I Wanna Bite Your Hand – Johnny Mystery

I Wanna Bite Your Hand – Johnny Mystery – by Johnny Mystery.

All matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration. We are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively. There is no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves. We’re living in a yellow submarine and our friends are all aboard. The ultimate party has already been held for the lunatics. Did you bring a yardstick? It was four guys from a seaside town in the North of England that made us all want to live next door …

Join us now in the avant-garde as we explore a tragical history tour. Somebody said we’ll be listening to them (well, not us) three hundred years from now, just like classical music centuries after the fact.

I’m sure through the magic of robotics and DNA reconstruction, the citizens of Earth, the serious future music lovers, will one day enjoy three-dimensional versions of the lads that will tour the world and beyond. Holograms? Ha – mere kids play in the year 2324!

You might think enough has been written about these guys. Why do you have to read more here? Seriously, you open up these pages hoping to find something new, something interesting, something fresh, yet here is another collection of dribble about the “Fab Four.” This issue must be addressed. Every time I walk into a bookstore, there they are. When I’m standing in the checkout line, there they are. When I log on to social media, there they are. And I see new pictures all the time. I mean these cats broke up in 1970 and we’re still finding photos that have never been published. How the hell is that even possible?? Perhaps Winston really did sell his soul. Why not? I’m pretty sure Yoko cast some kind of spell on him.

Sir McCharmley is not dead. He still tours. He brings grown men to tears when the show opens with “All My Loving.” Damn, that don’t sound like Bleepmania. Back in ‘64 it was the girls crying for you Paulie. And while we’re at it, I think we can blame said Bleepmania for the glut of tribute bands and shows clogging up the concert venues these days. You know what happens in the “biz” right? Once a trend takes off, the promoters do it to death, every stinking time. There is no shame. Did you ever hear of “Mini Kiss?” Yes, it’s just what you think. It’s true and they exist, at least they used to. I don’t keep up on such things.

A lot of people know (or at least I think) that Bob Dylan is the one who turned “the lads” on to the devil’s weed. Yes, Bob was the serpent in the garden, and he held out the apple to our lovable moptops, didn’t he? This was right around the time they started recording “Help!” So, in all reality, Bob helped make “Help!” They were under the influence through the entire recording session as well as the film production. Look in their eyes, you’ll see. Check out a vid of Bob and Winston sharing a London taxi during the Judas Tour in ‘65. Bob is completely out of it and Winston hurls insults that go right over Mr. Zimmerman’s head. Bobby D laments over all the booing he gets on stage and the good Dr. Winston O’ Boogie snickers in his face. You know he just wants to tell him he should have never ever strapped on a Strat at the Newport Folk Fest.

How many chances do you need to get it right? Number 9-Number 9-Number 9. Seven-Up only did six before they hit lemon-lime. #9-#9-#9 … how much trendy chemical amusement aid did Winston and Georgie have to consume before they got the idea to just randomly flip through a shortwave over sound effects records from the EMI sound vault. It’s pure genius I tell ya … GENIUS!!!! “Take this brother, may it serve you well.” “Turn me on dead man.” Just because it worked on the walrus, won’t mean it’s going to work on #9,#9,#9.

Why, oh, why did we need another five hours of those dreadful sessions at Twickenham Studios back in the bleak British Winter of ‘69? Just let it be, let it be. Not even George Martin wanted any part of that train wreck. They got Phil Spector to fill in. Thankfully he didn’t bring his warm gun … bang, bang, shoot, shoot. Poor Georgie got reamed by Sir McCharmly for not using his whammy bar correctly. Poor Georgie ran out with his Telecaster between his legs. Will Georgie come back? Will he retire and never leave his stately gardens? Will he buy a new sitar? Tune in next episode. Shout it from the rooftop of Blabby Road. Not even Lord Krishna can help you now poor Georgie!

And who really was the fifth? Billy Preston? George Martin (my pick by the way)? Murray the K (not with that hat)? Jimmie Nicol? … Wait, what? Who the hell is Jimmie Nicol? Jimmie is the guy who filled in for Ringo when he got the mumps (or was that the flu? No, that was Georgie before the Ed Sullivan Show) and toured Australia while Ringo recovered. Jimmie said it was the worst thing that ever happened to him. Why? Most of you never heard of him till you read it here. Have you got it yet? He did receive 400 pounds and an engraved watch, though. Ahhh … the rewards of Bleepmania!!!!

Call me a “snozberry” if you wish, but the bloom came off the rose after ‘66 when they stopped shaking their heads and screaming WOOOOO! in a vain attempt to sound like Little Richard (or is that Esquerita?). They should have cut it off right after they recorded “Rubber Biscuit” and “Revolving Door.” And don’t get me started on “Private Pepper,” the most overrated album in the history of plastic waffles. I will admit to liking the song “Mr. Kite” though. Anybody smart enough and lazy enough to get the lyrics to a song from a 19th-century circus poster is truly a genius, and Winston O’ Boogie would be the first one to point it out to us.

So, what was the point of all this? It was to talk as little as possible about Richard Starkweather, aka Ringo, aka Mr. Peace and Love on his birthday. He is perhaps the luckiest man on the face of the Earth. From the looks of Sir McCharmly these days, Ringo may also be the last man standing. He was brought in to play drums at the eleventh hour because he was uglier than the other three. By the way, that’s purely objective, my perspective. He got to ride on the fame train with the rest of them. Last but not least, he got to marry a Bond Girl. Damn, how British can you get!

I’m off “to the U.S.S.R…” and you know that can’t be bad. YEAH-YEAH-YEAH-YEAH!

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