by Ken McNab
In terms of live, one-take-only musicianship, he was out of his league, especially alongside an artisan like Clapton. Ritchie Yorke, who had hitched along for the ride, remembers Lennon being sick with nerves throughout the flight, partly through fear of playing live and partly through heroin withdrawal.
‘I haven’t performed before a large audience for years,’ said John. ‘I did the Rolling Stones Circus film with a small audience and I did the Cambridge ’69 gig, but they didn’t even know I was coming.’
On the ground, meanwhile, Toronto was experiencing a form of born-again Beatlemania. When the plane landed at Toronto International, the Lennon entourage swept unchecked through Customs and was driven to the stadium flanked by members of the Vagabonds Motorcycle Club, who had volunteered to provide their own pop star-specific brand of security. After being greeted by Brower and Fowley amid a battery of flashbulbs, the musicians were taken to a cramped dressing room beneath the stands that reeked of sweat. Clapton recalled the Lennons especially being less than impressed. ‘John just stood there in the dressing room, which was admittedly rather tatty, saying: “What am I doing here? I could have gone to Brighton.” It was a long way to go for one concert.’ Yoko also made a few salient observations. She said, ‘We arrived in this dressing room, and it is a concrete locker room, it’s dirty, it’s ugly. I looked at John and he laughed and said, “Welcome to rock ’n’ roll.”’ Joining in the melee was Allen Klein, newly arrived from New York, and D.A. Pennebaker, who had been hired by Apple to film the event and turn it into a ‘happening’. The word then went out that Lennon needed some traditional rock-star stimulant to help him get through the occasion. When someone mentioned that coke would be just the pick-up required, another person returned with cans of fizzy drink before they found the rock star’s idea of the real thing.
It had been agreed that The Plastic Ono Band would be the penultimate act, leaving The Doors to close the show. Kim Fowley, though, was already worried that even at this late hour a clearly strung-out Lennon might back out. He said, ‘I was standing beside him and I said, “Are you all right?”, and then he throws up. And he started to cry. He said, “I’m terrified.” Imagine if you were in The Beatles as the only band you’ve ever been in in your life. The first time you are to step onstage with people that weren’t in The Beatles. You’re about to go on stage before twenty thousand with your wife, a friend, another friend and a complete stranger with songs you had learned acoustically on a plane from England suffering from jet lag and sleep deprivation. You would be terrified.’
But Fowley then hit on a masterstroke. Minutes before the band were due on stage, he addressed the audience and asked them to hold up matches and lighters to welcome The Plastic Ono Band. When Lennon, dressed in a white suit similar to the one he had worn for the Abbey Road cover photoshoot, walked on to the tiny stage, staring back at him was a raucous crowd and a sea of blinding lights; the effect was as mesmerising as it was reassuring. ‘We’re just gonna do numbers that we know because we’ve never played together before,’ he said by way of an introduction before the conceptual band that he and Yoko imagined would push back musical boundaries, launched their live career on the back of a vintage rock ’n’ roll standard.
The Carl Perkins-tinged slower version of ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ was followed by Lennon’s old Cavern stomper ‘Money’, then ‘Dizzy Miss Lizzy’, before he made his one and only concession to The Beatles. He had already teamed up with Clapton once before when he sang ‘Yer Blues’ at the Stones’ Circus the previous December, so at least Clapton had some idea of the chords.
By the time it got to the still unrecorded ‘Cold Turkey’, the band had found a fourth gear and Lennon sounded like the Beatles-liberated musician he now longed to be, freed from the shackles of other people’s whims. It didn’t matter that he could barely remember the words, relying heavily on a cheat-sheet of lyrics held up by Yoko.
The only discordant note was struck by Mrs Lennon herself, who began the performance writhing onstage inside a large white bag before emerging to take her place on John’s left hand-side. But it was her screeching that reportedly brought some jeers from the audience, who, after all, had come for kickass rock ’n’ roll. The last song sung by Lennon was a ramshackle performance of ‘Give Peace A Chance’ – ‘the reason why we’re here’ – complete with made-up-on-the-spot lyrics that ushered in a twenty thousand-strong singalong. It sounded chaotic and it bordered on self-parody, but no one seemed to care. Besides, the band had achieved a sleight-of-hand no one expected them to, least of all themselves.
If they had left it there, the debut performance by The Plastic Ono Band might have garnered the kind of kudos it deserved, but Yoko was determined to have the last word. She took centre stage to shriek her way through freeform versions of ‘Don’t Worry Kyoko (Mummy’s Only Looking For Her Hand In The Snow)’ and ‘John John (Let’s Hope For Peace)’, a track from the couple’s as yet unreleased Wedding Album, the third experimental LP they had recorded for Zapple. It was a tough sell.
Alan White told me: ‘We’re playing pretty good considering the circumstances when suddenly Yoko crawls inside a bag and proceeds to lie down on the stage. That’s when it started getting weird. She had a microphone in the bag and noises were coming out. I thought there might be something wrong with her. I’m looking across at Eric and Klaus, and they’re like, “Keep playing! Keep playing!”’
The band finally exited the stage with screaming feedback issuing from the speakers, Lennon with his arm draped comfortingly over his wife’s shoulder in an apparent gesture of solidarity to shield her from the scattered catcalls. Overall, though, Lennon felt thrilled and elated, having conquered his demons with a little pharmaceutical help. He later said, ‘I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun. From now on I’m going back to playing rock ’n’ roll on stage.’
Three thousand miles away, those words struck an optimistic chord with Paul McCartney, who was still nurturing a spectacular return to live performance for The Beatles. That prospect, though, as far as Lennon was concerned, lay further away than ever.
The Plastic Ono Band and its itinerant gang of hangers-on spent the next two days chilling out at the estate of Thor Eaton, one of the Toronto event’s principal financial backers, and joint heir to Canada’s largest department store empire. Reviews of the group’s live debut were largely favourable despite its improvised nature and the inevitable flak that Yoko drew. And for Lennon they only served to reinforce an ineluctable truth as well as reconciling him to an inevitable decision.
On the flight back to London, he casually confided in Clapton, Voormann and Klein, the one person who had arguably more to lose from the end of The Beatles than he had, that he wanted out. The only problem was this: where exactly was out?
*
Throughout most of the summer, while The Beatles remained in Abbey Road lockdown, Klein was immersed in his own salvage operation. Already he had presided over the busted flush that had followed his own boast to buy out Nems ‘for nothing’. On the line, now, was something more important – the future ownership of the lucrative Northern Songs catalogue, and talks with EMI and Capitol over increasing the royalty rates.
At stake were two helix-linked fortunes – The Beatles, and the Paul McCartney-disputed twenty per cent commission he was entitled to under his contract, provided he could deliver an improved deal on these two fronts. But this was meat and drink to a balance sheet barracuda like Klein. And in that sense he held the upper hand in talks this month with Sir Joseph Lockwood at EMI, safe in the knowledge that the band had already fulfilled the terms of their 1967 agreement, which was due to run until 1976. The negotiation tactic was simple: no deal meant no new Beatles music for the next seven years. And no new music meant cutting off the pipeline that had ploughed millions into the company coffers for six years, making EMI the most profitable record company in the world.
Klein only needed to point out the staggering worldwide sales of the White Album to b
ack up his threats. This was the sword of Damocles he held over the record company suits when they began round-table talks at the start of the month.
But he kept one vital piece of intelligence firmly in the closet; he knew that Lennon was on the verge of quitting The Beatles and close to breaking point. He had spent weeks lobbying hard with EMI and Capitol in America to improve the band’s royalty rates. Now here was Lennon complicating an already fragile situation. That information alone would have been enough to torpedo the talks and capsize Klein’s eye-watering commission. Deploying his trademark bravado, he went into the discussions using the language of a New York punk as he went to war with his mild-mannered English opposite numbers and their Capitol counterparts.
During conversations with the Americans, Klein adopted a familiar gambit by threatening to sue Capitol for unpaid royalties amounting to approximately $2m. And with EMI he bluntly warned that the band could easily turn in a full album of different versions of ‘God Save The Queen’ if the company refused to budge on his demand for improved terms.
Klein knew that, financially, he held the high ground. Sales from the White Album had pushed EMI’s share of the UK record market up from twenty-eight per cent to around forty per cent, and had accounted for more than £900,000 in retail sales. Browbeaten by Klein’s abrasiveness, and fearful over the possibility of a financial black hole in their respective accounts, Lockwood and Capitol president Bob Gortikov ran for cover.
By 10 September, they had thrashed out a royalties agreement with Klein that would become a benchmark in the history of popular music. The deal saw The Beatles receive an unprecedented twenty-five per cent of the wholesale price of an album in America – a significant hike from the previous seventeen and a half per cent. In three years’ time, that rate would increase further as long as a minimum of two Beatle-related albums (crucially, not necessarily group albums) were released in a calendar year up to 1976.
Klein also secured the rights for Apple Corps to manufacture and sell Beatles records in America. EMI would retain the recordings, but Capitol would manufacture the releases on Apple’s behalf. Apple would then profit further from the difference between manufacturing and retail costs.
In the end, despite the labyrinthine outcome, it was a no-brainer for Lockwood, who feared an incredible backlash from EMI shareholders should the company’s most prized assets be allowed to walk out the door. Gortikov later hinted that both companies had always been looking to find an even-handed compromise while lamenting Klein’s unyielding negotiating stance. ‘Did he have to be so nasty about it?’ he would complain. Nevertheless, it was a monumental coup for Klein and one he hoped would finally woo McCartney over to his side.
Lennon, Harrison and Starr had given Klein the authority to negotiate on The Beatles’ behalf, but McCartney and John Eastman continued to operate behind enemy lines.
Correspondence between Eastman and the compatriot he loathed continued to descend to an ever more embittered level. On 3 September, Klein replied to one Eastman missive by saying, ‘Dear John, I am on a diet so stop putting words in my mouth. Your misuse and abuse of the truth is almost without parallel.’ Trust remained a bridge too far as long as Klein held the reins of power at Apple. A notional accord by both men to share key documents was shredded when Klein repeatedly redacted key passages to keep Eastman out of the loop. But Klein was savvy enough to know that, in talks with EMI at least, he needed Eastman inside the tent to ensure that McCartney’s interests were, in some shape or form, properly represented.
Meanwhile, an uneasy truce had settled between ATV and Lew Grade and the consortium that held the balance of shareholding power over the future ownership of Northern Songs. ATV already believed they had effective control of the company after persuading members of the consortium to throw their weight behind Grade’s bid for overall control, though nothing was yet legally binding. By early September, however, weeks of jittery dissent within some members of the consortium had hardened into a full-blown retreat. Unnerved by constant rumours of The Beatles splitting and veiled threats about Lennon and McCartney not renewing their Northern Songs contract on its expiry in 1973, some worried that the value of their shares would soon tank, leaving them hugely out of pocket. Which way to jump – The Beatles or ATV?
Klein, on the other hand, had every right to fear they could yet be driven into Grade’s arms and tip the balance of power finally in ATV’s favour. Such a situation would see Lennon and McCartney losing the fruitful publishing rights to the songs that had formed their reputation and were key to their financial future.
Throughout September, Klein kept up an assiduous back channel with all the relevant parties while hoping still to bring Northern Songs on board. It was classic Klein, trying to play both ends against the middle, invoking a sense of project fear among the weakest links in the consortium chain. He proposed an advance agreement for The Beatles to buy back the consortium’s shares in Northern Songs. At the same time, he was making private overtures to Grade to deliver The Beatles’ shareholding in return for key concessions that would keep everyone happy. As both sides manoeuvred their pieces round the chessboard, Grade stealthily went in for the kill.
Quietly, ATV picked off the consortium’s pawns before announcing on Friday, 19 September, that they now owned just over fifty per cent of Northern’s shares. Checkmate. The battle was finally over and The Beatles had lost. The news was relayed to Apple where yet another fractious meeting was taking place between Klein, Lennon, McCartney, Starr and John Eastman. At one point, Eastman suggested, astonishingly, that McCartney should have the same voting power as the other three combined – a suggestion that tipped the normally even-tempered drummer into a rage. But the latest news about Northern was like a dagger to the heart of Lennon and McCartney. With no more cards left to play, Klein had no choice but to fold and try to come to an arrangement with his nemesis, Grade, over The Beatles’ shareholding in Northern Songs.
An initial pact was agreed in which ATV would buy The Beatles’ shareholding in the company in return for loan stock and cash. Separately, the band would tear up outstanding writs against Northern Songs, while Lennon and McCartney would re-sign as songwriters until 1976. In their book, Apple to the Core, authors Peter McCabe and Robert D. Schonfeld quote ATV’s financial director Jack Gill as hailing the accord, worth about £9m to Lennon and McCartney, as a ‘good deal for both sides’.
This, though, was the moment that McCartney, John Eastman and his father Lee, still operating in the shadows, had been waiting for: another Klein screw-up. Acting on the basis of ‘two strikes and you’re out’, Eastman junior point-blank refused to align McCartney with any Klein-negotiated pact.
Gill said, ‘John and Lee Eastman stopped the deal. They wouldn’t let Paul be a party to an agreement negotiated by Klein on behalf of all The Beatles. There was no way the two Beatle factions could agree.’
Naturally, Klein laid the blame squarely on the shoulders of the Eastmans and insisted that McCartney had been eager for the deal to go ahead. He told Playboy in 1971: ‘Paul knew about it and was happy with it. He’d been talking directly to Grade and he liked the deal. Everybody was happy. The board of ATV was going to meet to approve it and Grade was going to call a press conference.
‘Then, on the morning of the ATV board meeting, Grade got a letter from John Eastman saying “Klein has no right to deal for Paul McCartney”. It was bullshit. Paul didn’t know anything about the letter. Paul told him, “I’m going to do what Allen says.” We called Grade but it was too late.’
When the acrid smell of corporate gunsmoke cleared, the whys and wherefores counted for nothing. Yes, the loss of Northern Songs had been offset by the sweet black gold the new EMI/Capitol deal would bring into the Apple pipeline. But this was a balance sheet debit that not even Klein could easily explain away.
It was there in black and white. Klein knew the McCartney/Eastman axis had been handed enormous leverage in the continuing battle for The Beatles. What troubled him more
was how Lennon, already struggling to keep a lid on his anxiety about the future of the band, would react to the news that he now really would be ‘fucked around by men sitting on their fat arses in the City’ when it came to control over the songs he had written with McCartney. Twenty-four hours later, the answer was swift in arriving with devastating consequences.
*
The twentieth of September was high noon for Paul McCartney. Apple had long turned into a high-security prison from which there seemed no escape – and Klein was the leering, pipe-smoking jailer who haunted his waking moments. Grade’s corporate ambush the day before ensured another sleepless night, increasing McCartney’s loathing for all things Klein. But today promised better things on the business front when he walked into Apple to join Klein, Lennon, Starr and sundry others, including Yoko and Linda, for what would be a momentous event.
On the agenda were their collective signatures on the lucrative deal Klein had agreed with Capitol and EMI. Biting back on his hatred, even McCartney was forced to admit that Klein had indeed pulled a huge rabbit out of the hat. ‘If you’re screwing us I can’t see how’ was his less-than-gracious verdict on the deal. But he couldn’t help thinking that, while the new deal signposted a better financial tomorrow, what if there was no tomorrow for the band? Perhaps naïvely trusting in the instincts that normally served him so well, he hoped to use the occasion to again try to persuade Lennon that The Beatles needed to get back to where they once belonged – on the road, playing live and rediscovering the joyous fellowship that turned them into a band of brothers in the first place.
It was, he reckoned, an easy sell, especially given the traction of Lennon’s recent live show in Toronto. He also hoped to tap into Lennon’s rivalry with Mick Jagger as the Stones were preparing for their first American tour in three years. But McCartney, more than anyone, knew that the future of The Beatles, as it almost always had been, was in Lennon’s hands.
