TICKETS TO RIDE

by GREG GODOVITZ
[excerpted from the autobiography "Travels With My Amp"
(c) 2000 Abbeyfield Press/Bullseye]
Additional photo scans courtesy Gary Pig Gold

"Hey Beatles! sing `im a little tune."

It was too hot a summer day for grave digging. These two sweat-soaked ruffians were filling in the hole as Brian Pilling and I made our way up Birchmount Avenue en route to rehearsal. 1964 was a great year to be 13 years old. We didn`t know how old the individual in the freshly dug hole was but for some reason we felt that we owed this person a little musical tribute.

Brian, tab collar under corduroy jacket buttoned right up despite the heat was as usual quick to size up the situation.

His red Harmony Rocket guitar, slung casually across his back, was brought into playing position with the most modest of effort. I could see him eying the hole from beneath his brown fringe.   
"Ferry 'Cross The Mersey?"
I nodded affirmative.

My bass, still unplugged but in the last couple of months a little more user friendly, gave off the faintest essence of bottom as we sang, "Life goes on day after day, hearts torn in every way..."
The gravediggers, who had initially hailed us in a piss take, were genuinely impressed and applauded our efforts when we`d finished.

To this day I have no idea what the party in the hole thought.

High school presented an unusual challenge. I wasn`t really ready to be in high school, as I was only thirteen, having skipped grade 5 in public school and I was already carrying some serious emotional baggage around.

At Regent Heights Public School friends and enemies alike had affectionately dubbed me `Pimplehead`. Girls I dreamed about called me this.

When tickets for The Beatles September 7 show at Maple Leaf Gardens went on sale I, Pimplehead, was deemed responsible enough to act as ticket emissary for the entire school. It was safe enough in those days to sleep out of doors and my parents, who I believe regarded me as a rather solid thinking individual did not object to me camping out in front of the venerable hockey shrine in order to fulfill my appointed task.

I can`t remember where the huge wad of bills was stored but, for the sake of romance, let's say that it was stored along with other precious jewels in the front of my briefs.

It was cold out there but everyone had their sleeping blankets for warmth and people shared their hot chocolate as well as their enthusiasm for the adventure at hand. Aside from the constant cacophony of a dozen portable AM radios blasting Beatles hits on CHUM, the only real excitement was supplied by a native Indian lad with a full healthy head of extremely long black hair who managed to set the young girls bonkers merely by walking down the south side of College Street. He did this every ten minutes it seemed. A sound not unlike a jet engine would break the silence as a dozen or more teenage banshees raced off in pursuit of this phantom Ringo. I`m sure that not one of them had the faintest idea what to do with him if they had caught him but it was great to just sit there and wish your hair would grow out faster.
 
As dawn broke on the icy pavement I had the most awful feeling that I was being trampled by a herd of wild beasts. In actual fact, thousands of smarter Beatles fans, who had enjoyed the previous evening in the comfort of their suburban homes were now jostling for position and using the campers as feet warmers. The police, out in full force to ensure safety for one and all were in no ways prepared for a gaggle of highly emotional fans who had endured a night on the streets and not about to be butted out of their rightful place in line. I believe that our weathered little group became the first wristband policy ticket buyers. We were escorted to the other side of the main doors to snooze in peace until the priceless ducats went on sale!

At ten a.m. we were none the worse for wear and standing at the ticket counter. The big moment had arrived at last. I was only a few kids back from the head of the line. Those other suckers were in a line that snaked along College Street west and north up Yonge Street to Richmond Hill for all I knew. I could see me and all my little school chums sitting in the first couple of rows before our heroes.

I, Pimplehead, would now be a hero.
"How many kid?" asked the under whelmed ticket guy.
"One hundred and sixty two tickets sir!" I blurbled out.
"Sorry kid, two to a customer," he droned.
"B...b...bb...But I`ve been sent by my school to get tickets for everyone!!!"
"Sorry kid, you`ll hafta get back in line," he said pointing to the doors.
With that I paid him for my two tickets, grabbed up my meagre belongings, and went out the front door.
The scene outside was pure bedlam! Thousands of mostly teenage girls crying, pushing, and screaming, and this just to get near that old ticket guy.

After a little quick math I realized that there was no way that I would line up again eighty times and at least I had a great pair of tickets for all that I`d endured.
Now let`s see here, two Gold front row seats right in the middle?
NOOOOOO!!! Blues!
I had slept on cement all night for this! I raced back in but couldn`t get near the counter in the ensuing melee. In desperation I went up to one of the ancient guards and showed him my tickets.
"Sixth row kid," he croaked
"SIXTH ROW!! WOW!" I yelped.
"Behind the stage."
There were little tears welling up in my eyes all the way home.
The Beatles were great.

When The Beatles stayed in Toronto in February of 1964, the King Edward hotel was literally under siege from teenage girls and guys alike. My old neighbourhood pal, Phil Joyce, and I managed to convince a guard that we posed no threat to the group and he whispered to us that they would be coming out the back entrance in a police paddy wagon in ten minutes for their first show at the Gardens. We raced around the corner, found the escape portal, and waited for what seemed like ten minutes impatiently for our heroes to come out. All of a sudden the corrugated metal door flew up revealing a police paddy wagon, which proceeded to gun its engine and race into the street.

Phil and I looked at each other and in a split second we knew what had to be done. Jump on the back of that paddy wagon and scream stuff at The Beatles!!
Which we did.

I can`t remember if I was yelling for any particular Beatle or just to the group as a whole but I became painfully aware of a rather large blue suited policeman`s arm around my waist and him none-too-gently tearing me off the back of the paddy wagon as it picked up speed with Phil still attached to its back door.

Phil, who was one of my best friends ever, and who died on me many years ago of cancer, was also amazingly adept at the finer points of yarn spinning. In other words, he was usually full of shit. When we connected later on he told me how The Beatles had invited him into the paddy wagon and had offered him great hospitality all the way to the show. I didn`t believe him but played along as it was a great story, but in saying that I also didn`t believe him when he told me about his cancer either, so you never know.

"Travels With My Amp" by Greg Godovitz is available from http://www.bullseyesongs.com