They Had a ‘Ticket to Ride’

Adoring fans throughout Europe and the U.S. yearned for their chance to see the Beatles in concert – and hopefully, in person. In this From Our Readers remembrance, Bob Brawley tells of the night he and his sister not only heard the Beatles play hits such as “Ticket to Ride,” they also printed their own ticket to ride to the L.A. mansion where John, Paul, Ringo, and George were staying.

August 30, 1965. The day Southern California fans had eagerly awaited had arrived. The Beatles, the unrivaled rock group of the era, would take the stage at the iconic Hollywood Bowl. The air was charged with anticipation, the excitement palpable. The Beatles’ music had become a cultural phenomenon, and fans eagerly awaited their next concert.

My sister, Barbara, was a devoted Beatles fan, spending hours listening to their music on the radio and playing their records in her bedroom. Paul McCartney, affectionately known as “The Cute One,” was her favorite Beatle. Barbara’s friend, Wendy, had a mad crush on John Lennon, drawn to his wit, humor, and cynicism. Her bedroom walls were adorned with posters of him.

One evening at dinner, Mother placed two tickets for the Beatles concert on the table. Barbara jumped out of her chair, tears streaming down her face. “Oh my God, I’m going to see the Beatles. I can’t wait to call Wendy.”

The joy in the room was infectious, creating an energy that was impossible to ignore.

On the afternoon of the concert, Barbara and Wendy spent hours choosing their outfits and putting on their makeup. Wendy’s mother dropped her off at our house. She burst through the front door and raced to Barbara’s bedroom. “We’re going to see John and Paul tonight!”

The fact that George and Ringo would also be on the stage was a passing thought.

Mother and I dropped off Barbara and Wendy at a parking lot close to the Hollywood Bowl. We rolled down the windows to hear the excitement when the Beatles took the stage; the shrieks of teenage girls filled the night air.

The Beatles sang their hits, “Twist and Shout,” “Ticket to Ride,” “A Hard Day’s Night,” “Can’t Buy Me Love,” and other hits, performed their last song, rushed off the stage, through the back stage curtains, and exited through the back of Hollywood Bowl, rushing to a nearby Brink’s armored van.

Mother and I watched as John, Paul, George, and Ringo jumped in the van through the double doors. Security staff slammed the doors shut while a crowd of teenage girls surrounded the van, tugging at the handles and crawling on the hood, screaming, “Let us in.”

Fearing for the Beatles’ safety, security guards pushed the crazed fans back, but they pushed back through and leaped on the van. A police officer pounded the van with closed fists and shouted, “Get out of here.”

The van sped away, narrowly missing the fans standing in front of and beside it, crying out, “We love you.”

Their own ‘ticket to ride’

Earlier that week, a Los Angeles radio station DJ announced the address of the mansion where the Beatles were staying. Wendy’s father, a well-known businessman in Los Angeles, mentioned the address before the concert.

Barbara and Wendy ran to the car, opened the rear passenger door, jumped into the back seat, slammed the car doors, and shouted. “Let’s go. Wendy has the address of the mansion where the Beatles are staying.”

I followed Wendy’s directions on the narrow, winding two-lane road up Mulholland Drive through the Hollywood Hills; the city lights twinkled like a sea of stars in the rear-view mirror.

The mansion loomed ahead, a stately residence behind tall iron gates. We arrived at the base of the property and stopped, hearing the distant sounds of teenage girls ahead.

Wendy tapped my shoulder. “Why are you stopping? We haven’t reached the mansion.”

I pointed to a long line of double-parked cars up the road, on their way to the mansion. “See for yourself.”

I turned the steering wheel to make a U-turn. Barbara leaned forward. “What are you doing, Bobby?”

“I’m leaving. We’ve come as far as we can. You saw the Beatles. Everyone had a great time. Now we need to get home before traffic gets bad and Dad begins to worry.”

Wendy’s face fell, tears filling her eyes. Her dream of meeting John is slipping away.

Overwhelmed with emotion, she cried out, “Please don’t leave. I’ve waited so long for this day. I have to see John before he leaves. Please, Bobby, don’t leave,” her voice filled with desperation.

I backed the car off the road and shut off the engine. Barbara and Wendy opened the car doors and leaped outside. “Let’s go,” Barbara shouted, leading the way.

Mother grabbed my arm. “Stop them, Bobby, before they get in trouble.”

I stepped outside, “Where do you think you’re going? Get back in the car. They’ll throw you both in jail.”

Barbara and Wendy rushed to the steel six-foot fence surrounding the property. “We’re going to climb the hill to the mansion and find Paul and John.”

Wendy grabbed Barbara’s arm. “What if we get to talk to them. What would we say?”

Barbara and Wendy tried to scale the fence. I turned to Mother. “They can’t do this alone. I’ll go with them.”

“Okay, Bobby, but please be careful.”

I helped Barbara and Wendy over the fence, climbed it, and walked up the steep hillside toward the mansion: 50 yards away. Struggling through briar bushes, shrubs, stickers, and low-hanging branches, we pulled each other up the slippery hill, taking one step forward and two steps back.

Bruised and out of breath, our clothes stained from the mossy hillside and our arms and necks scratched by the prickly bushes, we paused to catch our breath, rest, and contemplate our next move.

A security guard glanced in our direction, as if he heard something. We ducked behind a scrub bush, crawled on our hands and knees closer to the mansion, stopped, and saw John, Paul, George, and Ringo in a large, enclosed room on the second level of the mansion. George and Ringo were playing pool. Paul and John sat on a couch, guitars in their hands, unaware of our presence.

Wendy stood and shouted, “I love you, John. Please come outside.”

The security guard flashed his light. “Who’s there?”

I placed my hand over Wendy’s mouth. “Shut up. You’re going to get us caught.”

She broke free from my grip. “John, come outside so I can see you.”

The security guard shone his light on us. We crawled from under the shrub. The security guard came over and led us through an iron gate, past a kidney-shaped swimming pool. Barbara grabbed an open pack of cigarettes lying on a poolside chair.

The security guard yanked the pack from Barbara’s hand. “Put that back where you found it.”

Hearing the commotion, John, Paul, George, and Ringo looked down through the open window and saw the security guard leading us past the pool and into the mansion’s foyer. He approached a pair of double doors and opened them. Hundreds of excited fans rushed forward, believing the Beatles would make an appearance, screaming and climbing over each other.

I pushed through the crowd, waving my hands above my head. “I met George.”

“I kissed Paul,” Barbara said, following closely behind.

Wendy waved a blank, folded piece of paper in the air. “John gave me his phone number.”

Barbara, Wendy, and I navigated our way through the crowd, past the cars down the twisted blacktop road, singing Beatles songs, laughing, and talking about what we had done. Our magical night had ended; the stars shone brighter as we drove down Mulholland Drive; the world felt a little more special.

We arrived home and sat at the kitchen table, reliving each moment of the night. I stepped outside after everyone had gone to bed and sat on the front porch steps, reminiscing about the evening: the Beatles fans swarming the Brinks armored van, climbing up the hill to the mansion, and the joy on Barbara and Wendy’s faces when they saw Paul and John through the glass window.

Mother stepped outside and sat beside me. “What are you doing outside, Bobby? I thought you had gone to bed.”

“I couldn’t sleep thinking about the fun we had tonight,” I said, “a night I’ll remember the rest of my life.”

Mother lit a cigarette and exhaled. The grayish-blue smoke spiraled into tendrils under the warm Southern California night sky. “Me too – a night none of us will ever forget.”

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