The Harrison family lived in a small red-brick house in the Wavertree neighbourhood of Liverpool. The wavering trees, a type of trembling aspen, had grown there since time immemorial. The Harrisons were poor, and there were many mouths to feed. When the winter cold set in, the family squeezed into the kitchen to warm themselves around the stove. Their mother worked in retail, and their father was a steward on White Star Lines. Louise French found out she was pregnant with their fourth child while her husband was at sea. She waited anxiously for him to return, and wondered how they might pass the time quicker. She listened to a weekly show called Radio India, which played the music of sitars and tablas, hoping their mystical sounds would lull the baby in her belly.
George Harrison, the last of the litter, was born in 1943. Louise French was a doting mother, who wanted only the best for her children. She loved to sing, and her voice was well-known throughout Wavertree. When Louise had visitors over to their little house at 12 Arnold Grove, she shook the window panes. All she wanted was for her children to be happy. Ever since he was born, George had heard his mother sing. Even before he’d left the womb, he’d been imbued with the mystical sounds of India. He spent the first four years of his life living at 12 Arnold Grove, a semi-detached house in a cul-de-sac with outdoor toilets and a coal stove for heating. Then the family moved to a council flat at 25 Upton Green. It was time for little George to go to school and begin his education. The local school offered music classes, but Harrison was disappointed that they did not teach guitar.
One afternoon, the streets of Liverpool were quiet. Children were walking home from school, if they could not afford the bus. George had a bike, and pedalled at a gentle pace. It was not his way to try and show off just to impress the girls. Suddenly, a noise rang out over the street. It was music; different from the sounds of India, but just as infectious. These were not the sounds of sitars and tablas, nor were they made by the agile hands of George’s idol, Django Reinhardt. This was a booming voice and a jangling guitar, and a rhythm that took his breath away. It was a revelation, like a beam of light coming down from on high. George fell in love with that song. He stopped pedalling and listened to the music coming out of his neighbour’s window. He was infatuated. It was a revelation, a visitation; a sign from destiny. It was Elvis Presley, singing Heartbreak Hotel.
Although it's always crowded
You still can find some room
For broken hearted lovers
To cry there in their gloom
Be so, they'll be so lonely, baby
They get so lonely
They're so lonely, they could die
George knew now that he needed a guitar, and that his future belonged to rock ’n’ roll. At school he spent his days obsessively drawing pictures of guitars, until his notebooks were filled with cutaways and hollow-bodies, and he attended fewer and fewer lessons. He dreamed of a grand future spent playing on the stage, his hands conquering the world as they moved over the strings. Elvis Presley’s music pounded in his head, carrying him away. George’s father was worried, and felt these aspirations were unrealistic, to put it mildly. Yet despite his reticence, he eventually bought the lad a Dutch Egmond flat-top acoustic guitar, which according to Harold cost three pounds and ten shillings. Little George held the guitar with exquisite joy. In his room, Harold began to teach the boy. George styled his hair like Elvis, and started shaking his legs to the rhythms of rock ’n’ roll.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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