And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 14: Baby, You Can Drive My Car

"You do know the twelve bar blues, right?"

Paul just stared at me. I stared back, John's guitar in my hand, my left index finger on the C and my left pinky on the G.

"You play?" Paul asked suddenly after a long pause, ignoring my previous question.

I strummed a short riff. "No. In fact, I've never touched a guitar in my life." I eyed him suspiciously; he was still staring at me. "D'ya want to learn this or not, Paul?" I asked him. "The show is tonight. Look, Dizzy Miss Lizzy is just the twelve bar blues." I thought it a bit dodgy that he didn't know this, and then pursed my lips and tied my hair back to let it loose again.

I plucked John's guitar and hummed along with the tune. "You make me dizzy, miss Lizzy, the way you rock and roll..." I hated hearing my voice and the silence wasn't making it any better. Paul didn't sing along, but rather watched me with an expression I couldn't place until my voice faded away. "Now you have a go," I said uncomfortably, shoving his guitar into his hands. The bed sank a little with its weight. I grinned. Paul was slight and tall, like Pete. George was even more slight than the two of them, like the neck of his guitar. Both looked young; Paul "cute" and George more serious. John's stature was more sturdy and rough at first glance, more of a rocker, a teddy boy who made all the others run and hide, but the more I got to know him, the more I chipped away at his rough exterior.

Paul imitated my C and G finger positioning. "Rock and roll." I finished the phrase. "Now go up to four."

"What?" he asked.

"F," I said.

"Oh," he said, understanding. "I just didn't know what four means. Didn't learn music proper like you," he continued, putting emphasis on the word you and making me roll my eyes at him.

"Why are you such a dickhead, McCartney?" I asked him outright. "Why do you hate me so much?"

He stared at me for a few seconds. "I don't hate you," he said finally, toying with the bass in his hands.

"That I find hard to believe."

"Believe me," he insisted. "Bloody hell, why are you so inquisitive?"

"Because you drive me bonkers with your attitude. I'd just like to be... friends, if it's alright with you."

There was another silence. Paul stared at his guitar and I stared at him until he finally said, "Teach me the fourth." I had no idea if that meant "yes" or "no" but I didn't want to press him further.  "It's the fourth of the root chord, the C chord. F is the fourth of C," I explained, plucking some notes out on the guitar. Now five..."

I watched Paul for the next couple of minutes as he learned (or relearned) the four, five, and one positioning. Something seemed a little off. He was one of the greatest musicians in the world and he couldn't play a twelve bar blues? I smirked a little and a little shiver ran down my back when I realized that I had taught Paul McCartney a little guitar.

***

"Ye just about ready, lads?" John addressed the boys, sitting on a small table in front of the stage.

"Wait..." I said, putting down my coffee. "Don't tell me... you all... are actually going to... practice?"

George gave a chuckle into his bacon sandwich. "The bird's got a point, you know. We almost never do."

"They're new songs," Pete Best said in resignation, dragging on a fag and stretching his long legs out. "We really should practice."

It was seven, and the crowds from supper were soon going to arrive. It was also a Friday night. "New songs on a Friday night at seven, I don't know," said George gloomily, completely losing the laughter that exploded from him a couple minutes ago. "Why didn't Koschmider give us the music beforehand?"