November 7th, 1963 - The Day The Beatles Rocked Dublin

IT WAS 50 years ago today, when the Beatles brought the band to play – at  the Adelphi Cinema in Dublin on November 7th, 1963 – and I was among the handful of journalists who got to meet the fab four. I was much younger than most of the jaded hacks (some of them must have been at least 30!) who shuffled into the Adelphi that afternoon for a photo-call.

It was a different time. Nowadays you’d need several colour-coded badges to get near an artist. That day, cinema manager Harry Lush had sent around to Eason’s for a bagful of  lapel badges that said things like Steward and Treasurer and Secretary. One of them would get you into the Adelphi boardroom to chat with John, Paul, George and Ringo.

 A sudden flurry of screams at about 4.30pm announced their arrival in the foyer. They trooped upstairs to the mezzanine floor, dressed and coiffed as few others in Dublin were then. It was immediately clear that these new Beatle chaps were sharp, witty and totally clued in to how publicity worked. You wanted a four-column photo? They obliged with a a wide-armed, leg-kicking “ta-dahh!” pose. Single column? They somehow put their heads atop each other on an adjacent table. The cynical snappers were utterly charmed.

I wish I had some priceless quotes from that press conference. All I can remember is that Paul McCartney answered “We are just good friends” to most questions. This was considered extremely witty. I do recall asking John Lennon a deeply penetrating question about the difference between rock’n’roll and rhythm and blues. He gave it serious thought before declaring in his best scouse, “Rhythm and blues is black.” Richard Starkey patiently showed off his multi-ringed fingers to explain his nickname. George Harrison meanwhile slipped away to meet his Dublin relatives. 

Outside in Abbey Street the Gardai were taken by surprise  by the hundreds of fans who turned up ticketless, hoping to get a glimpse of the Beatles. Their screams (the fans’ not the guards’) were as nothing to those inside the 2,000-seater cinema. There was a  package of other artists touring with the Beatles. Also on the bill were The Vernon Girls, The Brooks Brothers, the Kestrels and a big band called Peter Jay & the Jaywalkers. (Where are they all today? And where are the Beatle autographs I collected for the girls back at the office? )

As each act finished the screams grew louder until they became a relentless chant of We Want The Beatles. The compere, a Canadian comedian called Frank Berry, finally gave up and joined in. 

A guitar suddenly sounded the first chords of  “I Saw Her Standing There”. The curtains slid back and they were there. The Beatles. In Dublin. Pandemonium. John Lennon straddle-legged on the right. Ringo at the back on a raised drum dais. And George and Paul together at one mike, shaking their fringes in unison. The girls, already standing on the seats, levitated higher and screamed even louder. The St. John’s Ambulance Brigade were kept busy ferrying the fainted out to the foyer.

The Beatles sang  “All My Loving” (from their new LP), Mr Postman, Till There Was You. Boys. And on they went … with their three hit singles culminating in She Loves You, which was just then topping the charts. By now they had reduced their audience to one huge, damp, perspiring, deliriously happy mass of humanity. And then John Lennon attacked the microphone with his throat-destroying version of  Twist And Shout. After the final crescendo, the curtains abruptly closed. The crowd roared for more. People rushed the stage. But The Beatles had finished their set. And they were gone.

Well, not  quite ….The whole thing was  repeated  at nine o’clock. By the time that show was ending there was a mini-riot taking place in Middle Abbey Street. But  nobody outside got to see the Beatles leaving the Adelphi – while their last notes were still reverberating, they had fled out the back door into Prince’s Street and been bundled into the back of an Evening Herald van.

When Paul McCartney played the RDS a few years ago, you could text a mobile phone message to a big screen on the stage. The one that got most laughs said “Greetings to everyone who was in the Adelphi in 1963 – and the GPO in 1916”. 

Both events had one thing in common: they certainly rocked Dublin.

© Éanna Brophy

TRAIN THOUGHTS AT COMPIEGNE

by Éanna Brophy                      

 

THE trains in France are such a joy. They go everywhere and they arrive on time. Step aboard and all of Europe is open to you. But we decided, on a Paris visit, to just take a trip to Compiegne  in Picardie. We had previously “done” both Versailles and Fontainebleu, so Compiegne offered yet  another royal chateau experience – and an excuse for a jaunt on a train.  

Besides its royal connections, we knew this small town north-west  of Paris  had a place in history. It was here, in a forest clearing that General Ferdinand Foch took the German surrender in his railway carriage at the end of the First World War in November 1918. And it was in the same railway carriage in Compiegne that Hitler had accepted the French surrender in June 1940.

What we did not know was that Compiegne also played another role during the Second World War, one that gets scant mention, if any, in the tourist guides.

 

A smooth, enjoyable rail journey brought us there. It was a dull October afternoon, but the town seemed abuzz with activity. There were dozens of policemen and policewomen hovering around the streets. Most were toting guns.

The show of force was because the disgruntled workers at a local multinational  plant were about to hold a protest march. Their union colleagues from nearby Beauvais joined them, disgorging from their train in a flurry of  flags and placards. A band struck up and off they marched. The French do this sort of thing with such panache, we thought.

 

We went in search of the chateau, but it was closed that afternoon. We hadn’t checked the opening times. Or maybe they were afraid the workers might march on the place … like in the old days. So we set out to find the Site of the Armistice instead. The railway carriage that stands on the site today is not the original: Hitler had that one towed back to Berlin after getting his revenge on the French, and it was reportedly destroyed later in Allied bombing.

It was beginning to rain, so we headed back to the town.  Taking a short cut, we managed to get lost. Eventually, while marching along a busy road beside an oak wood, we saw a sign pointing into the trees. It made us stop and stare.

The words on the sign read “Last Train to Buchenwald”.

 

But we hadn’t the time to go searching in a wet French forest to find out what it meant.  And frankly we didn’t want to. The day had grown even darker. By the time we reached the town again, the march had passed off peacefully, local citizens were placidly sipping coffee, and the police had little to do except divert the traffic. We were in plenty of time for the next train back to Paris.

 

In the station at Compiegne long platforms flank the tracks that snake away over the flat countryside. Ambling about to pass the time, we reached the end of the platform and saw some kind of war memorial beside old goods wagons on a siding.

Deciphering the French, we discovered Compiegne’s other place in history. It was in memory of  the thousands of Jews who had been loaded into railway wagons on this very spot and taken away to die in Nazi death camps.

 

Just then we were approached by a mild, bespectacled man. He addressed us in halting English. “You read this?”, he said, indicating the memorial. We nodded grimly. “This happened”, he said. “Yes”, we said, sympathetically, “a terrible thing”. He seemed puzzled, then shook his head. “No”, he said emphatically “I mean … it did NOT happen.”.

We began to edge away. But he followed us. “I have 59 years, and I know this NOT happen”, he earnestly assured us. He heard one of us say something sotto voce about his Arabic appearance, but he became more indignant. “I am not Arab. I am from Tunisia, and I know this is lies”, he said.

 

Our train arrived right on time and we jumped into a carriage far from his.

We slid back to Paris again in comfort.

French trains are such a joy, aren’t they?