With the Beatles

by Alistair Taylor

  After a while, we handed our doodles round for the others to judge and analyse. There were all sorts of strange patterns and curves but I was identified as the odd one out for not drawing circles. My doodles were in straight lines. This became the subject of some detailed debate, and some of it was half-serious. I think they thought this free-range means of expression would open a key to the inner workings of each of our minds or something like that. I think they decided I drew straight lines because I was rather straight. Which I admit I am. I’d like to be a genius like John or a brilliant songwriter like Paul, but I’m not. John asked, ‘All of our corners are round and all of yours are sharp. They are all zig-zags and squares. Why do you doodle like that?’

  ‘God knows,’ I replied, feeling rather puzzled. John spent a long time carefully studying my pathetic doodles, trying to work out why I was the odd doodler out, but he couldn’t come up with anything better than, ‘It must have been something in your childhood, Al.’ I suppose he’s right. It didn’t seem that important. But after that, he would every now and then look at me slightly oddly and say creepily, ‘Ooooh, sharp corners,’ as if I was some sort of closet axe murderer.

  The darker workings of the human mind did intrigue John. Months later, when we were back in England, he asked me to bring some papers over and when I got there what he really wanted was for me to join him and Julian in a drawing session. We laid on our stomachs on the floor of the kitchen and my corners were still sharp.

  After months of hard work and very long hours, the Greek trip for me became a golden time and my happiest memory came late one moonlit night when John, George, Mal and I sat out on deck watching a glorious Greek moon. The captain was holding the yacht steadily on a course towards the beam of light that the moon threw on to the gently rippled surface of the sea. It seemed as if we were sailing up through the heavens right up to the moon, yet never seeming to come any closer. It was a wonderfully relaxing night as George picked out the notes of the Hare Krishna chorus on his ukulele and John, Mal and I quietly chanted the words. Beatlemania seemed to have finally been left far behind and we were totally at peace with the world as we sat there with legs crossed in the lotus position, staring together up at the shining column of marvellous moonbeams. We must have drifted on like that for a couple of hours until I clumsily broke the silence, ‘Just look at that moon.’

  John Lennon couldn’t resist as he responded laconically, ‘Well spotted, Alistair.’

  We all fell about laughing and from that day onwards it became my catchphrase. Whatever I pointed out to the boys, the chances were that the response would be a mickey-taking, ‘Well spotted, Alistair.’

  When we finally arrived at the magical island that was for sale, the boys were instantly under its spell. It only had a fishing village with a few hundred occupants who were friendly and hospitable but mercifully not overly interested in the Beatles. The party was able to wander around drinking in the sublime tranquillity of the place. To visit that island was to fall in love with it and that is what the Beatles and their womenfolk proceeded to do. I was swiftly ordered to get on with the purchase without delay.

  But when we got back to London, we discovered that while the Government would allow us to spend the £90,000 they would not sanction the extra expense necessary to build homes and the planned recording studio. We got a letter signed by James Callaghan detailing this great concession in view of the boys’ services to exports and the recording industry. I’m sure that Brian could have diverted money that was already held abroad. But Brian was rather straight about things like that and he firmly refused to break even the spirit of the law, let alone the letter. The Beatles battled on for weeks and I was endlessly occupied by the project. We got lawyers’ opinions, drafted appeals, and tried to recruit support for the purchase. Then Neil came to me with the news that the Beatles were fed up with all the aggro associated with the island and wanted to forget the whole thing.

  Brian opened a private office devoted entirely to the Beatles in a place called Hille House, just off Albermarle Street, and I moved my base there. It was much more peaceful, particularly because the fans didn’t know about it initially. I worked there for quite a while with Wendy Hanson and our most frequent visitors were the Beatles themselves. My favourite guest was young Julian who would call in with John, or Cynthia. He was a boisterous little lad and he used to enjoy starting his visits by crashing me to the ground in a rugby tackle. We had a happy little routine whenever he arrived that I would get a buzz on the intercom from Wendy if Julian was approaching so I could go out into the corridor to be knocked to the ground. I always had to crash to the ground simulating great agony, which seemed to delight the little lad. If I happened to be inconveniently on the phone then Wendy had to keep him talking until I come out and fulfilled my dream role – punchbag to the Beatles.

  The Beatles took up most of my time as far and away Brian’s biggest act, but I also helped out from time to time with his other great Liverpool chart-topper, Cilla Black. When I first met Cilla, she was about 21. Bobby Willis was her road manager in those days. They were going out together but this was long before they got married and sometimes it seemed it was a very stormy sort of romance. On three separate occasions, I had to rush over and act as peacemaker after they’d had another bust up. Each time when I arrived at the theatre, they were sitting on opposite sides of the room, firmly refusing to speak to each other. I’d have to talk to Cilla first to find out what had gone wrong from her point of view. Then I’d cross to Bobby and get his version of events. I’m not a therapist, but just by talking I seemed to be able to get Cilla and Bobby back together again. They were potty about each other even then, but they both had a great knack of letting rows escalate. Usually, I’d do a bit of chatting and then I would announce, ‘Right. We’re having lunch, now.’ And the three of us would sit down to a meal. And that was it. So I always used to claim that I had saved their marriage even before their wedding day. They just needed someone to bang their heads together and Brian decided that was another job for Mr Fixit.

  Brian really worked his artists hard. Cilla was doing a summer season at Blackpool which was a big booking. She was second top to The Bachelors from Monday to Saturday and, on Sunday, Brian had booked two concerts in Great Yarmouth, backed by Sounds Incorporated, another of our groups.

  I was in London when I received a tearful telephone call from Cilla. She was very upset and told me, ‘Bobby has gone to Liverpool.’ She was in floods of tears because they had had a huge row this time and he had told her it was all over and had driven back home. I discovered that this time the trouble was serious. Bobby was convinced Cilla had been flirting with Adam Faith, who was also appearing on the bill in Blackpool. Things became more fraught by the second.

  Naturally, I was anxious to be as helpful as possible to one of Brian’s favoured stars, but definitely didn’t want to become involved in a potentially disastrous domestic dispute.

  ‘I don’t want to go to Great Yarmouth on my own with a driver I don’t know,’ said Cilla. My heart sank, because I knew her schedule meant being picked up at the stage door in Blackpool and chauffeured through the night to Yarmouth in one of our faithful old Austin Princess limos. I tried to placate Cilla but even as a young woman she was not someone to be easily pacified. She didn’t know that the chauffeur wasn’t a potential rapist and there was no way she was travelling across the country through the night with someone she did not know. Through the lines of our conversation, it dawned on me that Cilla was really saying that, under the circumstances, she was in serious need of some tender loving care from the management. In case I was in any doubt about the situation, she explained simply, ‘I’m not going unless you come up here and travel across to Yarmouth with me.’

  I argued for a while but I was already looking at my watch. It was Saturday afternoon and I knew I could just get up to Blackpool in time for the end of the show. I agreed. I got the train and then a taxi and arrived at the ABC Cinema in Blackpool about
ten minutes before the show ended. I was met by a very sad and subdued Cilla.

  ‘Has he really gone for good?’ I asked tactfully.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘And it’s about time.’

  We climbed together into the large rear seat of the gleaming limo and Cilla perked up a little. She said, ‘I’ll tell you what, Al. I’d love some fish and chips.’

  I agreed we’d stop at the next one and asked the driver to pull over. We stopped and there were crowds of people outside on a busy Saturday night in Blackpool. ‘Stay there,’ I advised Cilla, like the last of the big spenders, ‘I’ll get these.’ And I stepped out of the car and strode towards the fish and chip shop. I was just walking across to the front of the shop when this raucous Liverpool voice rang out after me, ‘Hey, Al. Will you get us a bottle of lemonade an’ all.’ So much for keeping the star’s identity under wraps.

  We sat in the back of the car eating our chips and sharing the lemonade and it was one of those magic nights. Cilla was fresh and funny and had all the charm that has since turned her into one of Britain’s favourite stars. And although her marriage to Bobby Willis was to become one of the happiest in showbiz until his tragically early death, I have to say that that night she did not seem deeply disheartened by his sudden disappearance. Eventually she dozed off gently with her head on my shoulder and every time I saw her afterwards she would joke about the night we slept together from one side of the country to the other.

  The following day in Great Yarmouth, I was prevented from taking Cilla to lunch at the Carlton Hotel by a pompous head waiter who insisted I wear a tie. I was irritated partly because I was wearing a very expensive turtle-neck sweater. He wanted me to wrap a tie around the neck of my sweater. Cilla said, ‘You’re joking. Don’t be so silly. He’s one of my managers.’ But the guy wouldn’t budge.

  I never did find out if Cilla really had been flirting with Adam Faith. When I gently raised the subject, she gave me a wink and there was a distinct twinkle in her eye. But she and Bobby were back together again by the following week, and he even thanked me for taking such good care of her.

  Cilla became really so fed up with Brian because she felt he was concentrating all his efforts on the Beatles. She accused him of tunnel vision. Gerry threatened the same thing but Cilla took it further and said she was tearing up the agreement. So Brian took drastic action to keep Cilla – he bought her a colour television set and took her and husband Bobby out to dinner.

  If Brian had lived, then the whole Apple débâcle would never have happened the way it did. The plans to set up Apple began when Brian was still alive, but he wasn’t involved. He didn’t want to know about Apple. This was the boys’ own project. But if he had lived, he would have stepped in and explained to them that they were going crazy. With Apple they were rudderless. But they wouldn’t listen to Neil, or to me. If I objected to anything particularly crazy, they would just say to me, ‘Oh don’t be a drag, Al.’ In the next breath, they would bring me back in to do something for them; Brian would have given them the control they needed.

  11

  THE NIGHTMARE

  Brian twice rang me and said he had had enough of life and was going to commit suicide. Both occasions happened on a Sunday. Each time he said, ‘Oh, Alistair, I’ve had enough now. I am just ringing to say goodbye.’ I would try to talk some sense into him but the telephone would go dead. I’d dash out and grab a cab and rush round there. He had this marvellous woman called Vivienne Moynihan who was his secretary. Once when I turned up, she was arriving at the same time. I was getting out of one cab and she was getting out of another. Brian had obviously telephoned both of us with the same doom-laden message. We dashed up the steps together and he was just sitting there.

  ‘What are you two doing here on a Sunday?’ he asked.

  ‘Brian, you rang us,’ I said. ‘You said you’d had enough. You were saying goodbye.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be stupid,’ said Brian indignantly. ‘I was just a bit down. Leave me alone.’

  I imagine he had decided he would kill himself in a fit of drug-induced irritation and then the drugs had worn off and he had forgotten all about the idea, let alone the fact that he had called me and frightened me half to death.

  So when I got the call on 27 August 1967, I had just walked through the door having had an unscheduled extra weekend in San Francisco. I said to Lesley, ‘Oh, it’s probably just another of Brian’s games. But I’d better check.’

  I had spoken to Brian 48 hours earlier and he was full of beans about my bringing the Four Tops back to Britain again. He had seemed on top of the world but when I got this phone call I got a funny feeling in the back of my neck that told me I just had to go. I was tired from the flight and I hadn’t seen Lesley for a week. At first I thought, Let somebody else go and check Brian’s place out. But I had this strange feeling that this one I had to go to and, of course, I was right.

  It was the middle of a Bank Holiday weekend. I had just flown back from California when the news came through that something was wrong. I was still dressed in the denim shirt, jeans and sandals I had travelled in when I got a call from Brian’s house in Belgravia. I was just giving Lesley a couple of small presents from Los Angeles. I was looking forward to a good long soak in the bath when Joanne Newfield, Brian’s secretary, rang to say she’d had a call from Brian’s house that something was wrong. Joanne sounded shaky as she told me that Antonio and Maria, Brian’s butler and housekeeper, couldn’t get Brian to respond to knocks on his bedroom door. His door was locked and they hadn’t seen him since Friday night. They phoned Joanne because they didn’t know what to do. She was heading over there to see if something was wrong.

  Joanne said, ‘I don’t really fancy going. I’m sure he is all right. They swear he is there in the bedroom, though. Will you join me at Chapel Street, please, Alistair? I know you’ve just come in from the States, but I’m a bit worried.’

  I didn’t really have a choice and I had a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. ‘Yeah, of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to take a cab, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  Lesley was pretty unhappy about this. She was used to panic calls from the office at crazy times, but when I’d just walked in after a transatlantic flight and a week away from home, it was becoming ridiculous. She did her nut. I was running after Brian when I should have been looking after her. I tried to be reasonable.

  ‘It will be one of two things – either Brian will have gone out without them noticing or he will be sitting up in bed asking what all the fuss is about. I’ll either be a long time or I’ll be back for lunch.’

  Lesley was convinced that this was Brian just playing games again.

  Still, I had to treat the call as deadly serious and I rushed out to grab a cab. Eventually, I managed to get a taxi and I arrived at Brian’s house. Joanne opened the door, looking like death warmed up herself, and said just one word: ‘Upstairs.’

  Now I was worried. I ran up the stairs two at a time and as I was half-way up I heard the sound of splintering wood. Joanne had telephoned the doctor when she’d hammered on the door of Brian’s room but hadn’t been able to get any reply. The doctor had put his shoulder to the door and forced it open in a sensible piece of direct action. I followed him into the room. I saw Brian lying in the bed and the doctor leaned over him. My heart was in my mouth. All sorts of thoughts flashed through my mind. Brian slept on a huge double bed that was really two single beds pushed together to make a huge sleeping area. Brian was lying on his side on the bed. He looked as though he was asleep but I knew straight away that he was dead. A wave of almost indescribable pain swept over me. I’ve never experienced anything like it before or since. Brian Epstein had changed my life in so many ways. He had changed me from a humble shop assistant into part of the management team of the greatest entertainers of the twentieth century.

  The doctor finished his brief examination and said, ‘Yes, I’m afraid he’s dead.’ The pain passed and I felt a terri
ble numbness come over me. All my movements seemed terribly deliberate and almost slow-motion.

  I looked around the room and I saw on the bedside table there were about eight different bottles of pills. They all had chemists’ labels. At that time, Brian was taking all sorts of medication. He lived on pills – pills to wake him up, pills to send him to sleep, pills to keep him lively, pills to quieten him down, pills to cure his indigestion. All the bottles had their caps properly in place and all of them were still quite full of pills. There was no empty bottle that I could see. By the side of the bed there was a pile of correspondence that he had obviously been going through. There was a plate with three chocolate digestive biscuits on it and down by the side of the bed there was a glass and a half-full bottle of bitter lemon. There was no sign of a note or a message, no blood, no disturbance of the bedclothes. Brian just seemed to be asleep with the bedclothes over him. He was 32.

  The doctor and I searched the room for any evidence of what might have happened to Brian. I found an enormous joint in a drawer and I quietly put it into my trouser pocket. We went downstairs and the doctor called the coroner’s office and I told Joanne.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to get hold of Clive.’

  We both knew this was a terrible blow for the Epstein family. Brian’s father Harry had died about six weeks before. He and Brian were always very close and Brian and his brother Clive had been heartbroken. I remember, even then, the thought going through my mind was that Brian could not possibly have taken his own life. He could never have done that to his beloved mother Queenie. She had been devastated by the loss of her husband and had just been down to London to stay with Brian. The whole family had been devastated by Harry’s death. Brian could never have intentionally brought more grief on his mother so soon.