With the Beatles

by Alistair Taylor

  The news footage from the United States after the ‘more famous than Christ’ publicity was simply chilling. George was always the most reluctant Beatle. He loved the music and he certainly enjoyed the girls on the road, but he hated the intrusion that came with being a Beatle. Several times he quit and each time Brian managed to cajole him back into the group. Brian always told George how much he would be letting the others down, how the Beatles would die if he ever left them, how the wonderful music he was making would be such a great loss to the world if he quit. Brian could be very persuasive when he put his mind to it. But the longer George went on, the harder it became for him to stop. Ringo wasn’t too fazed by the fame. He never was the brightest star in the galaxy, but he was scared by the threats. Nutters would phone in to say they were going to leave a bomb for John or Paul. Or they were going to shoot George or Ringo with a long-range rifle.

  At first, we just used to laugh in the office about it and have a joke with the boys about keeping their heads down. It never seemed that serious until we saw the Americans burning albums after John’s Christ remarks. Then Brian saw the effect it was having on the boys and told us to be more discreet. We never had a policy as such but I always thought laughing down the phone might be enough to put them off. The boys all became paranoid about their personal safety. I would book them on planes under all sorts of names but it was impossible to hide them for very long. Their popularity was so unstoppable that there was a sort of jungle telegraph that seemed to follow them around wherever they went. You couldn’t expect the police to keep anything secret. They spent hours signing photographs for coppers’ kids and standing being photographed next to a beaming detective and his family.

  No one ever announced that the Beatles final concert of the tour at San Francisco’s Candlestick Park on 29 August was going to be the last live concert they ever played. It was a chilly night and the Beatles played for just 33 minutes on a stage built over the second base and caged in by a 6ft-high wire fence guarded by 250 police. In case of trouble, an armoured car stood by. But they closed for the only time on that tour with their favourite finale, ‘Long Tall Sally’. And just before they started, as he was running on stage, Paul told my friend Tony Barrow, the press relations man, to record the concert. He only had his little tape recorder used for taping interviews and he was surprised to get the request but he dutifully did his best. To most people, it was just another concert, but to the Beatles, after nine harrowing years and more than 1,400 live concert appearances, it was the end of life on the road. As they later flew out of San Francisco, it was George Harrison who became the band’s spokesman as he settled back into his first-class seat and said, ‘Well, that’s it. I’m not a Beatle any more.’

  Brian was never quite the same after that tour. It took an awful lot out of him and I’m afraid his dependence on drugs of all descriptions seemed to grow. The money rolled in as before, but Brian’s energy and drive took a real dip. He would stay away from the office much more than ever before, for without the great tours to plan and undertake, he found his own personal workload cut down drastically.

  It was a sad decline. He had so many prescribed pills and he took all the other drugs as well. I hated to watch him depending on drugs. I think he knew that the Beatles no longer needed him as much as they had needed him before. He never did get very involved in the studio. He trusted the boys and George Martin to do the business there and he was right to do so. But once the touring stopped, he was certainly left with time on his hands and Brian was never very good at relaxation. I think he could see the end of his involvement.

  The Beatles were much more interested in advancing their music, and experimenting in the studio. The contrast between that wonderfully fulfilling work and the lunacy of life on the road simply became so great that the decision to stop touring was inevitable. They were producing the most fantastic songs and Paul said to me, ‘We could never do any of this on stage. It’s just too complex.’ They could not produce A Day in the Life on stage or a lot of the Rubber Soul stuff on stage. And however cynical they all were at one time or another, the truth is that, deep down, the Beatles were an honest band. They did not want to short-change their fans. The new stuff was simply far more interesting to them than standing up and singing ‘Love Me Do’ for the 5,000th time.

  There never was an official leader of the Beatles, but in the early days it was clear that John Lennon was the dominant member of the group. In a very early interview, Paul even commented that John was the leader. He had a presence and a power that gave him the unspoken authority over the group. John was a genius and, to my mind, the unquestioned leader. Paul McCartney was brilliant and possibly the greatest public relations man in the world.

  Lulu was desperate to get in touch with Paul. I was horrified when Peter Brown gave her Paul’s number in High Park. I went ballistic at Brown. Private phone numbers were guarded like precious jewels, and Lulu only wanted it so she could ask Paul to appear on her television show.

  Mick Jagger and John Lennon were great buddies. They loved this rumour that ran around that the Beatles were the White Hats and the Stones were the Black Hats. You wouldn’t mind your daughter going out with a Beatle, but you would object strongly if she went out with a Rolling Stone.

  Marianne Faithfull became a close friend of the boys. Brian and I met her with Andrew Oldham on Ready Steady Go. She was a beautiful young girl with a fantastic figure. We were in the studio’s green room after the show and she came up and really set her stall out at Brian. She had a very, very low-cut dress on and she pointed her charming chest at Brian and got as close to him as decency would allow. She was sadly ignorant of Brian’s sexual persuasion but he was perfectly polite to her and was quite impressed. ‘She seems a very friendly girl,’ he said, ‘but I’m not sure I am very keen on having her breasts thrust in my face. Do you think she was trying to tell me something?’

  The Beatles’ involvement with drugs has been massively exaggerated over the years, but they certainly experimented more than most people. It was Paul who first admitted the truth to the Press in a very unscheduled interview which I tried hard to interrupt.

  I had been asked round to see Paul at Cavendish Avenue, but when I arrived the security gates were firmly shut and I couldn’t raise an answer on the security intercom. But I knew Paul was in because I could hear his voice. I was forced to resort to climbing over the wall. Not very dignified for a smart-suited executive, I know. But, hey, this is the crazy music business. I scrambled down inside the large and elegant gardens and, to my horror, I heard Paul cheerfully confessing to using marijuana because he found it so relaxing. My heart sank into my shiny shoes when I realised the guy he was talking to was a reporter. With as much confidence and authority as I could muster, which was pretty well zero, I tried to interrupt this impromptu press conference which I was convinced was instantly going to burst the bubble of popularity the Beatles had inflated.

  ‘Er, Paul,’ I bumbled, ‘could I have a word?’

  ‘It’s OK, Al. It’s cool,’ said Paul without removing the easy grin from his face.

  ‘But, I’m not sure that Brian would …’

  ‘It’s OK, Al. Relax. It’s time the truth came out.’

  I was horrified, because at this time there had been accusations and colourful stories and all the rest of it but none of the Beatles had stood up and admitted that they used illegal drugs. Paul clearly thought the time for this hypocrisy was over and the reporter’s notebook was by now twitching nervously in case this scoop was going to be snatched away from him. Paul introduced me to the reporter and told me to relax and carried on telling the world how much the Beatles enjoyed smoking cannabis. It did create a storm but the Beatles weathered it easily and I came to realise the extent of Paul’s talent for public relations. He hadn’t talked to Brian or the other three before going public. And for all the notice he took of my nervous warnings, I might as well have stayed on the other side of the wall.

  Mind you, when it came t
o odd requests, John gave me the biggest shock. We were at Abbey Road after a recording session and John laid down his guitar, turned to me and said, ‘Alistair, I want you to buy me an island.’ I thought this was just another example of the customary Lennon banter and responded: ‘Fine, John. What’ll it be? The Isle of Wight? The Isle of Man? A Caribbean island?’

  He said, ‘No, man. I’m absolutely serious. I need to have a place entirely of my own. I want an island with a fresh water supply and green grass.’ And he handed me a piece of paper with island, fresh water and grass written on it. This was clearly a plan he had devoted several seconds to preparing. ‘I want to build a house on it to get some peace and privacy. Somewhere Cyn and I can go to get away. Oh, and it mustn’t be more than two hours from London,’ said John. This was an interesting challenge, I had to admit. Not since George had asked me to buy him a church had I been handed such a poser. In that case, George had pretty soon gone off the idea of sleeping on the altar so I could forget all about it. But John was as near to serious as he ever managed to be. I contacted the big estate agents and drew a blank, but a couple of days after John’s request there was an ad in the Times personal column: ‘Island for sale off the west coast of Ireland. The Westport Harbour Board will hold a public auction …’

  My instant reaction was that this was yet another Lennon wind-up. The sequence of events was a little too coincidental so I rang Cynthia to see if this was an elaborate John joke. She swore John was not messing around this time. He really did want an island and she liked the sound of their own little Emerald Isle. So before you could say ‘Top of the morning’ to a leprechaun, I was on a flight to Ireland. The island for sale was called Dorinish in Clew Bay off Connaught. I finally arrived by motorboat to find that this particular piece of real estate was in fact two islands joined by a sand and pebble spit of land and measuring around 30 acres. It was fairly flat, with lovely beaches and a freshwater spring. If you really wanted to get away from it all, Dorinish seemed an excellent place to go. I took photos, noted that the only sign of habitation was the pile of stones, which was all that remained of the old pilot’s cottage. I got the snaps developed and took them out to Kenwood, John’s house in Weybridge. He took one look and shouted, ‘That’s it! I’ve got to have it! Go and buy it for me, Alistair.’

  The only snag was that the auction was the very next day. I couldn’t get another flight at such short notice so I had to rush to get the boat train from Euston to Holyhead. Brian’s brother Clive arranged for his chauffeur to meet me on the platform at Crewe and give me £800 for a deposit. Only the train didn’t stop at Crewe. The poor chap found out eventually and drove all the way to Holyhead getting not one but two speeding tickets and gave me the money there.

  When I arrived in Westport by mid-morning, I decided to call on the auctioneer Mr Browne, who had his office in the local milliner’s shop. In his inner sanctum tucked away behind the drapery and hats, we struck up a quick friendship. He was an elderly man and he had lived in London in his youth and wanted to chat about the capital. I was happy to talk and to share an enormous glass of Jameson’s with him. Something positive must have clicked in him as he leaned forward and asked me earnestly, ‘Do you really want to buy this island?

  ‘Very much,’ I said, ‘but I’m only a young businessman and my limit is probably less than £2,000.’ If I’d said I was buying it for John Lennon, the price would have been £2 million. Mr Browne looked conspiratorially at me and winked. He said, ‘There’s a syndicate from Manchester who want to put a casino on our island. The reserve price is £1,550. If you want my advice, you’ll let my son, Michael, who is the only solicitor here in Westport, do the bidding for you.’

  Something about the twinkle in the old man’s eye made me do as I was told. When the auction began, Mr Browne sung the barren island’s praises as if he was about to auction Manhattan. I began to regret that I had pitched my limit so low as the bidding went steadily up to £1,000 and beyond. Mr Browne’s son was hidden behind a large newspaper, taking no part in the bidding. Finally, the price rose to £1,500 and my palms were sweating. I started to wonder if the Brownes had taken me for a mug by promising to handle my bidding. But I should have had more trust in my judgement.

  Father Browne spoke up during a brief pause. ‘Any further bids?’

  From behind the newspaper, young Browne declared, ‘£1,550.’

  ‘Done,’ came the decisive voice of my friend the auctioneer and I was at least briefly the proud owner of my very own island. There was a gasp that rang round the room at this dramatic end to the auction and the men from Manchester started to protest. I went towards Michael to congratulate him, but he had already left. I left as the Manchester men’s uproar grew and telephoned John. He was delighted, especially about the price. Even rock millionaires like a bargain.

  I reported back to John at Kenwood and he was over the moon with his purchase. He was anxious to go and visit it straight away, but I was dreading this because it meant revealing to the Brownes and others in Westport that I had not been completely straight with them over the purchase.

  But after a few weeks, he pushed me into it. He brought John Dunbar from the Indica Gallery and the three of us flew off to Dublin to get a car to drive us across Ireland. The car was late and we had to wait at the airport. John chatted amiably to a few fellow travellers who were delighted to get the chance to meet a Beatle. ‘I felt almost normal for a minute or two,’ said John. ‘They were Manchester United fans. I was just trying to convert them to supporting Liverpool.’

  We got into a large Austin Princess and I swear we could have floated across Ireland without using the engine because John Dunbar and John Lennon were smoking dope and popping pills as if they were going out of fashion. I was terrified that the driver would notice the pot fumes but they didn’t care. They just giggled all the way across Ireland. Then we hired an old boat and finally John got to see his island. He jumped off the boat, turned towards me, and said, ‘Fucking hell, Al. It’s fantastic. The pictures don’t even do it justice.’ He loved it. We walked all over it with John leading the way. He was like a kid in his enthusiasm. Then suddenly he stopped and yelled at us both to do the same. ‘Watch out,’ yelled John pointing down at something. ‘Don’t move,’ he shouted. I thought from his reactions he had spotted a land mine, at the very least. But it was a gull’s egg and he firmly warned us, ‘Don’t either of you tread on an egg.’ Once John had spotted the eggs we all had to tread very carefully indeed. It seems the wild man of rock was desperately keen not to break any birds’ eggs.

  It was a wonderful trip. The drugs had worn off by then and this was the old John talking. He was funny and friendly and fabulous to be with. He was wearing his old Afghan coat that he loved and he put his arm round my shoulders and said, ‘This island is just great, Al. I’m going to give you a corner of it to build your house to get away from it all. That bit down there,’ he said pointing to a little peninsula jutting out into the Atlantic. ‘That bit is for you and Lesley. Build a holiday cottage and then you can escape like us.’

  Nice idea, but we never did of course. After that first trip, the people of Westport were in no doubt as to who the real purchaser of the island was and the second time we went we got quite a reception. John’s friend ‘Magic’ Alex Mardas was involved by this time, with his plan to build John a house on Dorinish and a ‘recording studio which floats a foot off the ground so there are no vibrations.’

  We flew this time with Gregory’s Air Taxis to a new airstrip which had been built three miles from Westport at Castlebar. We took an architect and a solicitor and John, Alex and myself. Only when we got there the pilot had some difficulty finding the new landing site. Fortunately it was a clear day and he eventually spotted it. Finding anyone on the radio to clear us to land was nothing like as easy. The two brothers who operated the strip were both vets and they were otherwise engaged delivering a calf. When we landed, we were greeted by a full civic reception with the mayor and his council all a
nxious to meet John Lennon.

  I almost began to relax with the satisfaction of a job well done. But then John said, ‘What I want now is a boat. If I live on an island, I want my own boat so I can come and go as I please.’ I spoke to a few shipbrokers and discovered there was a motor torpedo boat for sale in Guernsey. John really liked the idea of starting his own navy. ‘I could sail up the Thames and sink the Tower of London,’ he told me, and I was despatched to the Channel Islands to take a look at this floating veteran of the Second World War. It had two huge Perkins engines and it was really fast. It had taken me a couple of hours in an old fishing boat to get to Dorinish. This MTB would get there in about five minutes.

  My next job was to transport the gypsy caravan that John had in the grounds of Kenwood over to Dorinish, so I had to arrange for a raft to take it across.

  A large scare over Ringo came when I managed to lose him completely somewhere in Paris’s Orly airport. He and the family were on holiday in Corsica when I got a call from Ringo demanding to come home early. Evidently the locals insisted on talking in a foreign language and the food wasn’t nearly as appealing as it is back home in Liverpool, so Ringo and wife Maureen, son Zak, plus Maureen’s mother and the nanny, wanted to come home pronto. Could I fix it?

  In those days, there wasn’t another direct flight to London for almost a week. So I organised Ringo and his group to fly to Paris and I’d meet them there and bring them home in the private jet. The first part worked like a dream but we had a mix-up with the air taxi company and had to make do with a much slower twin-prop plane. When we got to Orly, Ringo’s plane had already landed. But there was no sign of my passengers. I organised a search party, divided the place into four sections and we each went off to track down Ringo and family. But he was nowhere to be seen. It was only when I bumped into Maureen in the café that I found the elusive Beatle. She pointed him out to me. The world’s most famous rock drummer was sitting forlornly with Zak on his knee surrounded by a small mountain of hand luggage. I hadn’t been there to meet him so he’d booked the party on the next flight to London and was sitting patiently waiting. Once I’d explained the circumstances, he did seem pleased to see me. As for not being mobbed, he’d enjoyed every second of his strange anonymity.