Paul and John left together, but George wasn’t well and left the next day, accompanied by Brian, who returned a week later. They arrived in Hamburg to the news that Stuart Sutcliffe had died of a brain hemorrhage, and they were devastated, especially John. Stuart had been his best friend. The news traveled back to Liverpool. He was our age and people our age just didn’t die of strokes. At the time, nobody knew the reason for Stuart’s death, though he had suffered from terrible headaches for a long time. An autopsy requested by his mother would reveal an old depression in his skull. It was likely that a brutal kicking in the head by a Teddy Boy gang in 1959 had fractured his skull. The Silver Beetles had been ambushed by Teds in the carpark of Litherland Town Hall. The lads had scattered and run for it, but Stuart, who was slight and pretty, was caught and kicked into unconsciousness by steel-capped boots.
John had gone back for him later when the coast was clear and found him unconscious, his head bloody. He managed to get him home, but Stuart said he didn’t want a fuss and didn’t go to a doctor or report it to the police. It was after that that his headaches and depressed moods started. I was shocked by his death though not as deeply affected as the Beatles. Offstage and on, I had seen Stuart around, but still didn’t know him that well. The last time I had seen him had been at one of the Beatles gigs at the Cavern, when he and Astrid, who was over from Germany visiting, stood at the back with me, listening to the music. They were quiet and entirely wrapped up in each other, each of them standing out because of their fine-boned almost ethereal beauty.
I was busy with farm work and exams at school, but still dropped by the NEMS store on Saturday afternoons to listen to records and gossip. Brian liked to use people he trusted as sounding boards and even though I was just a record-crazy kid who dropped in to his record stores, who happened to be a friend of all the Beatles, and who happened to act as an unpaid gofer, in no way at all was I a close confidant of his. Consequently, although he appeared happy to talk about records and technical stuff, Brian didn’t tell me that he had almost run out of options—why would he?
But in Hunts Cross, some weeks after the Decca audition, we were still agog for news, and we pestered George to find out more. He told us that a letter from Decca, turning them down, was burning a hole in the desk drawer where Brian had concealed it. It preyed on Brian’s mind until eventually he steeled himself to tell the boys they’d been rejected. He looked so ill that they were surprisingly philosophical, perhaps to make him feel better. “Never mind, Brian,” John said, displaying a rare degree of sympathy. “There’s more companies you can go to. At least now we’ve got a decent bit of tape you can play to other people.”
Brian hated to lose and refused to give in, so it was in an edgy mood that he went down to London in May 1962. He went to Decca again and tried to get them to see sense. Instead, he ended up losing his temper. So did they. Words were exchanged. Everyone knows how Brian got in the final word before he stormed out: “My boys will be bigger than Elvis Presley,” he said. Naturally, the Decca executives laughed, but not for long.
Everyone also heard the details of how after a restless night, Brian decided that he would finance a record himself, selling it through his stores. Accordingly, he set off to discuss this; but the producer he’d chosen was late and, running on speed, Brian stormed off yet again. Two abortive meetings later with two more labels, Brian was panicking. He had schlepped up and down from Liverpool to London some twenty times, like Twenty-Flight Rock. He was tired and there was almost nowhere left to try.
It was in an even more depressed and desperate mood that he made his way to Oxford Street, where he met up with Bob Boast, manager of the big HMV record shop. He had met Bob the previous year, before he had even known the Beatles existed, when he had been on a retail-management course run by Deutsche Grammophon in Hamburg. After apologizing that he couldn’t make an introduction to anyone really useful, Bob suggested that Brian cut some acetates instead of lugging the cumbersome reel-to-reels about. Brian at once agreed and Bob led Brian upstairs to the small EMI public studio, where he passed him over to the in-house engineer, Jim Foy.
While the 78s were being cut the engineer remarked that some of the tunes sounded fresh and original. “Yes, they have never been heard before,” Brian said. “They were written by Mr. Lennon and Mr. McCartney of the Beatles.”
Foy smiled at the formality, but on learning that they didn’t have a music publisher, he suggested that Brian play the discs to Ardmore & Beechwood, EMI’s publishing company, which very conveniently was on the top floor of the same building. Within five minutes, the publishing general manager, Sid Colman, had come downstairs to the studio and was listening to these original songs.
“Yes, I like them,” Sid Colman said. “We’d be interested in discussing the publishing.”
Despite his careful research, this was the first time that Brian had come across the concept of song publishing. He nodded cautiously. He needed time to think, to do more research. To gain time, he said that he was more interested in a record deal for his boys.
“Have you been to Parlophone?” Sid Colman asked, mentioning a small EMI label.
Brian had been to two of EMI’s prestigious labels: Columbia, which had Cliff Richard and the Shadows, and HMV, which had Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, one of the most influential groups in England at the time, but he hadn’t considered EMI’s Parlophone label, which was better known for its comedy records. In fact, Parlophone was home to Adam Faith, then a huge pop star, but that appeared to be a gap in Brian’s knowledge. He felt he had no options left and arranged an appointment with George Martin, who was head of A & R for Parlophone. After George listened to the newly cut discs, he didn’t say yes or no, only that he would let Brian know and that seemed to be that. Disappointed, Brian returned home to Liverpool. Nearly three months later, on May 9, at his own instigation, Brian returned to London, where he met George Martin at EMI’s famed Abbey Road Studios. Whatever else happened during that meeting, an appointment was set up for George to meet the Beatles in person and audition them on June 6.
After the meeting, Brian sent two telegrams. One was to the Beatles who were still in Hamburg, which read: CONGRATULATIONS BOYS. EMI REQUEST RECORDING SESSION. PLEASE REHEARSE NEW MATERIAL.
The other telegram went to Bill Harry at Mersey Beat magazine in Liverpool and read: HAVE SECURED CONTRACT FOR BEATLES TO RECORDED [sic] FOR EMI ON PARLAPHONE [sic] LABEL 1ST RECORDING DATE SET FOR JUNE 6TH—BRIAN EPSTEIN.
From that point, a mystery evolved that has never been properly explained. Was it an audition—or was it a proper recording session? In other words, had Brian procured a record contract for his protégés?
The big mystery is that exceptionally and against all EMI policy—indeed, against his own policy—George Martin did put the wheels in motion to offer the Beatles a recording contract on May 18. This was typed, forward-dated to June 4 and sent to Brian for his signature. Brian signed it in record time and it was back on George’s desk on June 5—all before George Martin had set eyes on the Beatles or had them in the studio.
“Don’t be late!” he told Brian, confirming the details of the June 6 session.
Legends and myths are strange and moveable things. The press always says that as far as the public is concerned, when it comes to a toss-up between truth and myth, always print the myth. It’s safer! But on that date with destiny was George Martin auditioning four “berks” from Liverpool, nothing more, nothing less, as he said? Or—as the paperwork says—was he recording John, Paul, George and Pete for a bona fide forthcoming record release?
Perhaps it will remain a mystery, for Brian is dead. To this day Sir George Martin insists that the June 6 date was an audition. Despite what anybody says, Brian was worldly enough to offer bribes and pay off people. He was pragmatic and he had done it before, when he’d been blackmailed and threatened because of ill-judged homosexual liaisons. Living on the edge as he did, Brian was always a contradiction. He was a fiercely loyal and honora
ble friend to those he loved, and ruthless toward those he despised. He was shy to the point of blushing and stammering, and theatrical to the point of ranting and frothing at the mouth. He considered investments carefully but was an addicted gambler. Above all, he had learned to do what had to be done and loved the rush it gave him.
6
On the blistering hot and thundery night of June 9, 1962, the Beatles returned to the Cavern and a heroes’ welcome. There was a party atmosphere all day in Mathew Street with long queues of giggling fans sitting along the curb or on the steps leading into different premises as they chatted together or listened to music from their portable radios. Local workers had seen nothing like it and wondered what was going on. When the boys eventually arrived, with just me and Neil to look after them, a tidal wave of screaming girls surged toward us and we barely made it intact down the worn stones steps into the depths of the shadowy cellars.
A packed crowd of nine hundred somehow squeezed into the club that night and for the following days when the Beatles were booked solidly, twice a day. Some of the best “Cavern” gigs I can remember weren’t actually in the Cavern itself but on ferries crossing the Mersey. Or rather, they were so-called riverboat shuffles which put out to sea on the Royal Iris, which was also known as “The Fish and Chips Boat.” The shuffles been running for some years, billed as dance cruises, but the first one with the Beatles playing had been the previous year, on Friday night, August 25, 1961, when they supported jazzman, Acker Bilk, whose big hit, “Stranger on the Shore,” was still in the top ten after about six months. As usual, I helped carry their gear and got aboard free. The engines would race and we’d pull away from the docks, heading out downstream past New Brighton, to Liverpool Bay and into the full swell of the waves.
The second shuffle, again with Acker Bilk, was a year later on Friday, July 6, 1962, shortly after the Beatles’ triumphant return to Liverpool. This time we went all the way to the Isle of Man, a voyage that was several hours of unmitigated music, dancing and vomiting. Pizzas and hamburgers hadn’t yet crossed the Atlantic; tomato ketchup and Coca-Cola were rare commodities. The standard fare was fish and chips cooked in lard and served up in greasy newspaper wrappings, liberally swamped with salt and malt vinegar and washed down with warm beer or lemonade.
We went on many more shuffles, once with Johnny Kidd and the Pirates—who looked fantastic, their matelot-striped pirates’ gear and deep-cuffed sea boots in keeping with the riverboat theme. I can still smell the salty, oily, greasy smell, and feel my stomach heave as on those hot summer nights when we hit the choppy cross-currents of the Irish Sea. Everyone would be dancing away in a frenzy, the band would be playing—looking green—and the first passengers would be off to throw up in the gullies. A few minutes later, they’d be lurching about almost upright again, grinning at their heroism, swigging beer and ready to heave again. Everyone was seasick: me, the lads—all of us. Ringo, who was the worst one with his delicate stomach, would drop his drumsticks first and then rush for the side where he’d retch until he was able to return to the fray. Then it was the turn of John, Paul and George. Only Acker Bilk seemed able to keep going, despite the amount of cider he drank. It was awful, but fun.
When Eppy, or “Brian,” as I always called him to his face, signed the Beatles, he started looking around to build up a small and loyal team to look after “his boys,” as he called them. He had already taken to Neil Aspinall because they were close in age and background. Neil was tidy, respectably dressed and, when he qualified, would have a proper career as an accountant—but it wasn’t as much fun as being around a band. So it wasn’t long before Neil dumped his accountancy course and went to work for Brian as the Beatles’ road manager. No one knew then how long the Beatles might last and pop bands were notoriously ephemeral. Apart from John, who had been convinced almost since birth that he was destined for fame, Brian was the only one who realized that things were about to go big very quickly. Even though he would often remark that pop fans were very fickle, in his heart—and fueled by large quantities of speed—he was exhilarated by what was happening. With remarkable vision, he would also convince Mal Evans, the part-time bouncer at the Cavern, that being a roadie for NEMS was a solid career, one with a real future.
I had left school that June of 1962 and started a draftsman’s course at the local Ford plant. One evening I was helping out at a Beatles’ gig in Liverpool when Brian came up to me and said, in his very public-school voice, “Tony, how much do they pay you at Ford motor cars?”
“Five guineas, Brian,” I told him.
“Hmmm, yes, I see,” said Brian. “Well, if I paid you ten guineas a week would you come and work for me? You can carry on what you’re doing with the boys and when you’re not doing that, you would work for me in the offices at NEMS.”
“I don’t know if I can, Brian,” I said. “The music business is a bit dodgy really. Working at Ford is a career.” It amazes me now that at such a tender age I was thinking along those lines. I suppose I was reflecting what everyone’s dad thought, and what my mum had drummed into my head. A career was very important when so many people were out of work. I was sixteen years old and I had just left school with a clutch of O levels. I still wanted to go to agricultural college and had applied, but Mum wanted me to go to university, though I wasn’t old enough. We decided that I would make up my mind when I was seventeen or eighteen, and meanwhile I would get some work experience. Ford Motor Company hired me as a trainee draftsman and sent me to North East Liverpool Technical College to study to be a layout inspector, one of those people in clean white overalls who check all the blueprints for the designs of the new cars—which were made on the factory floor by workers in blue overalls. However, shortly after I started, I had another accident and broke a finger in a door so I couldn’t draw. I was getting sick pay of five guineas a week—five pounds and five shillings—which was a great deal more than my pocket money had been, so I was quite content.
I told Brian all this and he mulled it over in his friendly schoolmaster way, before coming up with a sort of contingency plan. “Well, if it all goes wrong you can work in one of the record shops. How about that?”
“Well I dunno,” I told him. “I’ll have to ask me mum.”
“Tell her to come to see me,” said Brian. “I’ll be glad to talk to her.”
My mum knew that Brian was Mr. Epstein, and that despite his youth, he was respected in Liverpool, and a man of his word. So she went along to the store and, as promised, he showed her around the office, all the while explaining to her the kind of work I would be doing. With his frankness and charm he persuaded her that this was a proper business on a proper footing and I wouldn’t be selling my soul to the devil.
“If it doesn’t work out, he can leave anytime he wants,” Brian said. “He can always return to Ford, I’m sure they would be pleased to give him his position back. I’d have a word with them. But, as far as I am concerned Tony has a job with me for as long as he wants it.”
That was the sort of man Brian was, a stickler for doing the right thing, for keeping his word. Mum left his offices content to let me start a career in “artiste’s management,” as Brian earnestly referred to it. Over the years Brian and my mum got to be quite close and he always referred to her as a lovely woman.
To illustrate how close we were as a group of friends and families, my mum knitted the Beatles the famous long black scarves that they wore on the front cover of the “Twist and Shout” EP. The Beatles had originally bought similar black scarves in Hamburg, which they wore with their very uncool long black leather overcoats. (We said they looked like the Gestapo!) I don’t know what happened to those scarves—probably they were nicked by fans—but the lads were attached to them. They must have said something around Mum, because the next thing was she got out her knitting needles and balls of black wool, and started knitting away. My Auntie Margaret from Rhyl even got in on the act. She crocheted the Beatles a set of very colorful waistcoats.
; I went to work for Brian just after the Beatles had landed their first recording contract and before “Love Me Do” was released. It was the calm before the storm, a time when none of us (except John, of course) were really quite sure how things would pan out. It became one of my jobs to take the boys’ money to them on Fridays. I would ride the train all over the country to wherever they were playing and hang out for the weekend. If they played close to home, in Manchester for example, we would go for the evening and come home after the gig.
Despite rumors about what went on, I never saw a single orgy in those early days on the road. I was still an innocent kid who went to bed relatively early, if I wasn’t going out, that is. I certainly hadn’t been to Germany where it had been girls, girls, girls. On their return from Hamburg Paul said, “It was a sex shock . . . suddenly you’d have a girlfriend who was a stripper. If you had hardly ever had sex in your life before, this was fairly formidable. We got a swift baptism of fire into the sex scene. We got our education in Hamburg.” They described how George lost his virginity in the squalid room they all shared while they pretended to be asleep. Paul said he had once walked in on John and seen a bottom bobbing up and down with a girl underneath him. It was very teenage and unselfconscious.
It would be remarkable after such experiences if the boys suddenly became Puritans back in England—and they didn’t—but despite later legends to the contrary, and even according to the Beatles’ own vamped-up recollections, for a long time English girls didn’t throw themselves at pop stars. The Pill didn’t exist, free sex meant pregnancy and shame. Girls hadn’t yet learned to be tough groupies, though pretty soon the thunderbolt would hit with a bang as loud as an atom bomb exploding among the nation’s teenagers. When sexual mores did change, it was with breathtaking speed. Within six months it went from, “No-no-no, I’m a good girl I am,” to “Yeah, okay. Your place or mine?”
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