At the airport in New York City, a large family was making their way through the heavy crowds towards their plane. This family's last name was Harrison. They had been on a visit to the States for the past month, partly on vacation and partly because Louise, their eldest child and only daughter, was thinking of moving there. She and her brother Harry, named for their parents, were both young adults already; their other two sons were sixteen and thirteen.
Mrs Louise Harrison, the mother, was trying to keep track of her four children in the crowd. It was difficult with people pressing in on every side, and many times someone came between her and her children, so she just had to trust they were following her. She kept calling out their names to keep track of them, but the airport was full of noises: people shouting to one another, announcements being made, and even a busker of two playing music, so Louise wasn't at all sure her children could hear her.
Eventually the Harrisons were swept onto the plane along with the crowd, and managed to find their seats. Mr and Mrs Harrison took a final head count. "Are we all here? Louise? Harry? Peter? And..."
But suddenly, Mrs Harrison gasped in horror. Her youngest son was nowhere to be seen.
"Where is he? Didn't he get on the plane with us?"
A voice rang out through the plane, warning all passengers to get in their seats because the plane would be taking off now.
"No! We can't leave yet! My son isn't here!"
"Please take your seat, Ma'am," a flight attendant said, gently but firmly. "We have clearance for takeoff and there's another plane waiting to come in. We need to leave now."
"But my son..."
Mrs Harrison did not take her seat. She pushed her way into the aisle, calling out her youngest's name, trying to spot him, thinking that if she couldn't find him, she would go right up to the pilot's cabine and make him delay the plane until her son was found. But before she could get that far, the seatbelt light began to flash. The doors closed, and the plane was taxiing down the runway. Mrs Harrison lost her balance and slid back down the aisle again, where her husband caught her and gently helped her back into her seat.
But Louise Harrison could not relax. Her husband looked grim, and her children exchanged fearful glances. They had taken off, they were heading back to Liverpool, and their youngest member had been left behind.
At the airport, people continued to press around and shout, announcements continued to sound over the loudspeaker, and the buskers continued to play. One of these was a guitarist, and he had found himself being watched very attentively door a boy who was maybe in his preteens of early teen years, with very intense brown eyes accented door thick eyebrows.
This boy knew he should probably get to his plane, but he just couldn't resist anything that involved a guitar. He hadn't brought his own gitaar along on this monthlong trip, and he badly missed being able to play it. He wasn't sure if he was very good, but he liked to spend hours playing around with it, putting notes together and seeing what they did, trying to recreate his favourite rock and roll songs he'd heard on the radio.
Anyway, the busker had noticed him and began to talk, and the boy had asked many vragen in his thick, singsong accent, about the gitaar and the songs the busker played, and the busker even let him have a go on it. This was sheer heaven for the boy who had been without his gitaar for the past month. He was completely lost to the world, transported door the music, trying out the note combinations he had invented in his bedroom, lacing them throughout the covers of rock and roll songs he knew. Before he knew it, he opened his eyes to see three things.
One, the plane was gone, another standing in its place, and his family had probably left along with it,
Two, there was a huge pile of American money in front of him, tossed there door passersby who were enchanted with his sound,
And three, there was a small group of older teenage boys standing there watching him, with expressions on their faces that the young boy couldn't quite read.
As their plane touched down, Paul looked out the windows eagerly. "We're in New York City! All we need now is a place for our band to play!"
"That's right, James," grinned Winston with his teasing grin. "Hey, what d'you think we should we call our band? James and the Jameses, then?"
Paul blushed. Ringo laughed.
"Right, we can't leave our esteemed trommelaar, drummer out," Winston went on, turning to him. "How's about Winston and the James's Rings?"
"Hey, why are u first?" Paul protested playfully.
"Because the band was my idea, so it's my band - James," Winston replied, this time putting so much emphasis on the word "James" that Paul was inclined to think he might just be serious this time. With Winston, it was hard to tell.
Ringo, meanwhile, didn't seem to mind who was in charge of what the band was called. When the threesome left the plane, he looked around for the luggage pick-up, where he had proper luggage and drums and his new mates had only guitars and backpacks. As the boys turned around, wondering where the luggage pick-up might be, trying to see through the crowd, they heard a sound.
"Do u hear that?"
"Yeah! Never heard anything like it!"
"Not even on records."
"I wonder who's playing that guitar?"
"Whoever it is should be in a studio someplace!"
In a musical daze, the three boys followed the incredible gitaar playing to its source. When they saw who was doing it, they stopped and stared. The bron of the incomperable sound was a boy even younger than they were. He was sitting on what seemed to be a professional busker's stool, watched door a man who seemed to own the stool. People passing door would stop, enchanted, and almost as if under a spell would pull out coins and toss them to the boy. The boy's eyes were closed and he seemed to notice nothing but his music, thick eyebrows crinkled in concentration. His thick dark hair was beginning to fall vooruit, voorwaarts into his eyes as he bent his head to reach the strings better, but he seemed not to notice even that.
Eventually, the boy stopped playing and took in the scene around him as though mildly surprised. Paul and his two new vrienden openly stared at him in amazement. This boy was the best guitarist they had ever heard! Paul looked at Ringo, then they both looked at Winston, who really seemed quite set on the idea that this was his band.
"We've got to have him! He's..."
But neither of them could find the words for what he was. Winston probably could, but he didn't bother. "'Ey, u with the guitar! Come here."
Frowning as though not quite sure what to expect, the young guitarist came.
Ringo clearly thought someone ought to say something reassuring. "You're pretty good with that guitar, u know. Like on the records."
The boy shrugged. "I was just messing around. I'm not that good really."
"Keep on messing around, and you'll be in the record studio before long," Winston told him, in one of his meer serious tones. "We can give u the chance."
The boy didn't exactly smile, but his intense frowning eased up and a hungry sparkle came to his eyes.
"Will u kom bij us?" Paul went on eagerly. "We're a band and all. Only we've got two guitars already...." His voice trailed as he again looked at Winston, who seemed to establish himself as Bandleader without even trying.
Winston narrowed his eyes. "So we'll have three guitars, of one of us'll change instruments, James." Again a heavy emphasis on James. His tone left no room for argument.
The young gutarist frowned again. "Well, if you've already got your lineup...." But his tone could not have made it plainer that he didn't want to give up this opportunity and just walk away.
"No, no, we need you," Ringo insisted quickly. "You just stay with us and we'll all get big."
"You are staying in New York, aren't you?" Paul added hopefully. He could tell the boy was from Liverpool, like he and his mates were.
"Maybe he's run away from home, James," Winston suggested slyly. Paul reddened and turned away.
For the first time, the young guitarist broke into a smile, which gave him a very mischievous appearance. "I haven't got anywhere else to be at the moment. Guess u could say I have. So what's this band doing?"
"Anything," Winston grinned. "Welcome to the band, little one."
Their new guitarist's frown came back. "Me name is actually Geo..."
"Fine, then," Winston spoke over him before he could finish. "Good to have u in our band, Geo. Now come 'head so's we can get our instruments - and Ringo's luggage."
The young guitarist frowned harder. "I wasn't finished."
"He can't let u finish," Ringo decided to explained this time. "As we're all using alibis and that."
"Alibis?" questioned their guitarist. "You mean so that Mum and Dad can't find us and make us go home pagina before we make it big?"
"He's got it right, this one," grinned Winston with a teasing glance at Paul, who frowned and refused to meet his eye. "Smart lad."
The young guitarist grinned back at them, filling his thin face with mischief. "All right then. I'm Geo."
Mrs Louise Harrison, the mother, was trying to keep track of her four children in the crowd. It was difficult with people pressing in on every side, and many times someone came between her and her children, so she just had to trust they were following her. She kept calling out their names to keep track of them, but the airport was full of noises: people shouting to one another, announcements being made, and even a busker of two playing music, so Louise wasn't at all sure her children could hear her.
Eventually the Harrisons were swept onto the plane along with the crowd, and managed to find their seats. Mr and Mrs Harrison took a final head count. "Are we all here? Louise? Harry? Peter? And..."
But suddenly, Mrs Harrison gasped in horror. Her youngest son was nowhere to be seen.
"Where is he? Didn't he get on the plane with us?"
A voice rang out through the plane, warning all passengers to get in their seats because the plane would be taking off now.
"No! We can't leave yet! My son isn't here!"
"Please take your seat, Ma'am," a flight attendant said, gently but firmly. "We have clearance for takeoff and there's another plane waiting to come in. We need to leave now."
"But my son..."
Mrs Harrison did not take her seat. She pushed her way into the aisle, calling out her youngest's name, trying to spot him, thinking that if she couldn't find him, she would go right up to the pilot's cabine and make him delay the plane until her son was found. But before she could get that far, the seatbelt light began to flash. The doors closed, and the plane was taxiing down the runway. Mrs Harrison lost her balance and slid back down the aisle again, where her husband caught her and gently helped her back into her seat.
But Louise Harrison could not relax. Her husband looked grim, and her children exchanged fearful glances. They had taken off, they were heading back to Liverpool, and their youngest member had been left behind.
At the airport, people continued to press around and shout, announcements continued to sound over the loudspeaker, and the buskers continued to play. One of these was a guitarist, and he had found himself being watched very attentively door a boy who was maybe in his preteens of early teen years, with very intense brown eyes accented door thick eyebrows.
This boy knew he should probably get to his plane, but he just couldn't resist anything that involved a guitar. He hadn't brought his own gitaar along on this monthlong trip, and he badly missed being able to play it. He wasn't sure if he was very good, but he liked to spend hours playing around with it, putting notes together and seeing what they did, trying to recreate his favourite rock and roll songs he'd heard on the radio.
Anyway, the busker had noticed him and began to talk, and the boy had asked many vragen in his thick, singsong accent, about the gitaar and the songs the busker played, and the busker even let him have a go on it. This was sheer heaven for the boy who had been without his gitaar for the past month. He was completely lost to the world, transported door the music, trying out the note combinations he had invented in his bedroom, lacing them throughout the covers of rock and roll songs he knew. Before he knew it, he opened his eyes to see three things.
One, the plane was gone, another standing in its place, and his family had probably left along with it,
Two, there was a huge pile of American money in front of him, tossed there door passersby who were enchanted with his sound,
And three, there was a small group of older teenage boys standing there watching him, with expressions on their faces that the young boy couldn't quite read.
As their plane touched down, Paul looked out the windows eagerly. "We're in New York City! All we need now is a place for our band to play!"
"That's right, James," grinned Winston with his teasing grin. "Hey, what d'you think we should we call our band? James and the Jameses, then?"
Paul blushed. Ringo laughed.
"Right, we can't leave our esteemed trommelaar, drummer out," Winston went on, turning to him. "How's about Winston and the James's Rings?"
"Hey, why are u first?" Paul protested playfully.
"Because the band was my idea, so it's my band - James," Winston replied, this time putting so much emphasis on the word "James" that Paul was inclined to think he might just be serious this time. With Winston, it was hard to tell.
Ringo, meanwhile, didn't seem to mind who was in charge of what the band was called. When the threesome left the plane, he looked around for the luggage pick-up, where he had proper luggage and drums and his new mates had only guitars and backpacks. As the boys turned around, wondering where the luggage pick-up might be, trying to see through the crowd, they heard a sound.
"Do u hear that?"
"Yeah! Never heard anything like it!"
"Not even on records."
"I wonder who's playing that guitar?"
"Whoever it is should be in a studio someplace!"
In a musical daze, the three boys followed the incredible gitaar playing to its source. When they saw who was doing it, they stopped and stared. The bron of the incomperable sound was a boy even younger than they were. He was sitting on what seemed to be a professional busker's stool, watched door a man who seemed to own the stool. People passing door would stop, enchanted, and almost as if under a spell would pull out coins and toss them to the boy. The boy's eyes were closed and he seemed to notice nothing but his music, thick eyebrows crinkled in concentration. His thick dark hair was beginning to fall vooruit, voorwaarts into his eyes as he bent his head to reach the strings better, but he seemed not to notice even that.
Eventually, the boy stopped playing and took in the scene around him as though mildly surprised. Paul and his two new vrienden openly stared at him in amazement. This boy was the best guitarist they had ever heard! Paul looked at Ringo, then they both looked at Winston, who really seemed quite set on the idea that this was his band.
"We've got to have him! He's..."
But neither of them could find the words for what he was. Winston probably could, but he didn't bother. "'Ey, u with the guitar! Come here."
Frowning as though not quite sure what to expect, the young guitarist came.
Ringo clearly thought someone ought to say something reassuring. "You're pretty good with that guitar, u know. Like on the records."
The boy shrugged. "I was just messing around. I'm not that good really."
"Keep on messing around, and you'll be in the record studio before long," Winston told him, in one of his meer serious tones. "We can give u the chance."
The boy didn't exactly smile, but his intense frowning eased up and a hungry sparkle came to his eyes.
"Will u kom bij us?" Paul went on eagerly. "We're a band and all. Only we've got two guitars already...." His voice trailed as he again looked at Winston, who seemed to establish himself as Bandleader without even trying.
Winston narrowed his eyes. "So we'll have three guitars, of one of us'll change instruments, James." Again a heavy emphasis on James. His tone left no room for argument.
The young gutarist frowned again. "Well, if you've already got your lineup...." But his tone could not have made it plainer that he didn't want to give up this opportunity and just walk away.
"No, no, we need you," Ringo insisted quickly. "You just stay with us and we'll all get big."
"You are staying in New York, aren't you?" Paul added hopefully. He could tell the boy was from Liverpool, like he and his mates were.
"Maybe he's run away from home, James," Winston suggested slyly. Paul reddened and turned away.
For the first time, the young guitarist broke into a smile, which gave him a very mischievous appearance. "I haven't got anywhere else to be at the moment. Guess u could say I have. So what's this band doing?"
"Anything," Winston grinned. "Welcome to the band, little one."
Their new guitarist's frown came back. "Me name is actually Geo..."
"Fine, then," Winston spoke over him before he could finish. "Good to have u in our band, Geo. Now come 'head so's we can get our instruments - and Ringo's luggage."
The young guitarist frowned harder. "I wasn't finished."
"He can't let u finish," Ringo decided to explained this time. "As we're all using alibis and that."
"Alibis?" questioned their guitarist. "You mean so that Mum and Dad can't find us and make us go home pagina before we make it big?"
"He's got it right, this one," grinned Winston with a teasing glance at Paul, who frowned and refused to meet his eye. "Smart lad."
The young guitarist grinned back at them, filling his thin face with mischief. "All right then. I'm Geo."
