The Beatles

by Bob Spitz

  The flip side was a lack of consistency. The fifteen songs wander from genre to genre, like a minstrel looking for a crowd. “Till There Was You,” “The Sheik of Araby,” “September in the Rain,” and “Besame Mucho” were the kind of corny, melodramatic standards that young British bands continued to sprinkle throughout their sets as concessions to the naysayers of rock ’n roll; eight other songs covered an array of pop records they’d been performing over the years—“Crying, Waiting, Hoping,” “Memphis,” “Money,” “Searchin’,” “Sure to Fall,” “Three Cool Cats,” “To Know Her Is to Love Her,” and “Take Good Care of My Baby,” the latter of which had just been a number one hit for Bobby Vee and was included late in the process at George’s insistence; and finally there were three Lennon-McCartney originals: “Hello Little Girl,” one of their earliest compositions, “Like Dreamers Do” (which incidentally would reach the charts in 1964 on a record by the Applejacks that was produced by Mike Smith), and the future Cilla Black hit “Love of the Loved.”

  The songs hardly mattered, however; their performance was flat across the board. There is none of the spark, the exuberant personality, that characterize all future Beatles recordings. In fact, the soaring vocals so familiar to generations of fans sound halting in some places, too deliberate in others. Paul certainly was off his game; he repeatedly reached for notes that were well within his range and experienced some fluttering in his voice that sounded like nerves. John lost his way momentarily in the middle of “Memphis.” And Pete’s leaden drumming produced the same expression in every song, be it a ballad or an all-out rocker.

  John knew right off that the performance was not up to par. While he held his tongue at the time, he later confided to a friend that their style was cramped by too many “pretty” numbers. “We should have rocked like mad in there and shown what we’re like when we’re roused.”

  Nevertheless, optimism ran high. The band felt their work had been “productive.” And as far as they could tell, Mike Smith seemed elated. He flashed them a rousing thumbs-up sign from the control booth and, afterward, threw them an unexpected compliment. “Can’t see any problems—you should record,” he imparted. “I’ll let you know in a couple of weeks.”

  “You should record!” The three magic words hung in the air for everyone to savor. The Beatles practically floated out of the studio on a cushion of pure exhilaration. Over a celebratory lunch, hosted by their new and ecstatic manager, the Liverpudlians toasted the New Year and all its promise in grand tradition. Brian surprised them by ordering a bottle of wine, a touch that, in most of their families, was reserved for funerals. Clinking glasses, they howled with delight over the prospect of a brilliant future. “What a great way to start 1962,” someone proposed at an opportune moment, “right from day one. Here were go!”

  [II]

  Immediately after returning from London, there was good news—and bad.

  On January 4, Mersey Beat announced the results of its first popularity poll and, to no one’s surprise, the Beatles came out on top of the list. “No doubt about it, they were the best group in Liverpool,” says the paper’s editor—and the band’s longtime friend—Bill Harry. But the contest hadn’t come off as squarely as anticipated. Rory Storm and the Hurricanes actually got more votes, but whether out of fairness, loyalty, or good judgment, Harry had doctored the final results when, during the tally, he suspected Rory had filled out hundreds of his own ballots. Little did he know that the Beatles had done the same thing. In any case, it was official: their supremacy was announced in bold type just inches below Mersey Beat’s innocuous banner. And the next day it was rubber-stamped by the release of “My Bonnie,” at long last, on Polydor’s English label.

  Brian had spent almost two weeks trying to force a proper release. Alistair Taylor overheard the effort that went into it as he passed his office four or five times a day and heard Brian frantically pleading the band’s case. “He was always on the phone to Polydor, insisting, ‘Something is happening here! [NEMS has] to import this on your German label, which is ridiculous. You ought to have a listen.’ At first, they just told him to get knotted, but after so much persistence they finally gave in.”

  On January 5 the record arrived and the Beatles were now—officially—recording stars. Immediately, Brian shot off copies of “My Bonnie”—now correctly labeled by “Tony Sheridan and the Beatles”—to all the London record labels, requesting an audition for the band. Meanwhile, his tiny Whitechapel office, once devoted entirely to updating the NEMS stock, had been converted into Beatles Central, his own role now suggestive of a full-time press agent. “It became hard, right off the bat, for Brian to juggle his growing responsibilities,” says Peter Brown, who often picked up the slack out of consideration for his friend. By now, Brian was more interested in artist management than retailing. As the Beatles required more attention, he began to offload NEMS business matters to assistants and other underlings—or just ignore them, the effect of which was not lost on the exacting Harry Epstein. “Whatever you do,” Brian pleaded with Alistair Taylor, “don’t tell Daddy about any of this. If he comes in, just make up some story.”

  The instructions Brian had given the Beatles about arriving at a show on time, not smoking or swearing onstage, doing tightly programmed sets, and bowing were having a residual effect on their image. He could see it, even at the Cavern, where they fought the grungy ambience. They were making strides, but there was a long way to go yet. Lunchtime shows were still too disorganized. Guitarist Colin Manley, who had hung on to his day job, used to take an extended lunch hour in order to catch their act and remembers marveling at the “anarchy” that rumbled through their set. “Nine times out of ten, when they kicked off the show, George hadn’t even arrived. He’d have been out late the night before or his bus wasn’t on time. Occasionally, I’d have to get up and play a couple songs until he showed. And if Lennon broke a string, he’d have Paul do a song while he put on a new one, going dwoiiiiiinnng dwoiiiiinnng [winding the string] right through the vocals. Nothing they did was polished.”

  And attitude was a tough nut to crack. Onstage, the Beatles continued to take requests shouted from the audience, acknowledging them with a rude remark designed to get a laugh. Sometimes, however, it got out of control. John, more than anyone, had trouble knowing where to draw the line, often saying things just to be contrary. When he was in a foul mood—or drunk—he could terrorize people with a cutting remark, abusing fans verbally. “Shut yer fucking yap!” It wasn’t unusual for him to unleash a string of obscenities at a visitor to the Cavern or snarl at a backstage guest, then dedicate a song to his victim.

  Brian was smart enough to realize that John couldn’t be tamed. In that respect, he avoided issuing ultimatums that might provoke a confrontation. But he tried to head off certain situations before they backfired. One thing particularly troubling was John’s trail of personal effects. They were littered across the city—letters, articles, poems, notebooks, drawings, and pictures in which he’d held nothing back. He may have been a loose cannon onstage, but many of these items weren’t fit for public consumption. The most incriminating stuff was a packet of “rude photos” from Hamburg he’d given to Bill Harry for use in upcoming issues of Mersey Beat. Nothing that was scandalous, but rather off-color: pictures of Paul in the bathroom, John with a toilet seat around his neck. Not long after Brian got involved with the band, Bill Harry recalls, “John rushed into the office and said, ‘Brian insists I’ve got to get them back—the pictures, everything you’ve got. I must take it all with me now.’ It wasn’t enough to change their image; he was getting rid of the evidence as well.”

  Another lingering sore spot remained the girlfriends. Brian considered it unprofessional that Cynthia Powell and Dot Rhone turned up at each gig, and he was aghast, not to mention annoyed, when each time, inevitably, they got up together to dance. It was too distracting for the boys. Performing was work, he argued, not a social outing. What’s more, the presence of steady girlfri
ends might turn off the female fans who entertained fantasies about their favorite Beatle (to say nothing of Brian’s own fantasies). A new decree was handed down: Cyn and Dot were no longer welcome—no longer allowed—at Beatles shows. John and Paul were instructed to inform their respective girlfriends.

  Dot, already insecure and self-contained, was crestfallen when Paul delivered the news. “It seemed cruel and unnecessary,” she says. “We always stayed out of their way, never interfered in anything they did.” On more than one occasion, she recalls, they arrived at a show with the boys, were deposited in a corner, and ignored until it was time to leave. That was all right by them. Even after gigs, at the Jacaranda or one of their other haunts, they sat for hours, just listening to the boys talk among themselves, absolutely silent. They never, except on rare occasions, contributed to the conversation. “We were completely subservient.” Their reward was simply going to the gigs—watching their boyfriends play and basking in the glow.

  Dot had already gone against her better judgment, “stealing Preludin and Purple Hearts for the band” from her new job, working at a pharmacy. But disobeying Paul’s wishes was out of the question. Cynthia, on the other hand, learned how to blend into the crowd. At shows, John would stash her in a seat at the back of the hall, where she watched like any other punter.

  The events of January 1962 had convinced the Beatles that their attention should be focused solely on their careers.

  They began by finally signing an official management contract with Brian, which had been in the works for over a month.* It was a modified boilerplate agreement, tying the four musicians to Epstein for a period of six years and at a rate of 20 percent of their earnings. Brian had originally asked for 25 percent, a sum refused by the Beatles, who considered it too exorbitant a chunk. He accepted the lower figure without further negotiation, perhaps owing to an unexpected savings of 2.5 percent. A month earlier, overcome with gratitude by Alistair Taylor’s noble allegiance, he offered the loyal record salesman what amounted to a finder’s fee, 2.5 percent of the Beatles, which Taylor had politely—but foolishly—declined.

  At the signing, Brian repeated his foremost goal: to nail down a legitimate recording contract for the Beatles. Even before the Decca session, as early as December 7, 1961, he had been in touch with labels, submitting “My Bonnie” in lieu of an audition. Upbeat and sturdy, the record cut the right groove, but it was basically a Tony Sheridan showcase; it gave even professional ears too little to go on as far as the Beatles were concerned. To Brian’s disappointment, the A&R managers didn’t take long to underscore that point. On the fourteenth, he received the band’s first rejection from no less a tone-setter than EMI, the titan of British labels. “Whilst we appreciate the talents of this group,” wrote Ron White, the company’s general manager, “we feel that we have sufficient groups of this type at the present time under contract and that it would not be advisable for us to sign any further contract of this nature….” While not a stinging rebuke—the kind that dismisses a band as a pack of hopeless amateurs—it certainly wasn’t the endorsement they were looking for.

  Meanwhile, Decca wasn’t exactly beating down the door. The Beatles hadn’t heard from Mike Smith following their seemingly triumphant New Year’s Day audition and assumed he was deluged with work as a result of the long holiday season. In fact, Smith had made up his mind to sign the Beatles while they were still in the studio, but he had to run it by his boss.

  Unfortunately, Decca’s A&R chief was in New York on business and didn’t return until the middle of the month.

  The role of tastemaker was an unlikely one for Dick Rowe. Like his father and grandfather before him, he had spent most of his life as a stockbroker in service to Decca’s chairman, Sir Edward Lewis. The sole pleasure in a livelihood otherwise tedious and unfulfilling was his “amazing record collection,” most of whose gems had actually been obtained through the black market. Word of his unconventional musical knowledge spread through the firm, and Sir Edward staggered an unsuspecting Rowe by asking him to run Decca.

  Rowe rose rapidly through the A&R department, serving as one of Decca’s early in-house producers. By the mid-1950s, he had assembled an impressive roster of pop artists, gleaned from his opportune signing of Tommy Steele. Anthony Newley, Billy Fury, and Marty Wilde all reaped glory from Rowe’s workmanlike productions, as, later, would Van Morrison (“Here Comes the Night”) and Englebert Humperdinck (“Release Me”). He worked with dozens of significant acts, including the Rolling Stones, over his career. Nevertheless, he would always be linked, albeit ignominiously, for his mishandling of the Beatles.

  At the time, the thorn in Rowe’s side was Decca’s budget, the subject of his recent meetings in the States. A&R expenditures, he noted, were in danger of exploding. So when Mike Smith bounded into his office that Monday morning, delirious with enthusiasm for two new groups he just had to sign, Rowe tightened the company belt. “No, Mike, it’s impossible,” he told him. “They can’t both be sensational. You choose the one that you think is right.”

  Rowe’s generosity was actually self-serving. He’d listened to both auditions—the Beatles and Brian Poole and the Tremeloes—on his own and agreed with Smith’s eventual choice. The nod went to the Tremeloes, hands down. Their audition was better, they had that identifiable “Decca sound,” and perhaps most significant, they lived in Mike Smith’s neighborhood in Dagenham, which put them a neat twenty minutes from the studio, as opposed to their northern counterparts. “Liverpool could have been in Greenland to us then,” Rowe recalled years later.

  Decca held off on giving Epstein the news. The company had never dealt in this manner with one of its retail accounts, especially one with billings as significant as NEMS’. Lest it risk injuring a profitable relationship, Decca decided to string him along for a while, in the hope that he’d either lose interest in this hobby or just go away.

  Despite the delay, Brian allowed himself a cautious confidence. The Beatles had done their part, they’d delivered a respectable demo, and with NEMS’ influence firmly behind them, there was every reason to expect a deal to materialize. It was only a matter of time, he reasoned. And yet, a creeping frustration began to take hold. “He had very substantial accounts with these companies and yet he couldn’t seem to pull any strings,” Peter Brown recalls. It was this lack of respect that stung the most. For Brian, it meant one thing: humiliation, a reaction that resonated back to his school days and the army. “He was furious. He thought he was being treated like everybody else and felt he deserved more attention.”

  With EMI out of the picture and Decca mysteriously on hold, Brian turned up the heat at the two other major English labels, Pye and Philips. He began commuting to London in earnest, dropping off copies of the Decca audition tape at whatever office he could squeeze a foot in the door. Alistair Taylor had connections at Pye and, with some gentle arm-twisting, got the Beatles’ tape to Les Cox, the label’s head of A&R. Cox and Tony Hatch, one of Pye’s in-house producers, gave it a cursory listen and “thought it was awful.” Still, Taylor urged them to see the band perform. But nothing doing. As far as London was concerned, Liverpool was off the musical radar screen.

  After Pye’s rejection of the Beatles, Philips also passed, leaving few options remaining for a deal. It would be another year before the influence of independent labels, so prevalent in the United States, surfaced in Great Britain. For the time being, there were only the four majors—EMI, Decca, Pye, and Philips—with which to do business in London, as well as EMI’s two subsidiaries, Columbia and HMV, which had also passed.

  By February, Brian’s anxiety had reached a critical stage. He continued to reassure the Beatles that their recording career was inevitable, but to friends he admitted that it was beginning to look bleak. “It appears that we are cursed as far as record companies are concerned,” he complained bitterly to Peter Brown. “Either that, or [the labels] are just too tone-deaf to recognize a hit group—in which case we are definitely doomed.”


  Decca especially perplexed him. Mike Smith had shown such optimism and seemed to enjoy the Beatles’ company. A deal there seemed like a fait accompli. Now, he sensed they were giving him the brush-off.

  Exasperated, Brian tried to force Decca’s hand. After leaving a string of curt messages with the receptionist, he finally heard from Dick Rowe on February 1. Rowe apologized for the delay in returning Brian’s calls and confessed embarrassment. The Beatles, he reported, failed to stir much enthusiasm at the label. “The people at Decca didn’t like the boys’ sound,” he explained. More to the point: “Groups with guitars are on the way out.” To make such a claim credible, he pointed to the new crop of vocalists now popular in the States—Bobby Vee, Frankie Avalon, Bobby Rydell, Bobby Darin, Dion. “Besides, they sound too much like the Shadows.”

  Even to a square like Brian, this argument rang false. Desperate to salvage a deal, he begged Rowe for a few minutes of his time and arranged to meet him the following week at Decca’s offices in London.

  In the meantime, Rowe decided to safeguard himself against the likelihood of an unreasonable Brian Epstein: he’d audition the Beatles himself. Without telling anyone, Rowe took the train to Liverpool on Saturday, February 3, with the intention of catching the band at the Cavern. His objective was simple: he’d get a good look at this group, without any buildup or hype. That way, no one would be able to claim that Decca hadn’t jumped through hoops for Epstein.

  It was “pissing with rain” when he arrived in Liverpool, the city besieged by a typical winter storm, the kind whose blustery winds and rawness bit through every stitch of one’s clothing deep into the skin. Rowe’s mood was as foul as the weather by the time he stepped out in front of the Cavern. One glance at the scene churned up further shudders of indignation. Mathew Street was straight out of Dickens: remote, squalid, creepy. The entrance to the Cavern was packed with kids forcing their way like animals into the tiny club. Standing alone in the dark, shivering in the downpour, Rowe smoked a cigarette and weighed his options. “You couldn’t get in, and what with the rain outside, I was getting drenched,” he recalled. “I thought, ‘Oh sod it,’ and I walked away.”