Lenin and McCartney

Mike remembers times back in the USSR with The Beatles

The Baltika passenger ship operated by the Baltic Shipping Company of the USSR

I remember it as a warm August morning. The sky above was a brilliant canvas of cerulean blue, adorned by a few wisps of cotton-white clouds, as our ship sliced through the calm, glassy sea.

On the other hand, it may have been a bit on the cool side, overcast with a slight swell - or something in between. It was a long time ago - 1966 to be precise and memory can play tricks. But I’ve checked the details of this story with my mother, who was there at the time, and our recollections coincide. She also added “do you remember that time we met Jimi Hendrix in a hotel in Carlisle?” Probably best if we leave that particular story for another time. So, where were we? Ah yes, on a ship…

My parents and I were on the deck of a Soviet passenger ship - The Baltika - on the final leg of its journey from London to Leningrad (today, St Petersburg). On board was a small group of British tourists, then somewhat of a novelty in the USSR, and Soviets on their way home. The day before we had called into Helsinki for an afternoon’s sightseeing and to pick up our final passengers - a lively group of Finnish students who sat in groups around the deck, smoking, laughing and enjoying music on their portable record player.

Over breakfast two of the Finns sat at our table and explained to us how a long weekend break in Leningrad was good value, especially if you took records to sell. According to them, western records were not banned, it was just that shops didn’t sell them, but a blind eye was turned to informal trading in them.

We were an hour or so away from our destination when a voice boomed out over the ship’s PA system, first in Russian then in English. It said something along the lines of: “In a moment a submarine of the Soviet navy will surface alongside us. Under no circumstances must passengers take photographs.” Within minutes most of the passengers were on the deck, cameras at the ready.

The Finns had something else at the ready. As the submarine’s conning tower broke through the water, they cranked up the volume on the record player. The record was number one that week in the UK and in most countries across the world - and our Finnish friends had a couple of box loads of it with them. We all knew the words, and by the time it got to the chorus even the Soviet crew members who were there to persuade us to put our cameras away were joining in.

We all live in a Yellow Submarine, Yellow Submarine, Yellow Submarine…

Our Soviet holiday took place just weeks after England had won the 1966 World Cup final, an event celebrated as much there as here, less because England had won and more because Germany had lost. The war remained a raw memory. I remember a taxi driver practicing his English on us by reciting the names of the England squad to us, to which he added “George Beatle and Ringo Beatle” at the end. I wasn’t aware that Alf Ramsey had half the fabs on the subs bench.

Two decades later in the days of Gorbachev, I was back in the USSR. Much had changed in the intervening years, but their love for The Beatles remained. This time it was a disco in a Moscow hotel where they got everyone on their feet, and I had a conversation with our tour guide on which was best - Abbey Road or Sergeant Pepper? We naturally agreed that it was the White Album.

Writing in The Guardian newspaper a few years ago, Ed Vulliamy argued that The Beatles meant far more to youth in the USSR than they did in Britain or America - they expressed difference and identity more than The Stones or The Who ever could. He quotes Russian rocker Sasha Lipnitsky, who insisted: “The Beatles brought us the idea of democracy. For many of us, it was the first hole in the iron curtain.” On my last afternoon ever in the Soviet Union, a chance encounter echoed this sentiment.

One two occasions during this visit I had been approached by people on the street offering to buy my jeans. Much like Beatles records, Levis were not exactly banned, you just couldn’t buy them, so they were traded “informally”. I turned down these offers politely. Had I accepted, I wasn’t sure how the arrangement was to proceed. Like most people, I don’t carry around a spare pair of trousers in case I have to suddenly sell the pair I’m wearing. Maybe I should.

On my final afternoon in Leningrad, a man approached us asking where we were from. He worked at the university and enjoyed practicing his English on visiting tourists. We had a short convivial chat, shook hands and he wished us a safe journey home. Seconds later he called back to us. “Aha,” I thought, “here comes the trousers question.”

“I am a huge fan, like many Soviet citizens are, of your Sherlock Holmes,” the man explained. “I am curious, do you know what has become of the house at 221 Baker Street?”

As it happened I knew that the Abbey National Building Society had its headquarters on what would have been 221 Baker Street (it was the 1980s, everyone played Trivial Pursuit and you just knew this stuff). So I told him and added “which is just up the road on Baker Street from where The Beatles had their shop”. At this he appeared to go slightly misty eyed: “yes, yes, The Beatles. They were wonderful. We all love them.”

Why, I asked, was there this love for them and their music? “Deep sadness and great joy” came the reply. In his view, no other group expressed both in their music like The Beatles, and this runs deep with Russian culture. “And of course,” he continued “they were democratic socialists.”

Deep sadness, great joy and democratic socialism. Well, it worked for me.