"No!" John roared once, and that was the end of it. Paul had been attempting to talk the others into one more take of "Ob La Di." But after over 40 hours of it, they'd had enough. And Lennon's outburst capped it. Paul shut up and lapsed into a sullen silence while John and George discussed how to track John's "Cry Baby Cry." After that, the session was so tense with bad vibes that Geoff, their faithful engineer through so many recordings, had to walk out.
After ending near dawn, they reconvened late the next afternoon to polish a few more tracks for The Beatles, later renamed the White Album, as the deadline was approaching fast. At one point, Paul fell into his usual perfectionist mode, patronizing George about how to play his guitar solo. Although used to this treatment from McCartney, George felt trapped and unhappy within the confines of the group. It was no longer fun and he didn't have to tolerate Paul's schoolmarmy pickiness anymore.
George spoke suddenly, "Look, I'll play it how you want it or I won't play it at all. Whatever it is that will please you, I'll do it!" **
Paul grimaced and ran his hand distractedly through his swept-back hair. "Look, it always sounds as if I'm trying to get you. I'm not! I'm just sayin' it might work better this way."
As the two wrangled away, Ringo sat at his drums, staring glumly at the floor. What had happened to them all?
Paul was getting more heated. "I hear myself always pushing, always lecturing..."
John, sitting in a chair idly strumming his guitar with Yoko glued to his side, interrupted, "Well, fuck off then."
Paul stopped mid-phrase and turned to stare at John. A muscle in his jaw started to tic. Now it was George's turn to look down, wishing he was far away in the dusty hills of India.
Paul's eyes shot daggers. He was sick and tired of sidestepping around John's suddenly reviving caustic wit. He finished his sentence angrily, "Because no one else gives a damn anymore!"
"That's right, son," John drawled laconically, staring stonily at Paul.
Paul met his cold gaze for several seconds. John suddenly had the uncomfortable sensation of something going out in Paul's eyes, like the snuffing out of a flame. Paul abruptly stood, the chair falling over behind him as he strode from the room.
Yoko smiled coyly as John looked to George and waggled his eyebrows. To relieve some of the tension he was feeling, George let out a snort.
Ringo frowned at them, "Christ, John. Why'd you have to be so cruel to him?" He's only doing what he can to keep us together." He got off his stool and went out the door after Paul.
As soon as he fled the room, Paul began to tremble. He felt something enormous welling inside himself, a great, choking chunk of pressure. It was a frightening feeling. He stumbled into one of the small storage rooms that housed misc. tapes and equipment, leaning against the doorframe. "I don't know what else to do, I don't know what to do...it's all falling apart..." he whispered wildly.
He ran shaking hands through his already disleveled hair. And his iron resolve, his eternal optimism crashed down within him. He began to weep great, wracking sobs that bent him over until he fell to his knees from the force of it. Storms of anger, hurt and frustration poured out and he could do nothing to contain it as he had so many times in the past.
This was how Ringo found him minutes later,
collapsed on his knees, rocking back and forth.
He dropped down beside Paul and
put a hand on his shoulder.
The silent, dry sobs tore through Paul;
he could scarcely breathe.
He lifted his head when he felt Ringo's hand.
And the warmth in his friend's eyes was enough to
cause him to burst into true tears, gasping,
"Just leave me be, all of you leave me the
hell alone."
Ringo's gentle nature shone through. He loved all
three of these men with every fiber in him. "No,
Paul," he said quietly, "I'm not going anywhere."
He sat in front of Paul and braced his hands on
each shaking shoulder. He was very much afraid
that Paul was having some sort of breakdown.
John appeared alone in the doorway behind them. He looked alarmed at their position on the floor.
"Aye, Paul," he said, kneeling down next to him in the small space. "It's only me you know."
"What the fuck do you care, Lennon? I know you can't stand me or my music anymore," Paul groaned, eyes clenched shut, tears still streaming down his face.
John looked startled. "Macca," he said, reverting to an old nickname. "Macca," he repeated softly.
Paul shuddered for a calming breath and managed to look up at John.
John pulled his granny glasses down the bridge of his nose to look one-on-one into Paul's eyes. "I love you, man," he said sincerely.
Paul tried to stop himself from once more going over the edge, but he was so exhausted, he couldn't fight it and wept again.
John started to weakly pat his left shoulder as Ringo patted the other one. Paul suddenly began to giggle hysterically as they both continued to try to comfort him with oddly rhythmic pats--one, two, one, one, two, two...
Soon he was shaking with laughter, falling against the shelves of eqipment in the room, helpless in a new wave of emotion. "God help me," he gasped out, "I'm cracking up."
Indeed, both John and Ringo were staring at him like he'd gone bonkers, exchanging worried glances with each other. "What's he on?" John whispered to Ringo in alarm.
"Completely potty," Paul continued, wheezing, "Balmy, nuts, looney..."
George appeared in the doorway. His expression and added presence in the tiny room set Paul off anew. God, now he really couldn't breathe. He tried to rein it in, to swallow the hysteria. But it was built up from all the years repressing his feelings, putting on the smile through the tours, playing the yes man, the P.R. guy.
Only now it wasn't funny. He couldn't breathe. A giant fist was wrapped around his chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs, every wisp of oxygen from his body. His eyes bulged, he gasped and trembled for breath. Suddenly, his brain pulled the internal emergency switch and he passed out.
Ringo caught him by the shoulders as he slumped forward and eased him up against the shelves.
"Should we call a doctor?" George finally asked.
"No, I'll drive him home and stay with him," Ringo said.
Together they lifted Paul and carried him out to the back of Ringo's car. He lay still, completely spent. The others stood and looked at each other solemnly.
"I didn't realise it was so bad for him," John said.
"You know how much the group means to him! Can't you see how you're hurting him?" Ringo burst out.
Once again, John was surprised into silence. It was a night of revelations. First Paul's traumatic outburst, now amiable Ringo venting.
"You found Yoko and act like you can't be bothered with the rest of us anymore," Ringo continued.
John protested, "I'm in love, for Chrissake, for the first time in my life--she's everything to me!"
What about us and all we've been through, Ringo's expressive blue eyes silently asked him. George, too, looked somewhat expectantly at John.
He exploded in self-defense, "Well, bloody, fucking hell, I don't mean to do it--it just comes out!"
"You've always been like that, John," George observed with a slight smile. "But you've never turned it so nasty on us before."
They all ducked their heads to look at Paul stretched out in the car. John sighed.
"Just let up a bit, aye?" Ringo said more gently. "I've got to get him home." He had seen Yoko standing in the doorway of the studio, peering out at them.
John followed his gaze, but surprised him by saying, "You'll need help getting him in. I'll come along."
"All right then," Ringo replied.
"Just let me tell Mother," John added. Yoko frowned as he told her what he was going to do, but moved off to John's limo by herself.
John returned and hopped into the passenger's seat. "Right, let's go."
George leaned down to Ringo's window after glancing again at Paul. "Ring me later. Let me know how he's doing," he said and walked slowly to his own vehicle.
