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 It's over ... ended ... finished. The huge Marine Ballroom at Steel Pier in Atlantic City is empty, the floors littered with little bits of paper, cigarette butts, pink handkerchiefs and invisible tears. Occasionally, the wind howls through this now deserted haven of teenage dreams, carrying with it the odor of salt and sea since it extends a full mile out into the Atlantic ocean. Herman's Hermits have left. Hours before, they held thousands of fans hypnotized by the magic of their performance on stage. Now they - as well as the fans - have gone to bed, to rest, to sleep, to relive in their minds the excitement of the moment, the electric thrill that shuddered through the screaming audience when Herman and his fellow Hermits commenced their act. What was it like, I mean, before it all ended not with a bang but a whimpering ocean breeze? Many things ... components in a mosaic that added up to three memorable days - for Herman's Hermits and Atlantic City and nearly 70,000 teenagers. Of course, there was the noise, every deafening decibel of it. I went backstage just as Peter and his buddies (of course all of you know that Peter Noone is Herman's real name) were going on stage. The reaction was immediate - and loud. Peter tried his best to make himself heard by shouting his lyrics with equal volume but it didn't work. Halfway through the act, he was surrounded by teddy bears, toy snakes, autograph booklets, stuffed tigers and a fluffy elephant - all of which were thrown at his feet by eager fans who hoped he would touch their presents. And there were the casualties, too. The weeping, sobbing, fainting swooners. The ones affected by emotion, heat, close quarters and the fact that Peter was just a few feet away, almost near enough to kiss, to hold. One girl managed to climb up on stage but in doing so, her blouse was ripped off. Suddenly realizing she was half-clothed in front of thousands of her contemporaries, she became excited, screamed and desperately tried to put the blouse back on, succeeding only in ripping it nearly to shreds. A policeman dashed over and took her out through the wings. She passed me by, looking up into my face, as though to say: Can't you do something? I only want to touch him. Oh, please, please, please, help me! Within five minutes, three other, half-naked girls followed her. One was vomiting. The others were "merely" hysterical, faces sweaty and flushed with red, eyes choked with tears, legs wobbly, and all because they'd brushed by 17 year old, frail-looking Peter Noone. And there were the phonies, the girls who knew that - by pretending to faint - they would at least get up on stage where they would suddenly "recover" and make a mad dash for vulnerable Peter. None of them got very far. George A. Hamid Jr., Steel Pier operator and co-owner, shoved them through a side exit when it became obvious that they were tricksters. "It's terrifying," Nold Leona, a friend of Peter's, said. "No one can really imagine what it is like. You keep wondering what would happen if the guards failed in keeping the crowd back, if one of them stumbled and fell and the audience managed to get past. Poor Peter would be torn to pieces. And he had to face the same ordeal nine different times during his three-day stint at the Pier. Associated Press reporter, Lydia Bickford, told me that this was her first assignment to cover a rock show. After just one, she was showing the effects - a headache, nervousness, exhaustion, etc., etc. But Peter was required to go through it all eight additional times, not including his other appearances in other cities around the country. During an average month, Peter, Karl Green, Derek Leckenby, Barry Whitwam and Keith Hopwood make more than 50 stage appearances. Sometimes, that figure is closer to 75, in a dozen cities from coast to coast. But it's life ... for them and their entourage. Peter's saving grace of "not taking any of this seriously" is the attitude shared by his comrades. Cynics say, "They're in it for the money, the material things fame enables them to get." But Peter refutes this conjecture: "I'm not doing this for the money. If I were worth a million pounds (almost three million American dollars) I would be able to buy anthing I wanted and if I had everything I wanted, that would be it, wouldn't it! There'd be nothing else to buy, to get, to have. If a bloke had all the money in the world, he'd have little else to seek. "The injustice of earning money today is what annoys me. A man who had 15 years of education might make only $60 a week while a truck driver or a dish-washer could earn the same amount. If things were really just, the bloke with all that education would be the one to make a lot of money. But it doesn't work that way, here or in England." After his act was over, Peter prepared himself for running the proverbial gauntlet - before he could even get any lunch. Facing him was a rather nightmarish ride in an old pickup van which the driver had to guide them through a pressing, packed mob of fans. "I've been with them when they drove in a limousine through similar crowds," Nola Leone remarked. "You can't begin to understand the awful feeling of seeing the car pushing through hundreds of people. Once, Peter screamed, 'Hey he ran over somebody!' I was almost hysterical until I found out that a girl had fainted in front and was carried away by a policeman just in time. "But there, in that pickup truck, it must be all the more terrifying. In the limousine we had windows and could see what was happening. But in the truck, they're in darkness with no way to look out. All they can hear is the banging and the screaming." Indeed, it must have been a nightmare for the five boys, huddled in close quarters, the air humid and stifling while outside, fists banged on the sides of the truck and at one time threated to turn it over. And the noise was magnified inside rather than muffled, magnified until it was deafening. They never knew when the doors would open and fans would leap at them. "You wait," Peter told me. "You wait and cross your fingers that you'll get back to the motel in one piece. When the doors are opened, you never really know what to expect. You have to be ready to run no matter what. You just make a mad dash straight ahead of you and pray that it's the right way." Finally, though, they did reach the Terrace Motel and got inside. We went to a private dining room where a long table was set for us - "us" being Peter and the boys, his road manager, Bob Levine, some press representatives and Peter's chauffer. Southern fried chicken with French fried potatoes was the main course for the 30 people at the luncheon. "Who pays for all this?" I asked Nola Leone. "Peter," she said, glancing at him as he munched on a honey-dew melon. I sat back, wondering to myself how many of the people were honestly interested in Peter rather than the free food they were consuming or the "honor" of rubbing shoulders with a celebrity. An example of the latter occurred when someone (I shall keep him anonymous) pushed an autograph pad in front of Peter's nose and said, "Sign this for a girl named Patty." Peter obligingly interrupted his dessert to sign a picture for the man. The man looked at it and shoved it right back in Peter's face, with the curt remark, "Hey, you forgot to put her name on it." Peter looked at the man for a second and |
then said, "Oh, sorry, old chap," and completed the autograph. After the guy had left, Peter told me, "That's not really so bad. You get times when a woman will come p to you and say, 'Oh, I don't know who you are but you look like a celebrity, Mr. - uh - I mean - Mr. - hey, what is your name?' To people like that, you're a signature machine, a chance for them to brag to their friends." I was, as he was telling this, wondering how he and the others let off steam. Seconds later, I found out. Bob Levine casually got up from where he was sitting, walked over to Barry Whitwam, tapped him on the shoulder and when Barry looked up, planted a plateful of whipped cream and icing right smack in the middle of Barry's face. "Oh, sorry old chap, it was an accident," Bob smiled and just as casually, returned to his own place at the table. I could tell that Barry was tempted to start a little pie-throwing of his own but discreetly refrained from doing so. Otherwise, all of us might have joined in the act. For the next 15 minutes, we sat and talked. The security measures to guard Peter and the boys were so complicated and extensive that the motel's management needed that much time just to set up everything properly. During those 15 minutes, one girl tried to get in by using a very clever trick. She was an attractive colored girl who approached the guard near the dining room and told him: "I insist upon equal rights. There are white reporters in there and I want to join them. Otherwise, I'll accuse you of discrimination and Momma's going to write to our Congressman." Rather than risk a race incident, the girl was let in, Peter signed an autograph for her and she was shown out, her eyes wide with awe. In her hand she held the slip of paper he'd actually touched. Her day was complete. Exit - the diningroom. Enter - ye olde pickup van. Exit - ye olde pickup van. Enter - ye modern, fully-equipped, air-conditioned, plush motel suite. A prison. Yep, that's what it was. "You can really go stir-crazy in here," Bob Levine said honestly. "Other kids Pete's age are out on the beach now, getting some sun and a nice tan and maybe a little surfing. But Pete's here, trapped. Tomorrow is their day. I'll tell you that! Nobody but nobody is getting near them! If you have the National Guard surrounding the motel's pool, I'll do it. By heaven, they're going to relax." With the National Guard there? Well, anyway ... So now they were alone, in their motel suite, with oodles of peace and quiet. No such luck. Waiting for us were exactly, three photographers, five newspaper reporters, two women with tape recorders, and a magazine editor who promptly cornered Keith, Derek and Karl for a lengthy interview behind closed door. And Bob Levine was on his knees. Oh, don't get the wrong idea, he wasn't begging or anything like that. Just taking care of some business mail. On the floor. Because there was no room anywhere else. Getting a lot of work done. When the phone wasn't ringing, that is. Result: very little work done. Peter stood out on a little balcony, saying something into a microphone a female reporter had shoved right up against his front teeth. "What is your impression of America, Herman?" "My name's really Peter." "Oh! Isn't it Herman?" "No." "Really!" "Really." "What do you know about that!" "About what?" "Nevermind. Now where were we?" "Something about America." "That's right. What is your impression of America ... Herman?" "It's big ..." In another corner, Barry and I were talking about horror stories, of which he and Peter read quie a lot. In another corner, somebody was getting his tape recorder ready. And Bob Levine was still on his knees. When he wasn't on the phone. "Yeh, Carl, that's right," he would say. "It's really been rough. On the road, you know. Up till two in the morning. Three shows a day. Rush ... rush ... rush! Yeh, I'll make sure your daughter gets an autograph. No, it's no trouble. Pete's - what? Yeh, his real name's Peter - well, anyway, Pete's always happy to oblige ..." ... and he always had to, that's for sure. One guy, while I was sitting next to Peter on a comfortable sofa, passed 10 (yeh, ten!) pictures for autographs. "This one's for Kathleen." "Kathleen?" "Yes. Say - Dear Kathleen, with love, kisses and thanks to a real sweet girl." "To Kathie, with love -" "No, that's Kathleen! Get it right, will ya?" After he'd left, Peter said: "Remember that other guy at lunch?" "Yes," I replied. "They both know the manager." "Isn't that lovely" "Lovely." Bob Levine reflected (on his knees, of course) at this point: "They're glory-rubbers ... most of them. They talk to Peter for three seconds and then almost write a book about how well they know him ... probably call it "My Intimate Life With Herman's Hermits." "Three seconds?" "Yeh." "Pretty intimate, isn't it." "Yeh." Ring-ring-ringh. Off knees. On phone. "Yeh, Jim, that's right. It's really been rough. On the road you know. Up till ..." This is how it was for a couple of hours. Outside, the fans waited and whenever Peter poked his head over the balcony, they screamed: "we love Herman, we love Herman." Down the street was a girl with a sign: I LIKE THE BEATLES. HERMAN'S A FINK. "i don't wonder now why people in Peter's position get conceited," I remarked to Nola Leone. "But he's not," she was quick to say in defense, and rightly so, because Peter wasn't at all conceited or uppity. He was simply enjoying everything (even if it might take the National Guard to keep the fans away) in what was a whole new world to the 17 year old boy from Manchester, England. A good illustration of Peter's devil-may-care attitude came the day he machine-gunned his way through some gathering fans. It seems that he was coming down in an elevator with a toy gun and when the elevator reached the first floor, the doors opened to reveal the aforementioned fans. Thinking quickly, Peter pulled the trigger of his machine-gun and with sparks flying and a rat-tat-rat-tat noise echoing through the lobby of the motel, he made a quick exit through a side door. Back to the suite. Bob Levine was still on his - well, you know what I'm going to say, don't you. Ten minutes later, Peter Noone and company hightailed it back to Steel Pier for another show, for another running of the gauntlet, for another ordeal under hot lights. That was an eternity of noise and pressing bodies and toy tigers ago. The fans are gone. In thousands of homes, teenage girls dream of a frail 17 year old named Peter Noone, his picture under their pillows. For them, the chaos was worthwhile. |
