Gary Hall’s Weblog

Those of you who have already digested the revised edition of the Good Book will be familiar with my hypothesis that releasing the Let It Be…Naked album, which allows the public to hear how the Beatles really sounded beneath the cloak of Phil Spector’s genius, was not a particularly smart business move. Although at the time of writing the ‘Let It Be…Naked (Not a Pretty Sight)’ chapter I had no actual hard evidence to validate my theory, I feel that the photograph below (kindly sent in to us by Nick from Skellingthorpe near Lincoln) goes some way to back up my initial hunch. 

If, after carefully studying the above photograph - paying particular attention to the price sticker situated at the top right hand corner of the CD case - you wish to contribute to our survey, all you need do is answer A, B or C to the following multiple choice question:

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If you intend to do any further research yourself as to whether or not releasing the musical equivalent of sandblasting the Sistine Chapel ceiling may have been counterproductive to the Beatles’ on-going deification, go to www.amazon.co.uk, type in the words: ‘Let It Be…Naked’ and locate the customer reviews section where - nestled amongst the five star reviews from Beatle Heads who, lets face it, would give five stars to a recording of their house being demolished by a bulldozer if Sir Paul were driving it  -  you’ll discover a wealth of scathing reviews from a somewhat more sober sector of the Fab Four fan family, who all appear to share my viewpoint on this rather delicate matter.

 www.freespeechbooks.com

Have you ever woken up, and, for no apparent reason, just wanted to sink immediately back beneath the covers and disappear? Well, for me this morning was one such occasion.  I can’t honestly remember feeling as despondent since hearing a nasty rumour, way back in the mid-eighties, that the Beatles were considering reforming with Julian Lennon taking his dad’s place in the band. Even after I’d eventually managed to pull myself up from my nightmare-infested slumber, injected my system with a full pot of strong Lavazza coffee and endeavoured to lift my spirits by watching a couple of episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm, there was still no sign of those dark clouds disappearing.

Then, to add to my inexplicable gloom, real life suddenly kicked in; more war, crime and famine in the newspaper, nothing but bills and abuse from Fab Four fans in the mail, a cold coming on, the usual computer trouble and to top it all off, a phone call from an old friend experiencing worse financial difficulties than the U.S. Federal Reserve, who rang for a rant in the midst of my mid morning melancholies.        

Trying to write on days like today is never a good idea.  The head won’t work. The heart won’t work. The hands won’t work. It’s like being trapped inside an emotional straight jacket with a constant itch you can’t scratch. Even though it’s at times like these that I feel the urge to get my feelings down on paper more than ever, I actually ended up spending most of the afternoon staring at a blank screen, whilst simultaneously trying to ignore the sad eyes and occasional whine of Big Bear Henri (the King of the canine world), who, regardless of my foul mood and the relentless rain outside, was not prepared to settle for a quick piss in the garden and was holding out for his daily W. A. L. K.

In fact, it was only when I finally caved in and decided that, despite the weather and my state of mind, it was time for us both to get some fresh air and exercise that the dark clouds suddenly disappeared - metaphorically at least.

Within minutes of leaving home I found myself in a rain-sodden garden on Mulgrave Avenue performing my ‘Responsible Dog Owner’ duties.  As I was knelt down, I heard what at first sounded like a donkey braying, but on closer scrutiny appeared to be human cackling and screeching coming from inside the house of the garden I was in.  As soon as I had pulled myself up to my feet, I couldn’t resist tiptoeing over and having a quick peek through the window where the noise was coming from - half out of curiosity and half out of genuine neighbourly concern – to find out what all the commotion was.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget as long as I live the sight that greeted me through that window. It was a spectacle so distressing that it instantly put all my so-called troubles into context and reminded me of the fact that no matter how bad my problems were there is always somebody, somewhere, worse off than yourself… through the half open curtains, I could quite clearly make out some poor bastard sitting in his chair watching the Paul O’Grady show! 

www.freespeechbooks.com

I bumped into my old mate, Jeff, over the weekend, who’d recently returned from a three-night stay at the Royal Terrace Hotel in the centre of Edinburgh. He had loads of good things to say about the city and, in particular, the hotel itself, which he described as a wonderful example of Georgian architecture with stunning landscaped gardens, luxurious interiors and a breakfast to die for. However, he was also keen to forewarn me – in case I should ever decide to act upon his recommendation - that the musak in the hotel elevator left an awful lot to be desired.

According to Jeff, and I have no reason to doubt his word, the music being pumped into the elevator – which, unfortunately, he had to utilize throughout his stay, due to twisting an ankle whilst drunk on the first night - consisted solely of Beatles songs being performed on the pan pipes!

(Before you continue, you may wish to contemplate how mawkish hogwash, played on instruments used by digital shopping channels to hypnotise pensioners into buying more tat than they can afford, may sound in such a confined space.)

Jeff portrayed every single one of the trips he had to make in that elevator as a deeply unsavoury experience.  However, it was as he embarked upon his final descent on the last day, en route to reception to check out, which would prove to be his most testing time on tartan turf to date.

Apparently, within seconds of him hobbling into the already crowded elevator, the opening bars of ‘Michelle’ were just starting to rear their ugly heads.  From what I can gather, even with the offending version being instrumental - thus sparing Jeff the additional trauma of hearing ‘Michelle’ rhymed with ‘ma belle’ on numerous occasions  - it was, nevertheless, still no easy ride.
     
In fact, he claimed that, due to the elevator stopping at every floor on the way down, (including one delay of around 45 seconds, when a man insisted on holding the doors, whilst his wife ran back to their room to retrieve something), by the time he had finally managed to drag himself and his luggage to safety, he had endured almost the entire song.

(If you’re ever bored on a long journey, why not melt away some of the miles by making up a list of more appropriate music you could provide for your patrons - whilst in transit between floors - if you yourself were the manager of a large Edinburgh hotel. The one time I had a go, I’d managed to list harp music from Glasgow’s William Jackson, numerous works from Scottish composers like Sir John Blackwood McEwen, William Wallace and Hamish MacCunn plus a wealth of offerings from various contemporary Celtic artists such as Cappercaille, the Battlefield band and local Leith lad, Dick Gaughan, before I’d reached the end of my road)

 That said, as Jeff was at pains to point out, apart from the unpleasant elevator experiences, he would highly recommend the place to anyone. Therefore, if you are planning a trip to the fair city of Edinburgh anytime soon and think you may be tempted by some of the many delights the hotel has to offer, (not least its reasonable rates and excellent location), but, like me, would rather sit through an Elton John tantrum than suffer the same fete as Jeff, I’ve devised a simple procedure providing a pragmatic approach to preventing any panpipe predicaments on the premises during your visit, which will enable you to enjoy a Beatle-free break within this Fab Four friendly establishment.  
     
All you need do, If you should decide to make The Royal Terrace Hotel your hostelry of choice, is to request a ground floor room in advance when you make your reservation or, if none are available during the period you wish to stay, just remember to always take the stairs.

www.freespeechbooks.com