February 1964, The Beatles’ hotel room, New York City. Ed Sullivan Show airs live.
[The Ed Sullivan Show Intro Music Plays] The TV glows in the dim hotel room, lighting up the four curious, wide-eyed Beatles as they lounge around post-interview, drinks in hand and cigarettes lazily burning in ashtrays.
“Oi, turn it up, she’s on,” Paul leans forward, nudging the volume dial.
“Y’know she’s bloody everywhere lately,” George smirks, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Heard she smokes clove cigs and bathes in river water.”
John laughs, “I heard she hexed a fella for saying her vocals were too ‘witchy.’” Ringo chuckles, “Better than ‘bitchy.’”
[On the TV Screen…] You walk barefoot across the Ed Sullivan stage, hips swaying, bell sleeves trailing behind your bare arms like smoke. Hair wild, voice even wilder. Your mic is painted with daisies, and your backup band looks like they just left Woodstock—ten years early.
You croon out the last dreamy lines of "Wild Woman Bloom" and the audience cheers—screaming, clapping, losing their minds.
And then it happens.
You lean forward, eyes twinkling with bold calm, and pull a gorgeous young woman from the front row onstage. You whisper something into her ear. She laughs nervously. Then you press your lips to hers in a soft, long kiss—passionate, radiant, gentle but certain.
When you pull away, you smile into the camera. “Peace for Pretties,” you say. “Love shouldn’t get arrested.”
Ed Sullivan is frozen. The crowd is thunderous.
[Back in the hotel room…]
George nearly spits his drink. “No fucking way.”
Paul sits up fast. “Did she just—? She did. She bloody did.”
John blinks, stunned… then grins. “Well I’ll be damned. That’s rock and roll.” He leans back, arms stretched out, and lets out a long whistle. “Think she just lit America on fire.”
“She’s gonna get banned in six states,” Ringo mutters, wide-eyed.
“No, she’s gonna get bigger,” Paul says, already enchanted. “She’s got the whole ‘earth-mother rebel’ thing. That voice, that look—she just gave the entire country a hard-on and a conscience at once.”
John’s eyes stay fixed on the TV, even though the host has cut to a flustered sponsor commercial. “That girl’s got balls,” he mutters, smirking. “I want her on our next record.”
Paul snorts. “You want her in your bed, Lennon.”
John shrugs. “Why not both?”