Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!, page 7
As it happened, however, the Beatles wouldn’t be around for the record’s release. A week after the session, their engagement at the Top Ten concluded, and like it or not, they were on their way back to Liverpool.
Chapter 5
THE TURNING POINT
When the Beatles returned home in 1961, they were surprised to discover that the entire rock ’n roll scene had changed. Other bands, they learned, had bought into their renegade attitude. The music was loud, in-your-face loud, the stage presence disorderly and impolite. Anyone who disapproved could get stuffed, as far as the fans cared.
Without much ado, the Beatles took over their old starring role at the Cavern, where Bob Wooler relentlessly plugged their new single with Tony Sheridan, “My Bonnie.” “Buy the record, folks,” he’d implore between songs. “Make sure you ask for it at your favorite record shop.”
In Liverpool, that meant NEMS—the North End Music Shop—which had a record department that was unmatched in its diverse selection, thanks to the exuberance of its demanding manager, Brian Epstein. Brian had little in common with the teenagers who infested his father’s store like crows. Although he was only six years older than John Lennon, Brian was a gentleman. He wore immaculately tailored suits, spoke the King’s English with a crisp, polished accent, and absolutely hated rock ’n roll. In fact, he loved serious music—theater, opera, and symphony—and lived for classical composers like Beethoven and Mozart. Even so, based on his efforts, “NEMS became the most important record outlet in Liverpool, if not in the whole north of England,” according to a colleague. And because there was no local radio, if kids wanted to hear the latest rock ’n roll, they had to come to NEMS. For a teenager in Liverpool, NEMS was also the pipeline for reliable information. Someone hanging out there always knew what was going on. And if all else failed, you could always go there and pick up a copy of Mersey Beat.
Interior of a record shop, 1965. © HULTON-DEUTSCH COLLECTION/CORBIS
Mersey Beat was the brainchild of John’s art school friend Bill Harry. A graphic artist with a passion for homemade magazines, Harry scrounged £50 from a friend and persuaded his girlfriend to leave her accounting job in order to crank out a magazine devoted to the music scene in Liverpool. From its first issue on July 6, 1961, Mersey Beat caught on with the local teenagers. Unfortunately, most newsstands and bookshops took only one or two copies to sell. It was an altogether different story at NEMS, however. Bill met with Brian Epstein and recalled that “straightaway, he agreed to take a dozen copies.”
A week later, when Bill came to collect the money for those issues, Brian told him, “I can’t understand it. They sold out in a day. Next time, I’ll take twelve dozen copies.”
The front page of the second edition was devoted to the breaking story BEATLES SIGN RECORDING CONTRACT! accompanied by one of Astrid’s photos of the band. Eventually Brian got around to the question that would change everything. Sitting owl-eyed across from Bill Harry, he held up a copy of MerseyBeat and wondered, “What about these Beatles?” He wanted to know everything: who they were, where they were from, what they sounded like, when they worked.
A month or two later, interrupting a routine inventory at NEMS, Brian confronted his colleague Alistair Taylor. “Do you remember a record by a band called the Beatles?” he asked out of the blue. Taylor had indeed. “My Bonnie” enjoyed terrific sales and was constantly on reorder. “They’re playing at this place called the Cavern,” Brian said. “We ought to go see them.”
No one was more surprised than Alistair Taylor when Brian suggested they see the Beatles. “We both detested pop music,” he recalled. “Even though we’d sold all those records [of “My Bonnie”], neither of us played it, nor particularly liked it.” And Brian had no idea how to get to the Cavern, even though it was just two hundred yards from NEMS. When they got inside, they were shocked. “The place was packed and steam was rolling down the walls. The music was so loud we couldn’t hear ourselves think. We were both in suits and ties, everyone was staring at us. We were very self-conscious.”
Brian and Alistair took seats near the back and sat stiffly, with their arms folded across their chests. The Beatles, they thought, were shocking, disgraceful. “They could barely play,” Alistair noted, “and they were deafening and so unprofessional—laughing with the girls, smoking onstage, and sipping from Cokes during their act. But absolutely magic! The vibe they generated was just unbelievable.” Halfway through the set, Alistair glanced over at Brian and noticed they were both doing the same thing: tapping their hands on their legs.
Afterward, at lunch, both men sat puzzling over the experience. Brian asked Alistair for his opinion of the Beatles. Alistair thought they were “absolutely awful” but admitted there was something “remarkable” about them, something he couldn’t quite put into words. Brian’s reaction made Alistair uncomfortable. Smiling, Brian blurted out, “I think they’re tremendous!” Then, out of nowhere, he grabbed Alistair by the arm and said, “Do you think I should manage them?”
Brian, according to Taylor, was “besotted” the minute he saw the Beatles. He couldn’t stay away from them. At lunchtime, instead of joining his father and brother at a restaurant, as was customary, he would pull off his tie and head straight for the Cavern. He’d stand by himself at the back of the cellar, starry-eyed, entranced by the performance. Eventually, Brian invited the Beatles to his office in NEMS “for a chat,” as he put it, and the band took him up on it.
“So, tell me,” Brian asked casually, as they talked among the record stalls, “do you have a manager? It seems to me that with everything going on, someone ought to be looking after you.”
The prospect of a well-connected manager fascinated the Beatles. John told his girlfriend, Cynthia, that “they were delighted that a proper businessman was actually interested in taking them on.” John felt “the man from NEMS,” as he called Brian, had “limitless influence.” Cynthia could tell he had already made up his mind. So had the rest of the band. This was the chance they’d been waiting for. Their next meeting with Brian Epstein sealed the deal. John informed him that the Beatles were ready to accept his offer. “Right, then, Brian—manage us,” he said.
By the end of 1961, riding the crest of local popularity, the Beatles, with Brian Epstein in their corner, were ready to take on the world.
• • • • •
From the start, Brian made an effort to present the Beatles properly and “to smarten them up” for discriminating audiences. He insisted on some ground rules. From now on, eating onstage was out; so was smoking and punching one another, chatting up girls, taking requests, and sleeping. Lateness would no longer be tolerated, either. In addition, the Beatles were required to bow after each number, a big, choreographed bow, delivered crisply and on cue. And they had to wear suits! Leather and jeans were fine for the Cavern, Brian argued, but not if they wanted to be successful elsewhere.
Suits—never! John put his foot down. Black leather was one thing, but wearing business suits was going too far. Suits, he argued, went against everything rock ’n roll stood for. But Paul convinced him to give it a try. For the time being, at least. Later, they could always go back to their scruffy appearance.
Reluctantly, the Beatles agreed to follow Brian’s rules. Convinced that they were on the right track, they saw only one barrier remaining between them and the possibility of real stardom: a recording contract with a major label—and it was so close, they believed, they could almost taste it.
Brian Epstein in 1964, caught sitting alone and ignored at the Cavern, where he first discovered the Beatles. © DAVID STEEN/CAMERA PRESS LONDON
Almost—but not quite. Throughout the beginning of 1962, Brian made numerous trips to London, playing a tape of the Beatles for anyone who would listen. At every record company, he promised that the band would be big—“bigger than Elvis!”—but the reaction was always negative: “They’re nothing special.” Or: “Groups with guitars are on the way out.” Decca Records actually gave the Beatles an official audition, but they failed to stir enough enthusiasm. Afterward, in quick succession, the band was turned down by every other major British record label.
All the rejections took their toll. Each time Brian returned empty-handed from London, the Beatles listened without grumbling, but their patience had worn thin. The Beatles felt they had done their share, reshaping their act to suit Brian’s demands. They expected some results.
This also triggered some resentment within the Beatles. In the months since their return from Hamburg, a new star had emerged in the group. “Almost since he joined the band, Pete [Best] was the most popular Beatle,” said Bill Harry, expressing a view shared by many early fans. “He was certainly the best looking among them, and the girls used to go bananas over him.” Pete had immense stage presence. Unlike the other Beatles, who mugged shamelessly for the girls, Pete, unsmiling, ignored the crowd, which only heightened his mystique.
One can only imagine how much envy that stirred in Paul, who was sensitive to being upstaged. He’d already gotten bent out of shape by the way Stuart Sutcliffe had stolen the spotlight. Now suddenly Pete was crawling up his back. If this was allowed to continue, Pete would wind up as the Beatles’ heartthrob. For the time being, however, Paul kept any resentment to himself.
On February 5, 1962, Pete called in sick a few hours before the band’s gig at the Cavern. His timing couldn’t have been worse. None of the other boys wanted to give up the gig. A few phone calls later, the Beatles determined that their buddies the Hurricanes happened to have a rare day off and were willing to loan out their drummer, Ringo Starr.
For Pete Best, it was the beginning of the end.
• • • • •
On February 13, in a desperate last-ditch attempt to make good on a record contract, Brian doubled back to London for an interview with the only label that hadn’t turned down the Beatles: Parlophone. Unfortunately, Parlophone was considered something of a joke in the recording industry. Its roster was dominated by insignificant acts: chamber music ensembles, light orchestras, Scottish dance bands, obscure music hall singers, and comedians. Hardly any pop bands succeeded on Parlophone, and those few that did soon ran out of steam.
The label’s saving grace was its director, George Martin, a tall man, well over six feet, with thick, wavy, swept-back hair, liquid blue eyes, and an air of elegance that impressed everyone he met. He conducted himself with such dignity that every gesture seemed informed by graciousness and decency. Martin was also an accomplished musician, which gave him credibility with his artists. What he lacked, however, was legitimate pop artists—the kind of pop acts that now fueled every other record label. He was humiliated by the way Parlophone hadn’t been able to get that together. “George was desperate to get something off the ground in the pop department,” remembered his assistant, so when a friend called him about a promising group he’d heard, Martin agreed to a meeting with their manager, Brian Epstein.
After a first listen, Martin wasn’t impressed. He considered the Beatles to be “a rather unpromising group.” Even their original songs were “very mediocre,” in his opinion. But he thought Paul’s voice was rather enjoyable, and “a certain roughness” also pleased him. He decided there wasn’t enough to go on, but instead of rejecting the band outright, he invited them to London, where he could meet them, hear them, and work with them in the studio.
Ringo and John reminisce with Astrid Kirchherr en route from Munich before the Beatles’ triumphant return to Hamburg in 1964. © MAX SCHELER/REDFERNS
In the meantime, the Beatles returned to Hamburg for a third extended appearance. They were eager to get away from Liverpool and thought it would be great to see old friends, especially Stuart and Astrid, who were planning to get married. Hamburg would also help take their minds off their sorry attempt to get a record deal. So they flew to Germany and charged through the airport, spotting Astrid Kirchherr in the terminal, waiting to greet them.
“Where’s Stu?” everyone wanted to know.
Her face was blank, still. Noting the blur of her gaze, John asked, “Oh, what’s the matter?”
“Stuart died, John. He’s gone.”
The room went silent, out of focus. Paul, George, and Pete stumbled backward on their heels. John had been dealt a sideways blow. He didn’t know how to cope with the news. His grief was numbing. Nothing registered. He gave voice to a single word: “How?”
Astrid was forthcoming with the details. Stuart, who had always suffered from severe headaches, began getting them with more intensity. They struck like electrical storms, sudden and scary, without warning. It was like “a bomb going off in his head,” she explained. The headaches paralyzed him to the point of crippling agony. There had been spells when he couldn’t see, couldn’t think. And all Astrid could do was to sit there, stroking Stuart’s hand or shoulder while he suffered wave after wave of pain. On April 10, a day before the Beatles left for Hamburg, Stuart collapsed and was convulsed with pain. Astrid’s mother called an ambulance. It sped off to the hospital with Stuart inside, curled up in a ball, and it was there, pressed against Astrid, that Stuart died—of a brain aneurism or other disorder, it would never be certain.
John photographed by Astrid Kirchherr, with the ghostly image of Stuart in the background, Hamburg, 1960. © ASTRID KERCHHERR/REDFERNS
The Beatles were stunned, confused. No one their age had died so tragically. They were still in their late teens. It was a real shock, especially for John, who had looked up to Stu on so many levels. As a result, John began to drink, without regard for the consequences. It quickly got out of control, and his spring was filled with binges and brawls. Friends from Liverpool thought he’d gone “a little bit mad.” But the drinking was a way to bury the pain of Stu’s death. And part of it could be traced to frustration—frustration over the rejections, over the Beatles’ smartened-up image, over their lack of a topflight drummer, over their indefinite future.
Their outlook brightened, however, when they received a telegram from Brian that Parlophone had agreed to a recording session with them. It was a stunning piece of news, a dream come true. By way of celebration, they clapped one another on the back and struck up a chant they often used to keep up their spirits.
“Where are we going, lads?” John would holler.
“To the toppermost, Johnny!” they responded.
“And where is that?”
“The toppermost of the poppermost!”
A recording session: the Beatles had dreamed of this for so long that it hardly seemed real. It was time to return to Liverpool, where they had become stars among the local teenagers. There was even an official fan club that reported their comings and goings. After all the hard work they had put in, it seemed as if things were starting to pay off.
John could hardly wait to tell his girlfriend, Cynthia, the good news. But when he arrived home and burst in with flowers and a smile, he could tell by the look on her face that something was wrong. Tearfully, Cynthia blurted out the news: she was pregnant. Frozen in place, he stared at her, dazed, unable to fire off a customary humorous remark. John’s concern went straight to the Beatles. “I thought it would be good-bye to the group,” he admitted later, when the shock had worn off. And just when it seemed as though a breakthrough was on the horizon. It appeared that fate had dealt him a blow—blowing it big-time. Still, he proposed they do the right thing and get married. There was no other way. That is how things were done in Liverpool, and John wasn’t about to shirk his responsibility to Cynthia, marrying her on August 23, 1962.
The prospect of fatherhood made John increasingly resentful of the situation he was in, and he turned up the heat on an already smoldering relationship. Falling into black moods, he’d storm out of their flat, claiming to need cigarettes, and just disappear. Instead of blowing off steam and returning, he’d spend late evenings at the Jacaranda coffee bar or drinking at the Blue Angel.
That spring, friends often saw John wandering from club to club in the company of a spunky seventeen-year-old woman with jet-black hair to the middle of her back. According to reports, they’d been hanging out together, on and off, for a period of several months. Friends assumed he’d broken up with Cynthia, unaware that she was pregnant, let alone that she and John were married.
It had been hard keeping Cynthia hidden in the shadows. Brian Epstein had insisted that John keep his marriage a secret to avoid diminishing his popularity with the fans. “It was a calculated judgment on Brian’s part that pop stars oughtn’t to have partners,” remembered a publicist for the Beatles. That was the thinking, at least, and apparently John was content to abide by it. Paul, consequently, broke up with his longtime girlfriend, Dot. Their success was all about freedom—freedom to pick and choose among the flock of available girls and freedom to live it up. With no wife to his credit—at least not in any published account—John could behave as most rock ’n roll stars did on the road. But it was an incredibly difficult time for John, who was still only twenty-one himself and completely unprepared for being a father.
Despite such upheaval, the Beatles kept their appointment with George Martin at Parlophone, only four days after they returned from Hamburg. They had to. This was the band’s big chance, their only chance, and there was no way they could ignore it—not even if it meant leaving John’s pregnant wife at home by herself. And even Cynthia somehow understood.
The session was held at Abbey Road studio, which was actually an old mansion in a sleepy suburb, St. John’s Wood, in the north of London. It was an amazing place, and as the Beatles entered the building, Paul felt it was like “stepping into another world.” Though Abbey Road looked like any other house, inside, it was immense, actually a block of buildings that had been erected one behind the other, with corridors leading off at right angles to studios and offices. Lugging their equipment inside, the Beatles struggled to maintain their composure. It was awesome. And the stillness terrified them.
