A Paul McCartney in steel strums his guitar on Beatles-Platz in Hamburg, Germany.
They’re just steel silhouettes, but instantly recognizable, an iconic lineup of four figures striking familiar poses with their instruments. Revelers passing through this busy intersection on Hamburg’s so-called “Sinful Mile” gravitate toward them, posing for photographs alongside the Fab Four: John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison and a drummer that represents both Ringo Starr and original percussionist Pete Best.
“I was born in Liverpool, but I grew up in Hamburg,” Lennon once said, referring to the more than 300 nights the Beatles spent playing in clubs along the notorious Reeperbahn red-light district of this north German port city in the early 1960s.
This year marks the 50th anniversary of their most famous residency, or series of gigs, at the legendary Star-Club, which means that even more Beatles fans are flocking to the area than usual. And Beatles-Platz, a circular plaza designed to resemble an old vinyl record, with the steel statues standing to one side, is where they congregate. I’ve been listening to the Beatles since I was a child, their songs part of the soundtrack to my life, and joining the pilgrims at Beatles-Platz, I feel almost as if I’m meeting my heroes.
But instead of the Fab Four, I find myself drawn to a fifth statue that stands a few yards away, walking toward the others, bass guitar slung low. No visitors are clamoring to have their pictures taken beside this figure, which represents Stuart Sutcliffe, the band’s original bassist. Even here, attention eludes the lost Beatle. In case you haven’t heard of — or have forgotten about — him, Sutcliffe gave up his role in the band in 1961 to study art and live with his fiancee, the photographer Astrid Kirchherr, one of a number of young Hamburg artists called the Exi’s whom the band befriended.
I find the sight of his silhouette, standing on the fringes of the legendary lineup, oddly touching. It’s a snapshot of a life that took a tangent and met with tragedy: Sutcliffe would never see his former bandmates change the face of popular music, as he died of a brain hemorrhage in April 1962, aged just 22.
Just days after his death, the Star-Club opened a few yards from Beatles-Platz, on the colorful, bustling street called Grosse Freiheit. The remaining Liverpool lads were on the opening bill, still coping with the shock of their friend’s death. They played three long series of shows there throughout 1962, and those dates are now seen as the key turning point in the band’s development.
For Beatles fans like me, visiting the St. Pauli neighbourhood around the Reeperbahn is a powerfully evocative experience. A lot has changed in the past half-century, but I could still discern the last vestiges from the band’s time here. For starters, the area has retained its characteristic permissiveness. It’s still a wildly hedonistic street after dark, with crowds hopping from loud bars to gaudy strip clubs to lively music venues.
“It was always like that,” says Tony Sheridan, who was the first English musician to move to Hamburg in the summer of 1960 and who became a mentor to the five young men who arrived a few months later. (The Beatles’ first-ever recording was as Sheridan’s backup band on “My Bonnie,” released the following year.)
“In the old days, when you went off the Reeperbahn to the side streets, everything was gray, no color, no little bars,” he told me when I visited him at his country home north of Hamburg. “That was the charm of the Reeperbahn, because everywhere else there was nothing, they were still suffering from the effects of the war, and the only place to go to have a good time was St. Pauli.”
Eight days a week
Two blocks north of Beatles-Platz is the Indra, where the Beatles made their Hamburg debut on Aug. 17, 1960. Today, the building still hosts a music club; a plaque beside the door denotes its place in history. Now as then, the place suffers from being on the wrong end of the street, a block north of the main strip. This meant that the band played in front of small crowds, often no more than a dozen audience members. On the evening I visited, some middle-aged men were taking advantage of an open-mike night, playing jazzy soul to a mostly empty room; it gave me a good impression of what it might have been like for the Beatles as they played to dispiritingly small crowds.
The Indra is a pleasantly understated music hall, with a few framed posters harking back to the glory days of a half-century ago and inflatable dolls of the Fab Four hanging jauntily above the bar, an ever-present reminder that, no matter how hard the guys up on stage try to please, the place will always belong to the greatest act of all.
The Indra was run by a former circus performer named Bruno Koschmider, who hired the Beatles in an attempt to replicate the success he was enjoying with another club down the street. At the Kaiserkeller, Tony Sheridan and his band were thrilling young Hamburgers eager for new sounds. After 48 grueling consecutive nights of what was effectively paid practice sessions at the Indra, Koschmider moved the Liverpool five-piece to that same venue.
Today, the Kaiserkeller is more of a nightclub than a music venue, a dark, atmospheric basement space that hosts an eclectic range of music, from metal nights to, unsurprisingly, Beatles tribute bands. I had a fun night here with a soundtrack of ’90s rock and Britpop, featuring many bands that could be considered direct descendants of the Beatles. As I danced to some Blur and Oasis songs, it struck me that I was in the spot where the timeless template had originated — right over there, on that very stage in the corner.
A day in the life
During its first spell in Hamburg, the band lived in the Bambi Kino, a small cinema, also run by Koschmider, at 33 Paul Roosen Strasse, right at the top of Grosse Freiheit. This is where McCartney and Best got involved in a notorious condom-burning incident: The damage was minimal, but Koschmider conveniently used it to accuse the young men of arson and have them deported just as the band was on the verge of moving to a different club.
At first I struggled to find the old Bambi, until I realized that I was standing right beside it. The entrance to the old cinema is covered by heavy ivy, like a holy grotto, with leafy shadows dappling photos of the band and a small, weathered plaque announcing its brief habitation. A stenciled painting of Disney’s little deer decorates the garage door that was once the theater entrance.