Tour Schedule
Greg Kihn is a rock star, seasoned radio host and author. Rubber Soul, his latest novel is inspired by intimate interviews that he conducted with Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, Pete Best, Yoko Ono and Patti Harrison. Though Rubber Soul is fiction, as Greg says it is “100% historically accurate” and an candid glimpse of the phenomenon that is The Beatles. Rubber Soul is a an innovation in the Rock Thriller genre, taking readers on a rollicking ride through The Beatles legacy from the early days in Liverpool to six sold out shows per night in Hamburg and full-fledged Beatlemania. Dust Bin Bob runs into some lads from Liverpool at his second hand shop on Penny Lane. The lads: John, Paul, George and Ringo and Dust Bin Bob become firm friends, sharing vinyl that will spark a revolution. Murder, mystery and Beatlemania mayhem ensues—with the boys narrowly avoiding an international incident and an attempted assassination. It’s the ultimate Beatles story that could have happened!
Rubber Soul by Greg Kihn
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Praise
“There’s no one more qualified to write a rock-and-roll novel than Greg Kihn. He’s the real deal and at his Kihntillating best in this book.” – Guy Kawasaki, former chief evangelist of Apple “Rubber Soul is a magical mystery tour de force by Greg Kihn, a rocker who obviously has a way with words as well as music.
His imagined story about the Beatles is fast-moving, full of twists and tension, and musical nuggets and insights. Great story-telling set to a Fab-four beat.” – Ben Fong Torres “Rubber Soul captures what Rock-n-Roll is all about – and Greg Kihn would certainly know!
This nearly-true story of the Beatles is pure magic and I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough.” – Eddie Money “Greg Kihn is the most compelling author who ever had a top five singing career. Rubber Soul is a fantastic story by Greg, with an historical back beat. I urge you not to miss this.” – Joan Jett
“I’m happy to report that Rubber Soul, the latest work by my pal Greg Kihn, has correct punctuation, complete sentences, even full paragraphs – some of the exact same literary devices that can be found in the greatest novels our culture has ever produced!
It’s also written in English, which happens to be one of my very favorite languages.” – “Weird Al” Yankovic “While the RIAA may not be able to certify Kihn’s work with a gold disc, fans of Kihn and The Beatles, as well as those who long for the simpler yet magical time of the 1960’s will thoroughly enjoy and fall in love with Rubber Soul. They certainly don’t write ‘em like this anymore.” – Chris Shapiro, RetroPulse
Author Greg Kihn
NBC called Greg Kihn “Rock’s True Renaissance Man” and for good reason. As part of the eponymous band he has: toured the globe, had hit records, been inducted into the San Jose Rock Hall Of Fame, opened for the Rolling Stones and jammed with Bruce Springsteen. You may have heard of his smash worldwide #1 hit “Jeopardy” and “The Breakup Song”, not to mention the parody written by Weird Al Yankovic. Being a famous and successful rock star is only one part of the mosaic that is Greg’s story. In the 90s Greg poured his passion for lyrics into writing fiction—publishing four novels, one of which “Horror Show” was nominated for the prestigious Bram Stoker Award for Best First Novel. In this vein, Greg merged his love of writing with Rock and Roll and wrote “Rubber Soul”—a unique rock murder mystery featuring The Beatles. The inspiration for this novel came from Greg’s interviews with Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, Pete Best, Yoko Ono and Patti Harrison. In this way Greg gained exclusive access to the biggest band ever to exist. “Rubber Soul” is a work of fiction, but it is 100% historically accurate and a story that only rock veteran Greg Kihn could have written.
Blog Tour Giveaway $25 Amazon Gift Card or Paypal Cash
Ends 2/16/14 Open only to those who can legally enter, receive and use an Amazon.com Gift Code or Paypal Cash. Winning Entry will be verified prior to prize being awarded. No purchase necessary.
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Excerpt #1
Bobby Dingle, AKA Dust Bin Bob, runs a stall for his father’s second hand shop at the Penny Lane Flea Market in Liverpool. Bobby loves American R&B records and collects them from the merchant marines returning from America to Albert Dock in Liverpool. He displays them in at the Flea Market. One day he meets some amazing individuals: Around the corner came two leather-jacketed young men, each with a pink-tipped cigarette jutting from his lips, and each with the swagger of someone who didn't give a damn. Two James Deans. Teddy boys. They stopped in front of Bobby.
"What's this, then?" the first one said with a thick scouse accent. The second shrugged, looking at the prayer rug and ostrich feathers. "A mysterious visitor from the east." They eyed the records. "Hold on. What's all this?" Bobby noticed their hair; greasy, swept back, just spilling over their collars. They looked a bit scruffy with uneven sideboards and tight stovepipe trousers.
The first one picked up a record and read the label. "Chuck Berry!" "Chuck Berry? No! It can't be! Let me see that!" "Blimey! Little Richard! Bo Diddley! Where did you get these?" Bobby smiled, letting the slight gap between his front teeth show. "I have a special source, straight from America. Those are brand new releases. You can't get ‘em anywhere else." "Do you have any idea what you have here?" Bobby nodded. "Actually, yes, I do." "It's the bloody Holy Grail."
The two young men exchanged astonished glances. "Are these for sale?" "Yes, they are." The two Teddy Boys shifted on their feet. "I'll tell you the truth, mate. We're in a beat group, and this is just the type of music we do. You know, American rock and roll. I'm John and this is Stu." John stuck out a hand. There was something in the way he stood that suggested a coolness far beyond anything Bobby had known. Bobby accepted the hand.
"I'm Bobby. Pleased to meet you. This is my father's stall. He's got a secondhand store in Merseyside. We specialize in previously owned merchandise. A little of this, a bit of that; something that might have mistakenly wound up in the dust bin but is still quite serviceable." John barked out a laugh, then slipped into a spastic impersonation. He looked like a juvenile delinquent Quasimodo. "Dust Bin Bob! Dust Bin Bob! Your coming was foretold to us!" Bobby eyed John. Cheeky, he thought, very cheeky.
"So, you're in a beat group, eh? Are you professional?" John nodded vigorously. "Definitely professional. Oh, yes. The talk of the town, we are." "So you must have lots of money to buy records." John spat. "This is Liverpool, man. Look around you. The place is a bloody poorhouse. Nobody's got any money, least of all the beat groups." Bobby shrugged.
"If you don't have money, then you can't buy records." John said, "I was wondering... You think it might be possible to just hear 'em?" Bobby took the Chuck Berry record out of John's hand. "This is not a lending library. Why should I let you hear these beauties?" "Because we need the music, man. We're going to conquer the world, you'll see. To the toppermost of the poppermost, and beyond. Bigger than Elvis." Nobody laughed. John pawed at the cracked pavement with the pointed toe of his winklepicker shoe.
"You aim to learn the songs in one sitting? That doesn't seem possible." John smirked. "We're good." Bobby turned to Stu. "Is he always this cheeky?" "It's worse than you think," Stu said. Bobby rubbed his nose and looked the musicians over again. "You say you play the music of Chuck Berry?" "Like the man himself." "Little Richard?" "Mother's milk to us." "That's bloody amazing. In all of Liverpool, Dame Fortune has sent me you. So if I let you listen to these records, what's in it for me?" John hunched over, playing the spastic again. He twisted his face and spoke in a crone's voice. "What's in it for me? For me? Something for me, sir?" To Bobby, John's clowning mocked everything he stood for as an independent businessman.
Bobby frowned, suddenly a shade more indignant. "That's right. Something for me. Is that so wrong? Bloody hell. It's a hard life down here in the fleas. A fellah's gotta eat." John straightened with a wry smile and a wink. "You drive a hard bargain, Dust Bin Bob. How about a lifetime pass to all of our gigs, forever. That's gotta be worth a fortune." Bobby snorted. "How about half a bar. From each of you." “Bloody embarrassing, that is. You don't want the lifetime pass?" "No offense, but... It can't be worth much." John looked wounded. Bobby sighed. "OK, I guess I'll take it along with the money." John brightened.
"Deal!" "I'll need that in writing." "Of course, of course. You won't regret this, Dust Bin Bob."
Excerpt #2:
The Ed Sullivan Theater on West 53rd Street only held seven hundred people but the show had received about fifty thousand applications for tickets. Cops lined the street in front. Bobby thought the Beatles were keeping remarkably calm. Ed Sullivan himself greeted the band, waving a telegram from Elvis Presley.
“He wishes you luck,” Ed said proudly. “Elvis and the Colonel both wish you success in America.” All four band members nodded, impressed that the King of Rock and roll would acknowledge their presence. Bobby stayed out of the way and accompanied George’s sister Louise to her seat. Bobby saw a dense crowd of teenage girls squirming in their seats.
The atmosphere crackled with electricity. TV cameras waited. At last the stiff, uncomfortable image of Ed Sullivan appeared. After a rehearsal John had said Ed walked like he had a pole up his ass. Bobby could now corroborate this although no pole was visible. The red lights above each camera flickered on; the time was at hand. Ed welcomed the viewers, made a few remarks, then introduced a brief commercial.
A minute later he returned to a breathless audience. He must have known his words would go down in history, yet he rushed through them in the excitement of the moment. “Now, yesterday and today, our theater has been jammed with newspapermen and hundreds of photographers from all over the nation, and these veterans agree with me that the city has never witnessed the excitement stirred by these youngsters from Liverpool who call themselves the Beatles. Now, tonight you’ll be twice entertained by them, right now, and in the second half of our show. Ladies and gentlemen, the Beatles!”
Paul counted off the song and went into the first line of All My Lovin’. As soon as the band joined in, shrill keening filled the air. The sound shook the theater walls, echoing across America and raised the hair on the back of Bobby’s neck. Hysterical screaming drowned out the music washing over them like a sonic tsunami. Louise clutched Bobby’s arm. The response to the Beatles was thunderous. The manic behavior of the audience frightened Bobby.
Faces around him seemed twisted and desperate. The screaming rang in his ears. Tears rolled down the cheeks of the female audience members. Bobby found himself swept up in it and realized he too was shouting at the top of his lungs. The Beatles seemed above it all, delivering their music to the frenzied masses in a thoroughly professional manner. The harmonies in All My Lovin’ were perfect; the vocal blend was as natural and smooth as the Everly Brothers. Bobby was impressed that the group could play that flawlessly with relentless screaming in their ears. All My Lovin’ ended and Till There Was You started with another Paul vocal. Bobby thought it odd that they would follow All My Lovin’ with another ballad sung by Paul but realized it was probably a group decision with Brian Epstein and Ed Sullivan approving the choice.
The third song, She Loves You, galvanized the audience and caused the greatest reaction of the set. Bobby considered She Loves You the ultimate Beatles song. Its “yeah, yeah, yeah” chorus and high pitched “whooo” at the end of the verses made it instantly recognizable. When it ended the theater seemed to deflate. When the Beatles left the stage a huge vacuum sucked up the atmosphere. Bobby looked at Louise. She blinked unbelieving. “Good Lord. I don’t believe it.” “It’s beyond anything we could imagine,” Bobby said.
They hardly noticed the next act, a man in a tuxedo doing card tricks. Bobby’s mind went back to the Beatles. He wondered what they thought of it. They were used to British Beatlemania, but this was… well, this was out of control. Bobby wondered where it would all lead. The cast of the Broadway show Oliver followed, but Bobby couldn’t focus on the song. Frank Gorshin did impersonations of celebrities Bobby never heard of, but Bobby enjoyed the man’s elastic face and wild body language. Tessie O’Shea stood larger than life, strumming her banjo and belting out show tunes, but it seemed boring and ordinary to Bobby. The Beatles made everybody sound boring and ordinary. An odd comedic team did a skit about a boss and his secretary, and Bobby found himself glancing at the clock, counting the minutes before the Beatles returned.
At last they were back, and the screaming began anew. “One! Two! Three! Fah!” Paul barked the count and Bobby instantly recognized the guitar intro to I Saw Her Standing There. George played his dark brown Gretsch Country Gentleman guitar held high, picking the notes to the solo with a flourish. Bobby wondered why he wasn’t using the black Rickenbacker he’d bought in St. Louis. John was playing his. Bobby imagined the matching black guitars would have looked cool on television. I Want To Hold Your Hand finished the set and caused the audience to expend what little
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