Tony Palmer - All You Need Is Love (vol. 12: Hail Hail Rock 'n' Roll - Complete Video) 'brilliant exposition, magisterial style, magnificent'
All You Need Is Love
… brilliant exposition … magisterial style … magnificent
Sunday TimesAll You Need Is Love, a 17-part series on American popular music, described by Bing Crosby as "a mighty achievement". “A brilliant authoritative, historical study” (New York Library Journal).
… this beautifully–presented book and films are something of a triumph … the first well–planned … history of the people’s music in the people’s century, infuriating, stimulating, long overdue: and hugely welcome. The Listener
It began, inevitably, with John Lennon. There I was in 1964, a happy little student at Cambridge University, sent along by the University student newspaper Varsity to report on a press conference being given by four lads who had risen to some prominence in the pop world (in which I had no interest whatsoever) and were announcing the out-of-town preview of their new film, A Hard Day's Night, at the Regal Cinema, Cambridge.
Silly questions, silly answers, I thought smugly, lurking at the back and refusing to be a part of this nonsense. Afterwards, when the formal part of the 'event' broke up, I was milling around when a large tap on the shoulder -- followed by a not-so-silly question -- "Why didn't you ask any questions?" -- confronted me with Mr. Lennon. "Because it was all pretty silly", I said. He agreed, and asked me what I did. "I am a student", I replied. "Of what?" he said. "Moral Sciences", I said. "Well now, that's what I call pretty silly", he said, and we both laughed. It was ...
He asked if I would show him around the University that afternoon. "Big place", I said, and in any case I didn't fancy being mobbed by his fans. "Then I'll come in disguise", he said. "Come and pick me up at 2pm in the hotel lobby where I'm staying".
At 2 o'clock I presented myself, to be met by a man in a long brown raincoat, shabby fedora, and unkempt (and obviously false) beard. "This is ridiculous", we both thought, and the 'disguise' was gleefully abandoned. King's Chapel, the Wren Library, the Bridge of Sighs -- and we were not mobbed. He was most grateful, he said at the end of the 'tour', and when I next came to London, please call him on the number scribbled on a scrap of paper and thrust into my hand. I explained that that might not be for some years, since I still had to finish my studies. "Yeah, in 'Moral Sciences'", he chortled.
In fact, almost two years passed (during which time The Beatles had graduated from being 'very popular' to Kings of the Universe) before I went to London to work for the BBC. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained", I thought, so I telephoned the number on the scrap of paper, thinking it must surely be well out-of-date by now. But not so.
A young lady answered the phone. Her voice was chirpy until I said "John Lennon said to call" whereupon the voice immediately entered its pained 'I've heard this 300 times already this morning' mode. I persisted, explained a little of the background, and eventually she reluctantly said she would pass on the message -- but couldn't say exactly when. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when about an hour later the phone rang and the voice announced itself as Derek Taylor, sort-of responsible (he said) for Beatles publicity, and could I come over tomorrow lunchtime for a little brown rice with John.
