BEATLEMANIACS NEVER DIE
(But They Sure Get Carried Away)
It’s the First Annual Beatles’ Convention, Magical Mystery Tour, and I’m standing in the lobby of the Bradford Hotel, Boston. For the last hour I’ve been watching five teenage girls in black tee-shirts (“Bring Back the Beatles,” “The Beatles Forever”) collecting signatures for a petition to keep John Lennon in the United States. In the center of the room, gaggles of lean boys wearing row on row of Beatles’ buttons flash rare albums at each other and reach out to fondle LPs missing from their collections. A blind woman wearing a long, dayglo green dress with sparkling rhinestones spelling out “JOHN GEORGE PAUL RINGO” is jauntily whisked through the lobby on the arms of a friend. No one notices.
Inside the hotel’s cavernous ballroom this Saturday afternoon, 20 metal folding tables have been filled with Beatles’ records and memorabilia. A thousand Beatle devotees, most of them under 20, crush through each other or peer between bodies to get a better view of the merchandise. Money changes hands quickly and cheerfully.
