THE BEATLES: 2069

THE BEATLES: 2069

And why is this literally the best show I’ve ever watched?

It has:

-Drama

-Comedy

-Confusion

-Accents

-An actually good plot

-Bad Driving

-British slang

-Confusion

-Tone in dialogue that does not match the picture whatsoever

-Evil Canadian

-The Beatles

-Time travel

-Ringo

It’s so incredibly clear that this should be nominated for an Academy Award next year. (Or whatever that award is called) Because, dang it, this is the most crea-tive thang ah h-ave seen in a gosh darn tootin while.

Quote highlights:

“EVIL GAY BEATLES”

*literally shoots his foot with a gun* “…nice foot you got there.”

This is something I sent to my friend one day around midnight and spent too long typing the whole dang thing out. It is one of my best literary works.

Hello everyone! This week I’ve been working on a new project that I’m calling “Led Evolution”, where basically, I’m drawing each member of Led Zeppelin from when they were little lads to their heyday. I have just finished the first member’s one, who is…

Robert Plant!

Soooo….

I’m not much of a writer, but lately, I’ve found myself writing a good amount of words and commas and periods….

I’m calling it The Rise of a Rolling Stone, and It’s a historical fiction. It’s written from the perspective of Brian Jones, the founder of the band.

(I’m still working on it😅)

=-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~-=

The Rise of a Rolling Stone

Sweat. Heart pounding. Labored breathing. Blinding lights.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, our entertainment for tonight, please give a warm welcome for the Rolling Stones!”

Shockingly, I was on that stage…somehow. I was still blissfully unaware of it. The inescapable attention, the sleepless nights… I was still riding with the wave and figuring things out on a whim, like I always did. Like we always did. People aren't joking when they say life can turn on a dime. I should know, mine became unrecognizable to me in a matter of months.

Mick faltered over to the mic.

“We like to call this one Not Fade Away. A-one, two, three…”

Before I knew it, I was playing the opening riff, which started off the jiggy drums, then bass, then harmonica, then vocals.

I, and probably the rest of the band, had seen that the majority of the audience was made up of many excited young ladies. It didn't take me by surprise. I knew about Beatlemania and all the other bands who had been in similar experiences, and by then it seemed to be the norm. We were through about a quarter of the songs when I glanced up to see that Keith had oddly come to the front of the stage. But something seemed off. Internally, I contemplated the queer figure:“I didn't know how long his hair was… wait-”. About two seconds passed before it hit me: That wasn't Keith. In fact, that was no man at all. It was…a girl!? All my nerves and worries, which I had choked down before the gig, regurgitated and punched me like a ball of steel straight to my stomach. She glared at me with a dumbfounded smile that stretched across her whole face. I crooked my neck to see if Mick had noticed the girl, and of course, he responded by flashing me a smirk before returning his attention to the dazed fan. She giggled and squealed like a pig after staring at all of us- making sure that Jagger saw that she was staring at him especially long. When the girl was satisfied, she pranced down a flight of stairs that I didn't even know existed. Unbenounced to us, the local highschoolers had held their graduation ceremony in Swing Auditorium, where we were playing. The stairs, on which the graduates climbed and received their diploma, were still attached to either side of the stage. Making it easy access to anyone. Occasionally, a girl would run up the stairs just to inspect us, as if we were some priceless paintings in the Louvre. I decided to ignore them, because if I did keep my attention on them, and not my guitar, I would mess up in a heartbeat.

After the show, which was a chaotic mess, we retired backstage. Mick was trying to brighten the mood by starting some lighthearted conversation. It didn't affect anyone, and after a few minutes in deafening silence, “Are we ever gonna see our names in the lights?” Charlie exclaimed with a nervous sigh. “...I mean, at this rate, we’re going nowhere fast.” Instead of letting his words fly over my head, which was the usual case for Watts, I actually contemplated them. Charles is usually the one to state the obvious, so it's ideal to ignore him. But significantly enough, we needed the obvious to be stated. The obvious is something that you usually just brush off your shoulder since it's apparent to everyone. This “obviousness”, though, seemed to be a hanging matter considering that we were hiding from it, like the fools we were. I spoke. “We— we just need a different sound. Look at our album and name one song that isn't a cover and doesn't have a blues sound.” Mick made a “chsk” noise with the side of his mouth implying frustration. A sigh fell out of Bill’s mouth as if he had been holding it in for a while. “And how do you exactly plan on us doing that? What would even be our ‘new sound’?” He complained. “Look, I'm sick of all this stupid press stuff; all this…false advertising. The last thing I need right now is more stress, Brian.” It continued like this for a while. Going back and forth between problems and possible solutions…sooner than later we were escorted to a questionable ‘62 Bel Air station wagon.

The crisp black night was the backdrop of the nondescript buildings and fluorescent neon signs going in and out of view. After some time had passed, the sound of occasional chatter from the backseat had simmered down to just the quiet rhythm of the radio. I rested my arm on the center console and started to drift off when abruptly I was awoken by an addictive hi hat “tsk” which started blaring out of the stereo. It was What Do You Want by The Yardbirds. Instantly, the piece captured my attention, and that rarely happens. This wasn't a typical swing or blues tune, which was the usual case for most songs on the radio, the riff felt new, it felt…opportunistic. The sound was similar to the feeling of when you turn to the first page of an action novel: it's not clear what has yet to come, but you have a sense that you will be enraptured in the story, not wanting it to end. Or maybe more so when you walk out of the cinema after watching a great film and feeling like you could take on the world. I murmured, “Hmm…”. My lips mouthed: “I like it…” Nobody else but the driver, who looked like he hadn't caught a wink in days, was awake to hear it. Of course, he wasn't fazed by it, he seemed like the kind of bloke who would be more intrigued by a stray cat fight.

Later, about when the song had ended, we arrived at a sophisticated hotel; it stood tall, leaning over all the guests below on the large wraparound deck. Many tall pine trees and bushes made the place quite secluded from any outside activity. One by one, we stepped out of the hunk of metal and sauntered up the white, wooden steps which led to grand oak double doors. I glanced at a golden plaque hung on the wall: Arrowhead Springs Hotel. You almost couldn’t understand what it was even saying. The etched cursive was excessive. As we started to walk into the doors of the place, I heard collective screeches of excitement. It was the fans. The shrieking grew louder as I tried ushering in the rest of the gang before any calamity could unfold. Thankfully, the employees realized the disparity of the situation and quickly shut and locked the doors behind us. Mick led the way to the concierge in his beige floor length overcoat and glossy loafers. He barely had to say anything to communicate what he wanted to get when he locked eyes with the young lady behind the desk. His charming presence was like his superpower, for goodness sakes. From what I've seen in the past, his charisma always got him past stupid little squabbles, and occasionally, some larger, more notable controversies. Without hesitation, the entranced concierge shakily handed over our room keys, then made some mindless scribbles on a notepad. The frontman’s presence virtually made her a deer in the headlights. Mick always loved the attention, of course. So he teased the girl by throwing her a quick wink along with one mischievous smirk. I scoffed and rolled my eyes at the scene which I had witnessed countless times before. Impatient, I gave Jagger a shove, inferring it was time for “the lovebirds” to break up. He gave a soft chuckle before turning around. “Somebody wants to get to their room…” eyebrows raised, those blue eyes making a circle around my face… “C’mon, let's go.” I insisted. Finally I got the herd of cats upstairs and to their designated rooms.

Wearily, I slumped along the eerily long hallway with Greek revival sconces adorning every entrance to a room. After making sure everyone had settled in, I fumbled for my key, tiredly inserting it into the door, and turned the knob. It didn't budge. My eyes widened in annoyance as I let out a quiet groan. I tried again, only to see the same result. I tried two more times, to no avail. I sighed heavily before tilting my head back, now making my way to the closest room, which was Keith’s. At this point, it was probably around one in the morning. Completely over it, I knocked loudly on the white door with matching golden hardware. I stared at the room number above the peephole which read: ‘181’. The door squeaked open only about three inches or so. “Hello?” One curious eye peeped out from the dark room. “Oh- Brian? What's got you all disheveled?” “My door won’t open- The door to my room. Can you call the staff?” “Sure, come in.” He now fully opened the door, and despite his exhaustion, Keith still managed to make himself presentable. He led me into his room where there was a king size bed, as well as a large bay window looking down on the courtyard in the center of the hotel. A dated RCA TV set (probably from the mid fifties) sat on the dresser at the end of the bed. I believe Gunsmoke was playing…the volume was low, though, so it was difficult to tell. So many Wild West movies had entered the ‘60s stratosphere, you’d be lucky to have guessed the bloody name of just one of them. Keith dialed up the front desk, speaking in a low, yet proper tone: “Hi, erm, my friend here is having a door problem… No- it just won't open…yeah…” He cupped his hand over the phone and peered at me. “What’s your room number?” Recalling what numerals I saw on that door, I whispered, “184”. He repeated it into the phone and then set it back in the holder. “They should be here in about fifteen minutes or so.”. I muttered “Thanks…” before laying back on the comfortable bed, starting to doze.

Notes:

It’s still a work in progress, so I’d be glad to hear any feedback you have! Also, if you have any suggestions for the next part of the story.❤️

There are also a few details, “Easter eggs”, if you will, that are nods to the band…they are pretty hidden, so I’m curious if you could spot any…

It’s surprising how much you can do with a pen and a slightly dried out sharpie.

Below: the unedited drawing and the original image

NEW FAVORITE SONG:

I have no words. Only screaming.

An underrated Zep song: