When it comes to music, you’ve probably had this conversation before, the one that starts with the question, “Who was the greatest Beatle?” Most will chime in about why Paul McCartney or John Lennon is the hands-down winner, and we do hear an occasional vote for George Harrison, but rarely does someone step forward with a nod toward Ringo Starr. My pop tendencies may root me firmly in the ‘Paul’ camp, but it must be mentioned that the Beatles did not hit it big until Ringo joined the band. And his recent entry as a solo artist into The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame brings back memories of the night I met him ever so briefly.
It was a chance encounter in the early 90’s, at one of LA’s finest restaurants at the time, on La Cienega’s restaurant row. I’d gone there to dinner, as had Ringo and his wife, Barbara Bach. I ventured outside to the valet to get my car after dinner, and there they were: A distinguished and laid-back looking Ringo, with the ever-radiant Barbara on his arm, standing on the sidewalk with another two dozen patrons crowded around the valet station. “Wow, there’s Ringo “, I thought, followed quickly by, “How long’s it going to take to get my car”.
I ventured over to see what the hold-up was, and of course, to get a closer look at Ringo and Barbara. He’s a Beatle, after all. I was among greatness. Yet Ringo Starr was waiting politely for his car just like the rest of us. Stalled in the tiny alley which led to all of our cars, sat a small Fiat surrounded by a half-dozen valets huddled like Keystone Cops, wondering how they might move it. And looking on was Ringo, at the head of the line, a slight smile on his tastefully bearded face, wondering like the rest of the small crowd if he might ever get home that night.
If you know me, you know I could not let this stand…
Seems the car was stuck in gear, the steering wheel frozen and the key not moving. By this time the valets were trying to lift the car out of the way. But alas, cars, even small ones, are heavy. I walked up to the valet convention and said, “Let me give it a try.”
No. I didn’t lift the sports car. But having one of my own, I did climb in and started jiggling the key and the steering wheel, anything I could think of to get Fix It Again, Tony out of the way. The crowd grew. Then suddenly, the wheel gave way, the ignition turned and I fired up the car to the delight of Ringo and the rest, who applauded respectfully as I slid out of the driver’s seat. I have to admit, I was kind of proud of myself. A valet jumped in and raced the car up the tiny alley, a Pied Piper with valets running behind it, a sure sign that all of our cars had finally been freed and would soon be arriving shortly.
Nowadays Ringo may have a bit of a rep as a sort of rock star curmudgeon. Awhile back he let it be known he was a tad tired of all the queries about Beatledom he still receives daily. But on this night, he was ever the gentleman.
A valet approached Ringo and Barbara, assuring them breathlessly their car would be arriving promptly. Ringo, though, would have none of it. “No, please. Go get his car first,” he said, gesturing toward me. I said, “No Ringo, that’s all right. You go. Just glad to help.” But Ringo insisted, in his trademark Liverpool accent, “No, you go first. We’d be ‘ere all night if it weren’t for you.” The valet did as Ringo instructed, my car rolled up and the valet opened my door. I smiled. Ringo smiled back. So did Barbara. And the night I met Ringo was complete. I drove off content with the knowledge I’d just met and helped a Beatle, ever cognizant of the fact that he and I had shared a moment in time, and had gotten by with a little help from our friends.
Thanks for reading and sharing...
It was a chance encounter in the early 90’s, at one of LA’s finest restaurants at the time, on La Cienega’s restaurant row. I’d gone there to dinner, as had Ringo and his wife, Barbara Bach. I ventured outside to the valet to get my car after dinner, and there they were: A distinguished and laid-back looking Ringo, with the ever-radiant Barbara on his arm, standing on the sidewalk with another two dozen patrons crowded around the valet station. “Wow, there’s Ringo “, I thought, followed quickly by, “How long’s it going to take to get my car”.
I ventured over to see what the hold-up was, and of course, to get a closer look at Ringo and Barbara. He’s a Beatle, after all. I was among greatness. Yet Ringo Starr was waiting politely for his car just like the rest of us. Stalled in the tiny alley which led to all of our cars, sat a small Fiat surrounded by a half-dozen valets huddled like Keystone Cops, wondering how they might move it. And looking on was Ringo, at the head of the line, a slight smile on his tastefully bearded face, wondering like the rest of the small crowd if he might ever get home that night.
If you know me, you know I could not let this stand…
Seems the car was stuck in gear, the steering wheel frozen and the key not moving. By this time the valets were trying to lift the car out of the way. But alas, cars, even small ones, are heavy. I walked up to the valet convention and said, “Let me give it a try.”
No. I didn’t lift the sports car. But having one of my own, I did climb in and started jiggling the key and the steering wheel, anything I could think of to get Fix It Again, Tony out of the way. The crowd grew. Then suddenly, the wheel gave way, the ignition turned and I fired up the car to the delight of Ringo and the rest, who applauded respectfully as I slid out of the driver’s seat. I have to admit, I was kind of proud of myself. A valet jumped in and raced the car up the tiny alley, a Pied Piper with valets running behind it, a sure sign that all of our cars had finally been freed and would soon be arriving shortly.
Nowadays Ringo may have a bit of a rep as a sort of rock star curmudgeon. Awhile back he let it be known he was a tad tired of all the queries about Beatledom he still receives daily. But on this night, he was ever the gentleman.
A valet approached Ringo and Barbara, assuring them breathlessly their car would be arriving promptly. Ringo, though, would have none of it. “No, please. Go get his car first,” he said, gesturing toward me. I said, “No Ringo, that’s all right. You go. Just glad to help.” But Ringo insisted, in his trademark Liverpool accent, “No, you go first. We’d be ‘ere all night if it weren’t for you.” The valet did as Ringo instructed, my car rolled up and the valet opened my door. I smiled. Ringo smiled back. So did Barbara. And the night I met Ringo was complete. I drove off content with the knowledge I’d just met and helped a Beatle, ever cognizant of the fact that he and I had shared a moment in time, and had gotten by with a little help from our friends.
Thanks for reading and sharing...
RSS Feed