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Touring was killing the Beatles by 1966. Perhaps not literally, but that seemed like less of a guarantee with each passing day. A trip to Asia that July ended with a frightening incident in the Philippines, when an inadvertent snub of the dictatorial first family provoked a nationwide turn against the foursome. Their entire police detail was suddenly withdrawn and the Beatles were left to defend themselves against a hoard of angry nationalists who manhandled them all the way to the airport. Only after being stripped of concert proceeds were they permitted to leave the country.
Following the harrowing ordeal, no one was particularly thrilled about having to hit the road again for a U.S. tour the following month. "We're going to have a couple of weeks to recuperate before we go and get beaten up by the Americans," George Harrison cracked with more than a touch of resentment. The off-the-cuff joke turned to a horrifying reality when a supposedly anti-religious statement made my John Lennon ignited a firestorm among Bible-toting zealots south of the Mason-Dixon line. They torched Beatles albums, boycotted songs and unleashed a torrent of death threats. Fresh bullet holes on the fuselage of the band's plane cleared up any doubts: They were in harm's way.
But it wasn't just the physical danger. The Beatles were dying as musicians. Playing for a crowd had once been their lifeblood, but fame had robbed them of everything that made it joyful and fulfilling. The sporting arenas were too big and the screams of an adoring audience were too loud for the 100-watt Vox amplifiers to manage. Stadium rock was in its infancy, and even basic equipment like foldback speakers had yet to be invented. Unable to hear themselves, their musicianship began to atrophy.
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