried very hard to look as inconspicuous as possible. It was silly, he knew. The New York police wouldn't be looking for him. The Liverpool police, maybe, but why would his dad think he'd gone to New York? He'd never said anything to him about getting his start there.
Paul knew he was atuação needlessly paranoid. He just couldn't help it. The thought of being sent back início was mais than he could bear. He didn't want to leave this band behind. It was mais than just pride and not wanting to go back to his father without proving himself. Paul loved being in this band; he couldn't let anything take him away from them.
Inside the police station, the officers weren't worried about Paul at all.
"A missing British boy, here in New York somewhere?"
"That's right; last seen at the airport. Aged thirteen, brown hair, brown eyes. respostas to George Harrison...."
"Today we've got to really get them to notice us," Winston told his friends, over a breakfast of toast, bacon, and eggs. "No mais playing in little parks waiting for them police to throw us out. We need a bigger place."
So the little band took their instruments and went to choose their venue. Madison Square Gardens caught their eyes once again, but they weren't going to play their first performance there. No, they would play there when people would come and queue up and buy tickets to see them.
Finally, the band chose a large department store to set up their instruments in. Paul was a little nervous - was this legal, and, if it wasn't, was it bad enough for the police to take him to the station and try to send him back home? But he didn't want Winston to start making fun of him again, so he said nothing.
"What are we playing?" Ringo asked, tapping his drumstick against his címbalo, cymbal eagerly.
"How about Winston's song?" Paul suggested. "He's got a great one about a morango field. Wait till you hear it!"
"They don't know that one yet," Winston reminded him.
"We'll watch you and figure it out," Geo said.
So Winston began to play the chords to his song, and Geo watched him and moved his fingers along the fretboard, making riffs in the same key, and Ringo beat out the rhythm expertly, and Paul watched Winston's fingers too, mentally planning out a baixo line.
It didn't come out perfectly right away. But the boys just seemed to feel each other out when playing music, and before too long they had gotten everything in sync, happily playing the song as if they'd been doing it for years.
"Let me take you down, 'cause I'm going to
morango Fields,
Nothing is real,
And nothing to get hungabout,
morango Fields forever...."
At first, the people in the store didn't seem to notice them. It was noisy in there, and crowded, everyone doing their own thing with no time to notice four teenage boys playing instruments with no amplifiers. But as the song began to take form, people's heads began to turn. The people could feel the melody inside them, and began to look around to see where the enchanting sound was coming from.
"Living is easy with eyes closed,
Misunderstanding all you see
It's getting hard to be someone, but it all works out,
It doesn't matter much to me...."
The boys were beginning to draw a crowd. Some people forgot their shopping as they drifted towards the beautiful sound; others tried to ignore them, wearing disapproving frowns at the sight of four young boys making a scene in public like this.
"No one, I think, is in my tree,
I mean, it must be high or low
That is, you can't, you know, tune in, but it's all right,
That is I think it's not too bad...."
Paul had no idea what the words meant, but he happily played along as they went back into the chorus, grinning at Winston and throwing a few winks into the half-enchanted, half-bemused audience. He did think he knew what one part of the lyrics meant. He had been in Winston's árvore the dia they'd met. Paul wondered if someday he could write a song in which the lyrics had no meaning.
"Always, no, sometimes, think it's me..."
At least, that was what Paul thought Winston sang; it could have been "Always know, sometimes think it's me".
"But you know, I know when it's a dream
I think I know, I mean, ah, yes, but it's all wrong...
That is, I think I disagree...."
The lads from Liverpool (would that work as a band name?) sprang once mais into the chorus, now under the combined gaze of admiring teenage girls, envious teenage boys, some adults marvelling at how well these boys could play, and other adults marvelling that the boys' parents let them out of the house when they would cause a scene like this.
"Strawberry Fields forever...
morango Fields forever...
morango Fields forever...."
As the song began to fade away, Winston jumped progressivo, para a frente toward their audience as if he planned to make a speech, and shouted for all to hear: "I'm very bored!" He couldn't have looked less bored. Some people laughed. Others looked like they wanted to drag him away and throw him out of the store. Most didn't seem to know what to do.
Then a lady who worked at the store marched up to them. "What are you doing in my store, young men?"
"Performing," said Winston with a perfectly straight face, for all the world as if new bands came into department stores to try out their songs on the public every day.
"What did you think we were doing?" inquired Geo, with his usual frown.
"Did you like it?" Ringo asked hopefully.
"Do you want our autographs?" Paul had always looked progressivo, para a frente to becoming famous enough to sign autographs. As he said this, though, it occurred to him that he was going to have to sign "James" for a while and not "Paul", if he didn't want his cover blown.
The lady, though, did not seem to want their autographs. "Out of my store! Get on your way! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! I suppose your parents don't know you're doing this?"
Paul went white. "Of course they do!" he retorted quickly. "All our parents know... um, that we're here and... well, doing this! Every one of our parents knows! Why would you think they...."
He felt Winston's steadying hand on his arm. "That's enough, James."
The lady stared at him hard. "James?" For one chilling second, Paul was afraid that the police somehow knew that he was in New York and going por his first name, and had set out a manhunt after him. Then it occurred to him that she probably just figured that teenagers who were comfortable revealing their names in public couldn't be guilty of too much.
Ringo took it a different way entirely. "That's our band: James, Winston, Geo, and Ringo. We'll be doing a show somewhere soon." He looked at her with his blue eyes and wide mouth, looking sweet and boyish and very hard to dislike.
"Well, it won't be in my store, this show of yours! Out!"
The band left, waving at the crowd and telling them they'd been a lovely audience as they did. A couple of girls were clasping their hands together and gazing adoringly after them, and Paul heard one say to the other, "I just amor British accents!"
The four boys laughed good-naturedly. "We've got an advantage with the birds here! Good thinking to come here, James."
"Better thinking than he had in the store." Winston nudged Paul playfully. "She got the point, James, our parents all know we're out here playing in department stores."
Paul blushed. He was just about to respond when he saw a police station just ahead. Instantly, he put his head down and tried very hard to look as inconspicuous as possible. It was silly, he knew. The New York police wouldn't be looking for him. The Liverpool police, maybe, but why would his dad think he'd gone to New York? He'd never said anything to him about getting his start there.
Paul knew he was atuação needlessly paranoid. He just couldn't help it. The thought of being sent back início was mais than he could bear. He didn't want to leave this band behind. It was mais than just pride and not wanting to go back to his father without proving himself. Paul loved being in this band; he couldn't let anything take him away from them.
Inside the police station, the officers weren't worried about Paul at all.
"A missing British boy, here in New York somewhere?"
"That's right; last seen at the airport. Aged thirteen, brown hair, brown eyes. respostas to George Harrison...."
