Paul’s dreams of John by Mike Fiorito

I dream of you often nowadays. I must admit that when the Beatles broke up, I was mad at you. We had spent far too much time together. Like brothers, we slept in the same bed sometimes. We were boxed into hotel rooms, having to take refuge from a world that wanted to steal a piece of us. We wrote songs together. We sang songs together. We ate together. What didn’t we do together? The truth is, I needed room. We needed room. And maybe we shouldn’t have both flung ourselves into relationships and pitted ourselves against each other right after the group broke up. But we were kids. Kids who were spellbound by unimagined success.

It’s hard to explain to other people, but I’m just a guy. I’m that same kid from Liverpool, even though I look like an old man. Can you believe that, John? I’m an old man. And you are forever young. Always the one to get the last laugh. You left me standing here a long, long time ago. Ok, I know, you’ll say, there I go again promoting my own songs. But we both did that from the day we met. We both pushed our own songs. We pushed each other. But I was your greatest fan, John. Always. You gave me something that I can’t quite put into words. It was more than inspiration. It was meaning, purpose. Focus. We made each other better.

Let me tell you something, John. Remember the excitement we all felt when we recorded “I Want to Hold Your Hand”? Especially you and me. That was something else. I’ll never quite get over it, really. What stands out most about that song is that we wrote it together in an almost feverish way. It was as if we couldn’t contain the flood of ideas that came over us. And when I listen to that song now, I hear your voice sometimes in the foreground and sometimes I hear my voice. We didn’t plan that. It just happened that way. We were like one mind. One mind wrapped around each other. Our voices trailing one other, one overtaking the other, both voices lost in the singularity of one voice. Like a Bach fugue, it’s hard to tell when the foreground voice steps back, and the background voice becomes primary. It’s hard for even me to untangle our voices today. Of course, there were songs before “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” But that song was our announcement to the world. We are here. The Beatles have arrived. It might be one of the greatest pop songs ever recorded.

I won’t go through the many other songs. Songs we wrote together; you wrote a part and I wrote another part. But again, like one mind flowing into another. There are some songs that I hear today, and I honestly can’t tell who is singing which part. We sometimes sounded like each other, our voices often blending, sometimes becoming indistinguishable. When does that happen between two people? Never again with me, and not with you.

Two of us riding nowhere. Yours again. Two as one.

And then you were taken from us. From me. Ripped from my soul. Imagine the pain I had to endure, not even being able to articulate what I was feeling. I was still reeling from our split. But I was somehow thriving on the anger. Our egos clashed. Who was the real force behind the Beatles? Who wrote what? And blah blah blah. But, of course, it was all of us and let’s face it, it was you and me especially. And then you left me. For Yoko. You left me. But let’s not go into that.

And now, I dream of you. I dream of you always. It’s as if my mind is searching for itself and finds you. But then you’re gone. You’re there and then you’re gone. Then I’m not there. I am he as you are he as you are me. And we are all together. See, one of yours. We’re playing in one of the bar halls in Berlin and my bass melts while on stage. Then we’re playing on the Ed Sullivan show for the first time and, suddenly, you vanish into thin air and I’m still playing, bobbing up and down. But I’m alone and all the world sees me. It’s as if the entire world cries because we’re not together. The whole world misses us, John. Not me or you, but us.

It’s not only that I miss you. I miss the me I was with you. We were something else. Something that, together, was greater than each of us. Something, one of George’s. When I hear the songs, or see the videos, I know I’m not watching me; I’m watching the us we used to be. Maybe I’m the one who died and you’re just dreaming me.

Two of us riding nowhere. Yours again. Two as one.

And so, I’ll dream my way to you. Until I see you again. And smile into your eyes and sing the way we used to. The way we sang as kids in Liverpool and as young men in the Beatles, in a way no two human beings have ever sung.

Two of us wearing raincoats
Standing so low
In the sun
You and me chasing paper
Getting nowhere

On our way back home
We’re on our way home
We’re on our way home
We’re going home

A Star-Revue Contributor