Magical Mystery Tours

by Tony Bramwell

  “I’ve got James Taylor away from that bastard and signed him to Warner,” he told me with a gleam in his eye. I had to hand it to him. James quickly released Sweet Baby James, which did set the world alight. We should have set Klein’s pants alight and watched him run down Savile Row.

  One of the tracks on Sweet Baby James was “You’ve Got a Friend,” written by Carole King. It was a massive hit and became the single. This revived her career and she went on to make Tapestry, which turned her into a superstar. Carole’s career began in a comic way. Neil Sedaka wrote “Oh! Carol,” dedicated it to her. It was a big hit. In return, she wrote “Oh! Neil,” dedicated to him. It was a big flop, but it did get her noticed. Linda Ronstadt also signed with Peter, and went on to be a star, with her backing band, who went on to be the Eagles. For Peter, being booted out of the once-cozy environment of Apple gave him just the impetus he needed to reach his potential.

  The combative and competitive mood increased between the Beatles, particularly between John and Paul as they vied to release separate work at exactly the same time. In April 1970, Phil Spector finished work on the Beatles’ Let It Be album, and on a roll, he went on to produce the Instant Karma album for John and Yoko’s Plastic Ono Band. Excitedly, John telephoned George to come play that instant! on the song, “Instant Karma,” saying it had to be done that night, then released the next day. Oddly, George accepted this and turned up at the studio. John played piano, George played acoustic guitar, Klaus Voormann was on bass (because John wasn’t talking to Paul) and Alan White was on drums because Ringo was in Hollywood. The album itself was mixed in record time by Phil and brought out on EMI that same week. It was quite an achievement.

  Paul’s own album, McCartney, was slated for an EMI release in April, in the same week that Let It Be was to be released. Without discussing it with Paul, Klein personally oversaw some work on the mix, and then told EMI to delay Paul’s album until June 4, at the big Apple convention in Hawaii. Paul wrote Klein a stinking letter, telling him to never do that again. “And don’t ever fiddle with the mix either,” he added. He also said he was through with being a Beatle.

  George telephoned Paul, said, “You’ll stay on this fucking label! Hare Krishna!” and hung up quickly.

  Paul’s reaction was to issue a news story, on April 10, 1970, stating that the Beatles had officially split. Angry at being gazumped, John announced at a press conference, “I left first, before Paul, I just didn’t say it first!” The beautiful dream was officially over, except of course in the eyes of the public, who clamored for more. As soon as it was released, Let It Be became another smash.

  Klein was still determined to get rid of me, but the Fab Four united in that at least and wouldn’t allow me to be gotten rid off. In retaliation, he made petty exclusionary rules that subtly sent me to Coventry. He ignored me, doors were shut in my face and people didn’t want to be seen with me. Suddenly it was all “Secret Squirrel stuff.” It was pathetic and very off-putting, but it worked. I began to give serious thought to doing something else with my day. I knew that like Peter I had been around long enough to have numerous options. I could take an industry job. After all, I was always getting asked. I could find myself a rock ’n’ roll band to manage and promote. I knew how to do it. I knew how to sign, produce, promote, video and plug.

  I could go into virtually any company, any music business office, or any club, frontstage or backstage, or whatever-stage and they knew who I was. They would let me in, be glad to see me. The music people knew what I did, and what I could probably do for them if let loose. I was liked—I was even envied. Up until Klein, even though I wasn’t earning a fortune, I had been enjoying myself a lot. I used to be invited back to the deejay’s offices. I’d hang out with Tommy Vance, John Peel and Kenny Everett. We would drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes, talk openly about women—as in being silly, leering and lecherous—and I would play records to them that I thought were good and fine and worthy of attention. The complete record pluggers’ shtick!

  Before I could make up my mind which way to turn, I wangled it so that I was sent to the U.S. to run Apple Films and Apple Records between New York and L.A. In Los Angeles, I lived in the rarefied atmosphere of a suite in the Chateau Marmont during the entire period, being entertained by the likes of Jerry Moss (head of A&M) and the legendary manager and film producer, Jerry Weintraub, while the famous and the destructive, who all seem to live for the excitement of the moment, filtered in and out of my life. It seemed as if some of the old life was unraveling when, in September, Hendrix died alone in a London flat and, two weeks later, Janis Joplin died in America.

  I returned to London for Christmas 1970 and was at a cocktail party on New Year’s Eve when I bumped into Ron Kass again with Joan, who was in sparkling form. After Ron was fired by Allen Klein he had gone to work for Warner Bros. Records in America, where I often saw him and we would have lunch, or a drink. He told me that he had left Warner, married Joan, and was back in England to work with Harry Saltzman, who had set up a new company with Cubby Broccoli to produce the James Bond movies. Ron introduced me to Harry Saltzman, who was chatting to Michael Caine and Michael’s wife, Shakira.

  “This is Tony Bramwell,” said Ron. “He works for the Beatles and Apple.”

  Harry promptly said, “Why don’t you come and work with us, Tony?”

  “Love to, Harry,” I said. “Doing what?”

  “I’ll think of something.” he said. “We just need someone like you.”

  It was Ron who said, “What about a company that does film music? I’d be interested in getting involved.”

  I had always wanted to be involved in films and grew excited. “We could do regular records too,” I said. “I hear new singers and groups every day.”

  “Great! Great!” Harry said very enthusiastically. “Let’s have a meet, set it up.”

  Despite the enthusiasm, it sounded to me like the usual cocktail party talk and I said something like, “Sure. Give me a bell.” I wasn’t about to say no, obviously, but I certainly didn’t take it seriously. However, a gossip columnist overheard the conversation and the next thing I knew, a piece appeared in one of the movie magazines, probably Screen International, saying, “At the party, Tony Bramwell, Harry Saltzman and Ron Kass were discussing forming a new record company.”

  Inevitably, it was brought to Klein’s attention and he went through the roof. He came rushing up to me as soon as I walked into the office after the holidays.

  “What are you up to?” He was ranting and yelling. “What does this mean? Is it true? Are you doing this?”

  “Yes, you creep,” I said. I was just so annoyed by his attitude, and I hated him so utterly that it was a relief. “I’m resigning.”

  “You’re not! You’re fired!” he screamed.

  It all seemed rather academic because I had been in departure for months, if not years. So I strolled across to Harry’s offices in South Audley Street in Mayfair.

  “Now, about our new company . . . ,” I said.

  “Yes, yes,” said Harry, enthusiastically. “I’ll form the company and you can run it.” That sounded to me like a wonderful arrangement.

  PART V

  1971-Present

  36

  Everything fell effortlessly into place. Harry Saltzman, Ron Kass and I duly formed Hilary Music, named after Harry’s daughter. The idea was to have a little record company and a music publishing company and make good soundtracks for movies. My premise was that most contemporary film music wasn’t very good and didn’t work. We could do it better. In those days you got a theme tune and then a lot of incidental stuff which didn’t sell records. Harry had seen Shirley Bassey sell a million copies of the song “Goldfinger” and wondered where the money went since he hadn’t done a decent deal. I had seen the Beatles do Yellow Submarine with songs on one side of the record and George Martin’s “Yellow Submarine Symphony” concept on the other side. It turned the whole album into “a work,” which was nice. But these were an
exception. On the whole, soundtracks up until then were an unfocused mish mash.

  We went down to MIDEM, the annual music industry convention in Cannes, threw a launch party for our new company and licensed various other companies and subpublishers around the world to take our product and set it all up to flow smoothly. It was agreed that I should get a salary of, as I remember, one hundred pounds a week, plus running around expenses. We would split the royalties. These would be sent to the company’s account in Switzerland where they would be held, apportioned, and distributed, each to his share. I was very happy. I felt that I had fallen on my feet into a situation doing what I knew and loved best, at several times my previous income.

  I started work at once. The first film for which I commissioned a soundtrack was the new Bond film, Live and Let Die, which was almost finished. By this time, Albert “Cubby” Broccoli and Harry, who were joint producers and owned the Bond franchise, were barely speaking. They had started a loose system where they took it in turns to produce the next Bond. Before the bust-up, Harry told me that he and Cubby had intended to go the usual route and get John Barry to do the score.

  “Why not try something different?” I suggested.

  “John Barry is good,” Harry said.

  “I know he is. But what about Paul McCartney? He’s always wanted to do the music to mainstream films.”

  Harry was very enthusiastic. “Great idea,” he said. “Do you think Paul will do it?”

  “Well, it’s James Bond and that’s pretty irresistible,” I said. “I’ll go and ask him.” I went round to Paul’s house and described the film to him. Then I asked if he’d like to score it.

  “It depends,” said Paul. He was supposed to bite my arm off.

  “On what?” I asked, somewhat chastened. I thought he would be really pleased with the idea.

  “I’ve never written to order,” he said. “My music sort of evolves. The upfront music for the Bond films is very specific, isn’t it?”

  We sat and discussed it at length. Paul wanted to know where the track would go and, if it was at the front, how it would look. I went and saw Maurice Binder, who did all those fantastic James Bond opening titles graphics at the start of every Bond movie. He was a smashing guy. I always joked with him that he must have spent half his time filming nudes who were swimming underwater, or nudes who were sitting astride guns, and all the nudes that’s fit to read. They were semipornographic little movies that introduced all the Bond films.

  I arranged for Maurice to do a complete mock-up show reel of how the opening credits would look, with the gun firing and the naked woman. I hired a viewing theater, and Paul and I watched this reel a few times. He seemed relieved. Possibly ideas came into his head while he was watching because he said, “I’ll do it. Thanks for asking me.” Always very polite, was Paul.

  Binder and Paul had great fun working out frame by frame what went where, and what bit of film would be shown with what bit of song. It sounded easy, but it wasn’t. It was like doing a tight little movie. About a week later I went to George Martin’s Air Studios in Oxford Street where Paul and his band, Wings, did the basic track for the theme song. The next day, George Martin did the rest, adding the special effects and explosions. When we played it, everybody was floored. It was a very powerful, huge piece of music, especially when you heard it for the first time. It turned out to be one of the biggest movie themes of all time, a big, big seller. In a way, although Paul was already one of the brightest songwriters of our generation, I think that writing something to order like that showed him how good he was. It also revealed different ways in which he could use his potential, moving into areas he had not explored before.

  In the background, I was still aware of what was going on with Apple. Not only was the High Court action splashed all over the newspapers and on the news daily during the actual hearing, which started on January 19, 1971 and lasted for nine days, but it was discussed daily among everyone I knew. Paul was the only Beatle who attended. The judge, Mr. Justice Stamp, ruled that the Beatles’ financial situation was “confused, uncertain and inconclusive” and that the condition of those accounts was “quite intolerable.” He appointed a Mr. J. D. Spooner to act as both receiver and manager. Worried that Klein might nevertheless be able to dip into the funds they were holding for the Beatles, EMI froze all royalties until matters were resolved at a full hearing. John, George and Ringo immediately appealed, but dropped their appeal a month later on April 27, which landed them with an estimated £100,000 in legal costs. Ultimately, the case against Klein would drag on for many years, during which time Klein would be imprisoned for IRS offenses in America, unrelated to Apple. It was eventually decided in Paul’s favor January 9, 1975. Klein was taken out of the picture, the Beatles’ partnership was formally dissolved and the bulk of their assets—held in escrow for long years—was released.

  I still sometimes bumped into John, or Paul filled me in with what was happening on the Apple front, or I’d have a beer with friends such as Dan Richter—who was working for John and Yoko at Tittenhurst Park. I heard that they were still struggling with heroin. Finally, they had spent most of April 1970 in California at Janov’s Institute doing Primal Scream Therapy, before flying off to Majorca with Dan, where they had learned Tony Cox was with Kyoko. At the time there was a custody battle over the child and from all accounts John and Yoko decided to take matters into their own hands and snatch her back. The attempt ended in their arrest and deportation from the island. Tony Cox and Kyoko disappeared and it was to be over thirty years before Yoko saw her daughter again.

  The beautiful song, “Imagine”—on which George played guitar—was born from the confusion in their lives. The album of the same title was recorded at the studio at Tittenhurst Park during June and July of 1971. But it wasn’t all peace and light. One of the tracks on it, “How Do You Sleep,” was a direct attack on Paul. According to Allen Klein, who happened to be there, Yoko wrote most of the vitriolic words on it. She would race into the studio, waving a piece of paper when she came up with a nasty new line, joyfully shouting, “Look, John, look!” Lapping up being part of the circle for once, Allen even contributed a few lines himself. Many of the session musicians—members of the band, Badfinger—felt uncomfortable, but the only person who felt really embarrassed was Ringo, who had gone along to drum. He kept telling John they’d gone far enough, but he was ignored.

  Grateful that I was no longer embroiled in the bitter rock and roll circus at Apple, my work with Hilary Music continued. After Live and Let Die came The Man with the Golden Gun. I racked my brains to come up with something original again, something to blow people away. I wanted Elton John or Cat Stevens; but this was Cubby’s turn for Bond and he had his own ideas. Behind the scenes he got John Barry and Don Black to do a pretty mundane song which Lulu recorded. I didn’t think it was being very creative and wouldn’t have anything to do with it.

  However, and it’s one of the biggest howevers, someone I had the bad misfortune to encounter was a guy named Kenneth Richards. He was the company accountant, based in Switzerland—which was where all Harry Saltzman’s companies were based. Harry had Stephen Films SA (named after his son), Jacky Films SA (named after his wife) and of course our company, Hilary Music SA (named after his daughter). All were named after members of his family. Harry Saltzman also owned Technicolor Laboratories (which was losing money at the time), and a large slice of the company that made Éclair movie cameras. He also had, of all things, something to do with the Open University. He had companies and properties like some people collect paintings. He also acquired scripts and plays and was always running out of cash. It didn’t trouble him too much. His films earned tons of money and his royalties were accruing very cozily in the Alps.

  Sean Connery was also involved with Harry in the Bond movies and other ventures, which were fed through one of Sean’s Swiss companies, handled by Richards. For those of us who had businesses that were handled by Richards, it was a bit under the table at the t
ime because in the U.K. we were in the depths of a big recession and draconian money laws. We still had a V Form that restricted us to fifty pounds a year spending limit when we went abroad and that sort of thing.

  After Bond, we moved on to a David Puttnam project, Melody SWALK (Sealed with a Loving Kiss). The film starred Jack Wild and Mark Lester, who had starred in Oliver. I put together the soundtrack for that with the Bee Gees and Crosby Stills and Nash. For the era it was novel to have music that was not specially recorded for a film, but something that made it work, that the audience related to. The record came out on Polydor, with whom I had done a nice little deal for Hilary Music. The film didn’t do well in the U.K. but was huge in Japan. There were crowds around the block and the soundtrack album flew out the door. When the sales figures started to come in, there was much rubbing of the hands in anticipation of the loadsa royalties which Kenneth J. Richards would collect and distribute.

  Next I helped put the music together for That’ll Be the Day, another Puttnam project starring David Essex and Ringo. Still coining it in, we did all of the music for Michael Caine’s film of Kidnapped, for which I got Mary Hopkin to sing the title song. I signed up Tony Joe White as a songwriter. (In the eighties Tina Turner used a lot of Tony Joe’s music. By then, he had hits without giving anyone his publishing, so he had it all, 100 percent.) Martin Scorsese also asked me to get Spector—who I managed—to do the soundtrack for Mean Streets, the film that established Scorsese’s reputation.

  One day in about 1972, I called the office in Switzerland for some money to be sent over to pay for something or other. The phone rang and rang. There was no reply. The ringing had a hollow, very lonely sound. Brrrrr . . . Brrrrr . . . Nobody answered. I put the phone down and I knew, did I ever know. Right then and there it dawned. I called Ron. He called the others. Someone flew out. Kenneth J. Richards had done a bunk. It turned out to be a very successful bunk. All Harry’s money. All Sean Connery’s money. My accrued royalties in Hilary Music. Ron Kass’s royalties in Hilary Music. All flown away. Gone.