How The Beatles’ Manila concert foresaw Martial Law
It’s an omen.
Nobody was at the backseat of the limousine that parked along the Malacañang driveway. Cameramen were doomed because not everybody gets to be on the frontline to meet the greatest rock band in the world, and excited because this, right here, was breaking news. That day, the country was watching a telenovela. “They’ve let me down,” Mrs. Marcos’ oversized bouffant and ironed terno dazzled on the television screen of John, Paul, George, and Ringo’s Suite 402. A missed party ain’t supposed to be a big deal, they thought. But to the presidential family, it was.
The invite was arranged by The Beatles’ promoter, Cavalcade Promotions, during their tour stop in Japan. Mrs. Marcos wanted to “personally welcome them to our country together with my family and friends who are also big fans.” Without any R.S.V.P. from the side of the Fab Four, preparations went on. Mrs. Marcos was known for throwing grand parties that they cannot wait for an invitee’s response. Besides, she’s hosted for Castro, Hussein, Gaddafi, Mao, and Reagan. Surely, no one, not even a band, would dare ditch her invite.
It was all a miscommunication
On the morning of July 4, a few hours after their first sold out gig at the Rizal Memorial Stadium, their Manila Hotel suite received a knock, presumably another fan asking for a hug. “Come on, you’re supposed to be at the Palace,” George recalls seeing two armed men expectantly looking at them. They turned on the TV, and George recalled that significant moment in an interview: “There it was, live from the palace. There was a huge line of people either side of the long marble corridor with kids in their best clothing and the TV commentator saying: And they’re still not here yet. The Beatles are supposed to be here.” Again, The Beatles weren’t able to R.S.V.P. because they weren’t even aware that they were supposed to be in Malacañang at 11 for a courtesy call. The case was a matter of miscommunication among their side, Cavalcade Promotions, and the Palace. But Mrs. Marcos, her family and 400 other elite guests were there, the media was already holding a full coverage, and an empty limousine was waiting downstairs. The British Embassy eventually had to step in and call the band’s manager, Brian Epstein. Despite warning the consequences brought by not showing up at Malacañang, Mr. Epstein came to their defense. Ever since a crazy fan got out of a mob during a Washington DC courtesy call and snipped an inch long of Ringo’s mop cut, Epstein had been peacefully declining diplomatic meetings for the band. Besides, “You don’t get many days off,” Paul began, “You’re not stopping in some royal reception.” It’s not surprising that this would come from people who spearheaded a counterculture. More than being chart-toppers and a source of massive fan hysteria, The Beatles represented defiance and clamor, a reckoning force of the 60s youth culture recovering from the silence brought by the war. They were known for occasionally filling interviews with sarcasm, an “untidy stage presentation” when performing, and for opposing to play for a racially segregated crowd in one of their Florida concerts. Their liberal nature cared less about tradition, reputation, or imposition of authority. Historian Ambeth Ocampo, his 2002 book Dirty Dancing; Looking Back 2, notes Paul’s words about the Malacañang incident: “We came here to sing. We didn’t come here to drink tea and shake hands.” This strong “I’m my own person,” energy caused them much trouble on their most memorable last 24 hours in the Philippines.
“You don’t get many days off,” Paul said. “You’re not stopping in some royal reception.”
The band called in for breakfast the next morning, but elicited no response from the hotel staff. Even as they brought down their luggages and instruments, the lobby was a ghost town. Some stories said they had to call a taxi just to get to the airport. Things didn’t get any better when they arrived at the airport. The escalators were turned off and again, no assistance was given, so they had to climb up the stairs with all their bags and instruments. The “YOU’RE LUVERLY LENNON” sign and the 10,000 that welcomed them when they first landed in Manila were replaced with a mob that booed and physically attacked them. Epstein even got his ankle sprained. It took a long while before the band eventually boarded their British Airways aircraft, kissing its seats, ready to leave behind the tragedy that was the Philippines. And as any cupcake was incomplete without its icing, Esptein had to surrender the money they got from their Manila concert before gaining the permission to leave.
Ringo, John, Paul, and George departed Philippine territory on July 5, and everything was back to normal. One thing’s for sure: to be a Beatle fan was either a blessing or a curse in 1966. Your idols were a bunch of punks with no courtesy. The balls they had to snub the president’s wife! They were kids who had to be taught a lesson. It was right to take away their earnings, and good that they were beaten up so they had a taste of what it felt like when one tried to make themselves look clever than they really were.
Six years later, on the 23rd of September, 1972, President Ferdinand Marcos announced on every television in the country, “I have proclaimed Martial Law in accordance with the powers vested in the president by the Constitution of the Philippines.” He was nodding with dictatorial conviction, commencing direct military control over a nation still fragile from war. The Beatles were in utmost luck to have gotten away. They were lucky to have a homeland that welcomed them with open arms, a culture that urged them to freely express their artistry — birthing albums that probed their period’s political and social turmoil (Their song “Revolution” talks about overthrowing a regime).
How to get away with Marcos
For the Filipino fans, The Beatles’ last day became their everyday life for the next years under the Marcos administration. The Beatles weren’t served breakfast? Almost half of the population would wake up uncertain of how long can they hold an empty stomach, or worried for their future the moment their contractual job ceases. The band had to carry all their stuff? Families of the construction workers buried upon the collapse of Mrs. Marcos’ ineffable Manila Film Center carried the cumbersome longing for justice for their deceased fathers. Epstein sprained his ankle? Captured, activists weren’t able to dodge against the tortures they received. Cigarette burns, trash, rags, and plastic where shoved into their respective body parts. The Beatles had to climb the stairs? The females felt human fingers and metal guns climb up their vaginas. Their concert money was taken away? Filipinos were robbed. Government funds were spent on ill-gotten wealth, resulting to a $ 26.7-B foreign debt left unpaid ‘till today. The Beatles didn’t “honor” nor respect the Marcoses? The media was controlled. Anybody who dishonored or questioned authority found themselves inhaling their last breath. They didn’t have any manager or assistants to speak for them — the Filipinos did not have a voice at all.
But Mrs. Marcos loves the Fab Four
“I would never dream of hurting the world’s number one band.” This was coming from the same person who called herself the Mother of the Filipino people. Mrs. Marcos got to sit with writer Danee Samonte for an October 9, 2011 article in a local newspaper, The Philippine Star. “Whatever motivated the people to treat them that way was not my doing.” Hearing about the commotions at the airport, she recalled rushing there to have it stopped. Was she really late, that she was unable to stop The Beatles from giving away their Manila earnings? Who bore possession over those earnings, and where did they go? If none of those doings were pointed by the Marcoses, who then prompted the respective managements of the Manila Hotel and the Manila International Airport to provide such treatment for the band? No one else but an outside authority could urge two separate managements to move homogeneously. There had to be an external force for such causality.
“They’ve let me down,” Mrs. Marcos exclaimed. The Filipinos were hooked. This had beaten all the sampalan (slapping) moments in teleseryes, as the First family and their guests were slapped of embarrassment. The Filipinos were busy either loving or hating The Beatles, disregarding an important detail that possibly defined the country’s history: it was an omen — a forewarning of the militaristic government the Filipino people were to endure. Fast forward to the Martial Law years, they may recall the eventful visit of The Beatles to the Philippines as if it were yesterday, when “all their troubles seemed so far away.”
The Beatles were right, it only seemed to be far away, but trouble was right there, on TV.
