And in the End

by Ken McNab

  ‘I couldn’t pin us down to being on a heavy scene, or a commercial pop scene, or a straight tuneful scene. We’re just on whatever’s going. Just rockin’ along.’

  It was, of course, purely illusory, a fantasy suggesting a unity of purpose where there was none. Even so, the last day of April found the band back at EMI Studios for one of the strangest sessions of their careers.

  After recording a new Harrison lead guitar overdub for ‘Let It Be’ Lennon and McCartney excavated an eighteen-month-old track. It was a curious choice. ‘You Know My Name (Look Up The Number)’, a Lennon creation, had absolutely no commercial value and bordered on Goons-like comedy. Yet McCartney would strangely later recall the session as one of his favourites.

  A multi-part song containing a nightclub cabaret pastiche and a host of silly voices and effects, ‘You Know My Name’ had been initially recorded in the weeks after the completion of the Sgt. Pepper album and then left on the shelf. In truth, though, it was an old note which should have remained unopened.

  On 25 April Lennon and Yoko squeezed in a whistle-stop visit to Montreux, where their film Rape was being screened on television. By now Lennon had assumed an almost Christ-like appearance, with his long hair and beard. And, in a further show of marital devotion, he had also changed his name from John Winston Lennon to John Ono Lennon.

  ‘This image thing that people are always on about with The Beatles – image is something in Joe Public’s eye,’ he declared. ‘That’s why it’s a drag when people talk about fresh-faced Beatles, like it was five years ago. I mean, we’re always changing, like the TV clip of “Get Back”. Now I’ve got the beard, Paul is clean shaven, and George is the one with the moustache. Even I can’t keep up with our own image. I come into Apple one day, and there’s George got a new head on him. So if that’s the way it is with us, I tell you, the public doesn’t stand a chance of keeping up with how we look.

  ‘And anyway, who we are is up to ourselves personally. Music is what’s important. As far as that’s concerned in my case, Yoko and I stimulate each other like crazy. For instance, did you know she’d trained as a classical musician? I didn’t know that until this morning. In college she majored in classical composition. I’ve just written a song called “Because”. Yoko was playing some classical bit, and I said, “Play that backwards”, and we had a tune. We’ll probably write a lot more in the future.’

  Those last words, when read by Paul McCartney, summoned up his worst fears for the future of The Beatles.

  © Wood/Daily Express/Hulton Archive/Getty Images

  After filming had been completed early on The Magic Christian, Ringo Starr joined comic hero Peter Sellers on board the newly launched QE2, before the pair sailed for America.

  MAY 1969

  On 13 May, The Beatles went back to the future for a picture session that was intended to perfectly bookend their career. The location was the fifth floor at EMI House in London’s Manchester Square, the photographer was Angus McBean, and his task was to recreate the carefree spontaneity – or as near to it as possible – that he captured for their first album back in the breezy days of early 1963.

  The intention was to use McBean’s new image as the cover of their next album, which Glyn Johns was still laboriously stitching together. It now had the notional working title of ‘Get Back’, with the suffix ‘With Let It Be and 11 other songs’, a mirror-image nod to the wording of their 1963 debut, Please Please Me (With Love Me Do And 11 Other Songs).

  It all suggested that the band genuinely thought the album, notwithstanding a few tweaks by Glyn Johns, was in the can. The idea, according to McCartney, sprang from a group meeting at which they all agreed it would be cool to shoot a cover that ‘went full circle’.

  After checking out the original image for Please Please Me, McBean, then aged sixty-five, lined them up in the same order from left to right – Ringo, Paul, George and John – and had them leaning over the balcony, smiling in unison, as he snapped away from the stairwell below.

  Exactly two thousand, two hundred and sixty-one days had passed since McBean had answered a favour from George Martin for him to photograph a young Liverpool beat group that he had high hopes for.

  It’s interesting to view the 1963 and 1969 images side by side. Lennon’s face was now framed by a thick beard rising high on his cheekbones while his hair reached his shoulders (it would become even longer in the months ahead); Harrison had a moustache and hair as long as Lennon’s; Starr, moustache and long hair; only McCartney easily stood a fair comparison with his former chipper self, although the moptop of Beatlemania had been replaced by a slightly more hippie style. Harrison and Lennon both wore the dandy white pin-striped suits that had last seen the light of day on The Beatles’ swansong tour in 1966. McCartney and Ringo opted for darker and more conventional outfits.

  The cheerful breeziness of the original shot may have been missing, but McBean still managed to catch something special. In fact, this was his second attempt at getting the perfect shot. When all four Beatles congregated for the scheduled date a few days earlier, they discovered a new porch had been erected at Manchester House, making it impossible for McBean to recreate the original picture from the same perspective. So staff agreed to remove the porch, and the shoot was rescheduled.

  McBean was amazed when he viewed the four Beatles through his viewfinder – and even more amazed that they were still together. He recalled: ‘In 1963 I asked John Lennon how long they would stay as a group, and he said, “Oh, about six years, I suppose – whoever heard of a bald Beatle?” Well, it was just six years later that I was asked to repeat the shot with The Beatles as they now looked – very hairy indeed.’

  Starr was so late, he added, that EMI staff were streaming down the stairs on their way home. ‘I got the camera fixed up and John, fascinated by photography, came and lay down beside me to look at my viewfinder. I can still hear the screams of the EMI girls as they realised who they were stepping over to get out the door!’

  The shoot capped a tumultuous two weeks for the band. In a conversation with music writer Paul Du Noyer years later, McCartney admitted that the whole experience had a haunting feeling of a cycle having been completed. He said: ‘The most final we got was going back to EMI in Manchester Square and taking that photo. And we all felt spooky. This is full circle. We’ve started and ended.’

  Having banished Lee and John Eastman from the Apple orchard, Lennon, Harrison and Starr now urged McCartney to accept the reality of their corporate situation. Klein was about to begin delicate talks with EMI and Capitol in America over The Beatles’ low royalty rates, and they insisted that his negotiating hand would be strengthened by all four of them being on the same page.

  McCartney again found himself torn between his Beatle brothers and his new in-laws. But when it came to Klein, he had to go with his gut. On Tuesday, 6 May, he had unveiled a new song that laid bare his contempt for the band’s de facto manager. Entitled ‘You Never Give Me Your Money’, it was a radical departure for him. In the past he had occasionally let his private feelings seep into the public domain via love songs, but the lyrics were often so opaque that their true meaning – and intended target, such as former fiancée Jane Asher – remained hidden. This time, however, there was no ambiguity.

  McCartney later claimed Lennon ‘saw the humour in it’, though that seems highly unlikely. If anything, the lyrics, direct as they were, read more like Lennon than McCartney. Kicking subtlety into the long grass, Paul tore into Klein for making false promises. Nems had been lost despite his claims he could get it ‘for nothing’, and their stake in Northern Songs was also under serious threat – yet all they ever saw was ‘funny paper’.

  In the second verse he reveals his relationship with Klein was so bad that he didn’t even want Klein to have his phone number. The middle verse sees McCartney admitting he ‘could see no future’ because ‘all the money’s gone nowhere to go’. And the last verse has him imagining he could ‘step on the gas and wipe that te
ar away’ because, tellingly, the ‘magic feeling’ he once held so dear has gone. The song read like a no-holds-barred resignation letter. A year later, he would deliver the real thing. ‘This was me directly lambasting Allen Klein’s attitude to us: no money, just funny paper, all promises and it never works out’, he said of ‘You Never Give Me Your Money’. ‘It’s basically a song about no faith in the person, that found its way into the medley on Abbey Road.’

  It was a classic bittersweet McCartney ballad that slowly built into a juggernaut rock rhythm. (Sadly, since it was part of the medley, it was denied any kind of radio-friendly airplay, thus depriving it from the kind of exposure that a song like ‘Yesterday’ had enjoyed.) The band laid down thirty-six takes of the song, including the soaring three-part harmonies that helped make it a musical tour de force and would, further down the line, shape Abbey Road.

  Ian McDonald, the acclaimed musicologist and author of Revolution in the Head, said of the song: ‘The Beatles’ future may be gone, but McCartney is determined to salvage their spirit, and that of the Sixties, for his future. “You Never Give Me Your Money” marks the psychological opening of his solo career.’

  Harrison had already committed a solo demo of ‘Something’ to tape at the end of February before a full band version – enhanced by Billy Preston on the organ – had been attempted on 16 April. Now, on 5 May, The Beatles’ dark horse finally had the bit between his teeth for a song that would in time be hailed as a masterpiece to rival anything penned by Lennon and McCartney.

  During each take, the band tried to nail the song’s musical foundations before any vocals were added. Casting aside his earlier indifference, McCartney finally acknowledged a special song was forming. He said: ‘“Something” was out of leftfield. It appealed to me because it has a very beautiful melody and is a really structured song. Until then he had only done one or two songs per album. I don’t think he thought of himself very much as a songwriter and John and I would dominate – again not really meaning to but we were “Lennon and McCartney”. Maybe it wasn’t easy for him to get into that wedge. But he finally came up with “Something” and everyone was very pleased for him.’

  George Martin would later declare: ‘The trouble with George was that he was never treated on the same level as having the same quality of songwriting by anyone – by John, by Paul or by me. I’m as guilty in that respect. I was the guy who said, “If he’s got a song we’ll let him have it on the album” – very condescendingly. I know he must have felt very bad about that.’

  The hypnotic basslines that underpinned ‘Something’, as laid down at Olympic Studios on 5 May, typified McCartney’s team-player approach to the band. Harrison, however, was not impressed, complaining that the basslines were ‘too fussy’. McCartney defended his playing in Mojo magazine, admitting the criticism rankled slightly and adding: ‘I was just trying to contribute the best I could, but maybe it was his turn to tell me I was too busy.’ It was the kind of putdown that perhaps underscored Harrison’s growing musical confidence and his role within the band.

  Geoff Emerick, who had been restored to his place as chief engineer on the session, acknowledged there had been a minor shift in the band’s studio hierarchy: ‘Paul started playing a bassline that was a little elaborate, and George told him, “No, I want it simple.” Paul complied. There wasn’t any disagreement about it, but I did think that such a thing would never happened in years past. George telling Paul how to play the bass? Unthinkable! But this was George’s baby.’

  The lengthy night-time sessions – they often ran from 7.30 p.m. until 4 a.m. the next day – ran parallel with energy-draining daytime business summits for Lennon, Harrison and Starr. By now Klein had been working for The Beatles for three months without an official contract. He also claimed to have spent around £60,000 of his own cash wheeling and dealing on their behalf. Now he was about to wade into renegotiations over the band’s royalty remuneration. And he was still battling to salvage the debacle over the purchase of Nems by Triumph while seeking to outbid ATV for control of Northern Songs. So Lennon’s understandable rationale was that if Klein was going to bat on behalf of all four musicians, he was entitled to a contract signed by all four.

  Consequently, between 4 and 9 May, all the relevant parties pored over documents drawn up by Apple’s lawyers to legitimise Klein’s role and put him on the company payroll. Eventually, a fragile financial framework was brokered. Under the terms of the agreement, ABKCO, rather than Klein as an individual, would become exclusive business manager to Apple Corps Ltd on behalf of The Beatles and their group of companies. In return, his company would receive twenty per cent of all Apple income generated under his watch, a sum to remain in force as long as the contract stayed in place between all parties.

  During the discussions, McCartney, wary of the bottom line, persuaded the others to include significant caveats. Klein would not be entitled to receive any portion of the band’s record royalties unless he negotiated a new deal with EMI and Capitol. Even then, he would only be paid twenty per cent of that increased rate instead of the full whack. In addition, he would only be able to claim ten per cent of the income generated by Apple records. By any measure, it was a convoluted – some might say Klein-esque – package. But for Klein it was another sign that he had outflanked the Eastmans and McCartney to seize control.

  Naturally, he tried to put a positive spin on matters. By offering to take a commission only on The Beatles’ increased business, a change from his normal operating methods, it meant that if Apple kept losing money he would take nothing, thus incentivising him to work hard for his clients.

  Despite this apparent philanthropy, some of Apple’s legal team had serious misgivings about the proposed agreement. McCartney was unhappy that Klein would be receiving a fifth of Apple’s newly generated income. But Lennon’s patience, never his strongest quality, was wearing icy thin over the dawn-to-dusk business routine that was setting in. Lennon had a naïve approach to business – the debacle over Nems and the ongoing battle for Northern Songs was shunted to the margins – and to loyalty. Having brought Klein to the party, he felt the American was entitled to a slice of the Apple pie.

  In the early hours of 9 May, three Beatle signatures were on the document that legitimised Klein’s dream of becoming the manager of The Beatles and the Rolling Stones. There were no prizes for guessing which one was missing.

  Twelve hours later, all four Beatles were at Olympic Studios along with Glyn Johns as they again listened to various playbacks of the ‘Get Back’ tracks that he had assembled from more than one hundred and fifty hours of tape. But he was aware of the gathering storm clouds in the room – particularly between McCartney and the other three – and tactfully found a reason to be elsewhere.

  In his absence, the talk inevitably shifted from music to majority interest. Fed up with McCartney’s procrastination over formalising Klein’s contract and the terms of his salary, the other three demanded that all four sign the contract. Lennon presented McCartney with the A4 document that officially made Klein – or ABKCO, depending on your interpretation – an Apple employee. He insisted it be signed right there so it could be legally ratified by Klein’s ABKCO board in New York the next day, a Saturday.

  McCartney’s gaze zeroed in on the one constituent part that was still an instant red flag: the money. ‘I thought twenty per cent was too high,’ he recalled. ‘I said, “We’re a big act, he’ll take fifteen, believe me. Klein is the board and anyway no one does business on a Saturday. Let’s leave it till Monday.”’

  It was a fudge too far. Lennon, Harrison and Starr lost their cool and unleashed an unsparing verbal assault on McCartney, leaving him bruised and bleeding on the canvas.

  Klein was reportedly at Heathrow Airport waiting for a New York flight and the piece of paper that said The Beatles were finally his when Lennon reached him on an airport phone to say McCartney was refusing to play ball. Klein rushed to Olympic and joined in the free-for-all. By McCartney’s own
account, it was a brutal affair.

  In his statement to the High Court some eighteen months later, he declared: ‘It became clear to me that the other three had already signed the agreement the previous day without my knowledge.’ Under company rules, three Apple directors constituted a quorum and their assent made the document legally binding. McCartney’s intransigence over Klein remained but, pragmatic enough to know that a fait accompli had occurred, he repeated his insistence that he take a reduced commission. ‘I thought The Beatles’ fortune was on the line and I was the only one fighting to save it,’ he recalled.

  In an interview with BBC Radio Merseyside, he said: ‘One thing in the business is that you get agents and things and sometimes you can get a bit carved up. We’ve been involved in a lot of contracts . . . that we’ve had to straighten out. We’ve become more business-minded but I still can’t stand business. The four of us are really just a rock band. But when we sign a contract now we have to ask what does it mean?’

  Elsewhere, he displayed the kind of public candour that Lennon would have been proud of: ‘The thing is, I am not signed with Allen Klein because I don’t like him. The truth is he only has three quarters of The Beatles and, in fact, he doesn’t have The Beatles. He is definitely the manager of John, George and Ringo but I have told him that he doesn’t manage me.’

  The meeting at Olympic ended in familiar deadlock. Patience exhausted, the others in unison told McCartney to ‘fuck off’ as they angrily exited the building. It was a new low. Harrison would later observe: ‘He was outvoted three to one. If he doesn’t like it, it’s a real pity because we’re trying to do what is best for The Beatles as a group or best for Apple as a company.’

  As he sat alone in the studio, McCartney, gripped by fear and loathing, had never felt so isolated during his time in the band. He was close to tears when he heard a tentative American voice at the studio door.