Chris often said that he didn't know how anybody survived touring before the invention of the VCR, and Lance could see his point. Plus, as Joey stated, Chris was almost old enough to remember life without VCRs. Which led to scuffling and Chris' shouts (muffled by a headlock) of "oh! you are so fucking wit-TY, Junior Soprano."
They really were useful, though, videos. On the bus, when you'd had enough of everybody, and didn't want to hide in your bunk, you could pop in a movie and pretend you were someplace else for a moment. Someplace where you weren't having to shove Justin's smelly socks off of every surface, and where JC wasn't constantly bitching about the state of the bathroom. And then of course, Justin, or JC, or someone would sit down with you quietly, and get into the movie too, and you'd remember that you really loved these guys, and you liked touring.
The best moments were the ones where everyone got into it, and you could say afterwards, "remember when we watched 'Star Wars' that time in Munich", or "remember the night we showed Justin the naked girls?" Joey had shown up that night with an armful of soft-core porny comedies full of breasts and butts, and announced that it was time for Justin, who had just quit touring with his mother, to get some eye candy. And they had giggled and snorted soda through their noses, until Justin, who was in some ways pretty sheltered, stopped blushing. Later on, watching him deal gracefully with the girls who were so eager, always panting and available, Lance knew that night spent viewing Wild Party Weekend and Freshmen, Get Ready! had helped somehow. But then, Joey and Justin had always had a sort of bond; it was forged on their first tour. Someone had stocked the bus with Disney classics (in deference to Justin's tender years), and the two of them spent hours sniffling together as they watched Bambi and Dumbo and Old Yeller; Justin trying to hide his tears, Joey crying as unashamedly as he laughed.
Some movies acheived the status of ritual. At some point in every tour, usually near the beginning, they would all flop down in one of the hotel rooms and watch A Hard Day's Night and Help! It was a tradition started, all unknowingly, by Justin's mother--a die-hard Beatles fan, she had given them copies of the films. Justin had grown up watching them, and knew them better than the family videos of birthdays and Christmases. At first, they were simply good movies, fun to watch--funny, with great music. They got to know the films so well they could say the dialogue in unison, and Chris would show off the perfection of his Liverpool accent.
As their fame grew, and their audiences screamed louder, and the crowds of fans became simultaneously heady and frightening, those films acquired a new resonance. "It's not Beatlemania," JC would say in interviews, when asked about their fans, but Lance noticed that he studied A Hard Day's Night like it contained the key to the mysteries of the universe. Chris would watch both films, over and over, rapt. Lance turned to ask him something once, during Help!, and caught him with an expression he sometimes wore onstage--head back, eyes almost closed. Lance had seen Chris look like that when he dropped to his knees onstage as they were finishing their encore, on nights when every note and step had been perfect; on nights when Lance knew he would never love anyone, even his future children, as much as he loved his bandmates.
One snowy night in Denver, Chris knocked on his hotel room door, and when he opened it, waved a videotape in front of his eyes. The others had gone out clubbing, but Lance had a project he was working on, and Chris was fighting off a cold.
"What's up?" Lance said with resignation. He had known that Chris wouldn't last a whole evening alone in his room unless he was in a coma.
"I got it! I asked the concierge to see if they could find it for us, and here it is, bay-bee!" He kept waving the tape in a way that made it impossible to read the label. Lance grabbed his wrist, which felt slightly hot and dry.
"Let It Be," he read aloud. The title was hand-lettered on the plain black plastic case. Lance raised his eyebrows questioningly at Chris, and decided to force him back into bed. Which was why, five minutes later, he found himself sitting on Chris' bed while Chris slumped against him as they watched a documentary about the Beatles.
"Supposed to be really good," Chris assured him.
It was clearly shot some time after Help! The four band members looked older. "What year was this?" he asked.
Chris didn't drag his eyes away from the screen, where Paul and Ringo were arriving at a recording studio. "1969," he said.
So, five years. Five years had passed from the time they had been filmed frolicking in the Bahamas, and playing in the snow of the Swiss Alps.
John and George showed up. A woman he vaguely recognized as Yoko Ono appeared briefly. He really didn't know anything about documentaries, so it was hard to say if this was a good one. What was clear to him was that it was sad. The Beatles looked like hostile, disheveled strangers. They seemed barely able to stand being in the same room together, let alone speaking to one another. They made half-hearted attempts at rehearsal. Watching it was as painful as being forced to bear witness to someone else's sordid and petty family squabbles, the kind that ride the surface of years of deep resentment. It was also like seeing a car accident; you could not look away.
Chris was very quiet. Lance didn't move, wondering if he had fallen asleep.
The scene changed from the recording studio interior. There were tight, claustrophobic shots of people climbing a staircase, and then emerging onto the flat roof of a building. There were instruments and mics set up on the roof; the band members began fiddling with them. It was sort of a sunny day, but clearly cold; they were wearing coats. Suddenly, they began to play, really play, and the bad feeling of the past hour fell away. Lance felt something ease inside him. John and Paul smiled at one another. The people who had come up to the rooftop with them applauded the first song. They kept singing and playing.
There were shots of neighboring rooftops; young women in office clothes and men in suits were standing on them, or leaning out of windows, craning to see. There were shots of the street below; cars stopped, people standing on the sidewalks, listening, staring up. Smiling. The band kept playing. Then, like a discordant note, a shot of policemen, knocking on the door of the building. Opening the door, talking to people, and going up to the roof, where they stood grimly by, waiting as the Beatles played.
Too much disruption--business going on here, sir. Too much noise--did you have a permit? Too dangerous.
The Beatles finished their last song. When it was over, John drawled into his mic,
"Thank-you on behalf of the group and ourselves, and I hope we passed the audition."
They walked away from the instruments and the frame froze. Lance didn't need the printed words to tell him it was the last time they ever played in public together. It was clear in every line of their bodies in the frozen image. He looked down at Chris. Chris was crying.
Lance had never seen Chris cry--everyone else, but not Chris. He cautiously lifted his arm and put it around Chris' shoulders. "Hey," he said. "Hey, now." Chris pulled his knees up and bent forward to touch his forehead to them. He was still eerily quiet. Lance knelt up and wrapped his arms around Chris as he huddled in on himself, and rocked them both back and forth.
"It won't be us," he said.
Chris lifted his face. "Why?" he asked, "why not?"
Lance was momentarily at a loss. Why not? when the band that pretty much had a lock on pop immortality had gone down in anger and litigation and ultimately, in death?
"We'll end, one of these days. But not that way," he said finally. "Because we're all in love with one another." If Chris thought the phrasing of that was strange, he didn't comment. Besides, it's true, Lance thought. And he felt better, not because it changed anything, or guaranteed anything, but because it always made him feel better to say true things out loud.
Lance rewound the tape and turned off the tv. They lay down together on the bed like two spoons. Chris held Lance's arm over his stomach. "Sleep," said Lance. "We'll do something else tomorrow."
"no more videos," Chris muttered.
"No," Lance agreed. "We'll listen to music, instead."