Featured Essay: Meet the Beatles

by Stephanie Blank

I was eleven and a half when the Beatles came to town—Sunday, August 29, 1965—for two nights at the world-famous Hollywood Bowl. My dad got two tickets for my big sister (his stepdaughter), Marsha, and me. Showing my sister even a glimmer of kindness made him look generous. Still, I suspect he only bought them because he knew how badly I wanted to go—and Marsha, eight years my senior and already an adult, was the only logical chaperone.

We were huge Beatlemaniacs and already owned their previous releases. I spent most of my allowance on vinyl. Marsha and I sometimes combined our money to shop for albums at Wallich’s Music City in the heart of Hollywood. Located on the corner of Sunset and Vine, Wallich’s was the place to go for concert tickets, sheet music, LPs, 45s, 8-track and cassette tapes, musical instruments, and even TVs. In addition to its famous clientele, in 1965, you might even catch Frank Zappa wandering the aisles, working the floor. This was 30 years before the legendary Tower Records on Sunset Strip opened in 1970 and became the nation’s largest record store. For Marsha and me, a trip to Wallich’s was a pilgrimage, requiring an entire day to browse the shelves and listen (in private sound booths) to tracks. A few years later, Wallich’s became the first record store to seal albums in cellophane and display them in racks.

Before the concert, we bought the album, Meet the Beatles, at Wallich’s. Passing up The Rolling Stones, The Dave Clark Five, and even Herman’s Hermits, we’d make a beeline for the Beatles display racks, find our treasure, and race home with wild anticipation. Carefully removing the cellophane, she put the record on the hi-fi in the living room. We’d sing and dance together until we collapsed in exhaustion. Marsha’s favorite song from Meet the Beatles was “All My Loving.”

*Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you *

Tomorrow I’ll miss you

Remember I’ll always be true

And then while I’m away

I’ll write home every day

And I’ll send all my loving’ to you.

She’d cry remembering her first High School love.

My favorite song on that album was “I Saw Her Standing There.” I was only eleven and a half, but I imagined what seventeen might be like, having boys notice you. Those were such rich times. When it came to the Beatles, we had no age gap and knew all the words to every Beatles song, but singing along at the concert would prove to be impossible.

The night of the concert, we dressed in our favorite clothes. I wore a just-bought sleeveless floral party dress from Judy’s, the recently opened store at the brand-new Century City Mall. Marsha looked exactly the way I longed to look: a yellow shift dress and white go-go boots I coveted with my whole being. It was a balmy summer night—no sweaters needed. That would have spoiled our cute outfits anyway. Marsha’s “Stanley Steamer” Chrysler had died, so she drove us in her new bright blue, two-seater Sunbeam Alpine, my dad had given her when she turned nineteen—not out of fatherly affection, but so she could chauffeur me around. That afternoon, too excited to sit around, we left early, allowing plenty of time for traffic and to find parking. By the time we arrived hours early, the Bowl was already packed—thousands of teenagers and a few parents filled every seat. We settled into our hard wooden bench seats and waited anxiously alongside the throngs of excited fans.

As darkness settled over the amphitheater and the opening act (who nobody remembered) finished, the crowd began to chant, “We want the Beatles! We want the Beatles!” Then, at exactly 9:22 p.m., the Fab Four walked onstage, and pandemonium erupted. Shrieking fans, me included, lost our minds. They played 12 songs, but none were distinguishable. Twist and Shout might as well have been She’s a Woman. I screamed, cried, pulled my hair, and squealed hysterically while Marsha sat quietly bopping her head, keeping a watchful eye on me. The concert lasted only thirty-three deafening minutes. At 9:55, the Beatles dashed offstage into an armored car, surrounded by police and shrieking fans. Even after the loudspeakers repeated, “The Beatles have left. Please go home,” no one moved. I floated all the way home, the two of us belting out “A Hard Day’s Night,” “She’s a Woman,” and every other song we thought we’d heard.

We arrived home late—the traffic leaving the Bowl had been crushing. Marsha and I hugged goodnight, still gushing about what a fantastic night it had been. I doubt either of us realized we had just witnessed history.

Up in my room, I tuned the radio to our local station, KRLA and listened to the disc jockeys rehash the concert while I got ready for bed. I shimmied out of my new dress and into my nightgown—and with the album cover propped against my nightstand, the fab four watching over me, I climbed into bed, dizzy with the day’s momentous events. Staring at my popcorn ceiling, at last I drifted off to sleep, visions of my true love, Paul McCartney, swirled in my pre-teen head.

Stephanie Blank is a published writer and storyteller based in Marina del Rey, California, and East Quogue, New York. Her work has appeared in The Los Angeles Times, McGraw-Hill’s English Composition for College Students, Chicken Soup for the Soul, The Atlantic.com, and 3rd Act Magazine, among others. She is also a frequent contributor to The East Hampton Star. Stephanie writes with humor, honesty, and heart about the messy beauty of growing up, growing older, and everything in between. Her stories often explore memory, family, and the small, transformative moments that shape a life. Follow her on Instagram @StephanieBlankWriter and read more of her work at linktr.ee/stephanieblankwriter.

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