Brian was embarrassed and ashamed, Bob knew where to lay the blame (“If you haven’t got the organization to promote something two hundred miles away then it is better not to do it at all”), and Vic Anton joined his fellow promoters in yelling Enough!—the Beatles weren’t worth either the hassle or the money. Wooler would recall how their £15 fee for these fifteen minutes, which Anton did pay, became “the talk of the scene—the promoters said, ‘They’re going to demand the moon!’ ”19 The Beatles played Hambleton Hall just once more, five weeks later and free of charge, which Brian arranged as compensation for this night, but otherwise it was over. While this wasn’t the kind of venue Brian envisaged for the Beatles’ future, Anton’s withdrawal merely added to his problems. His challenge for 1962 was doubling. On the one hand, he was committed to increasing their nightly earnings; on the other, he’d have to create the opportunities—the venues and promotions—that would pay it.
• • •
Apart from the three Lennon-McCartney Originals, the Beatles added two songs to their set in December 1961. One was an unusual choice—the 1930s film tune “September in the Rain.” The influence here was Dinah Washington, the so-called Queen of the Blues, whose sassy, classy reading of the old number made the American and British charts at the end of the year; the Beatles swapped its orchestral strings for guitar strings and twanged their way through it in the Cavern, with Paul taking lead vocal.
Their other new song crossed the Atlantic with great expectations, was loved by aficionados, bought by almost no one and would remain a favorite for years. Its British label, Fontana, gave no clue to the US origin of “Please Mr. Postman” by a Michigan girl-group called the Marvelettes … but it was Tamla, and it had just delivered the little Detroit label its first number 1 on the Billboard pop chart, the Hot 100. It became the third Tamla song in the Beatles’ repertoire and all were sung by John, with Paul and George head to head at the second microphone to deliver the prominent backing vocals, and all three adding the handclaps high, at head level, as a visual attraction. They immediately made the song theirs in Liverpool. Billy Hatton, of the rock and comedy group the Four Jays, says that first seeing the Beatles play “Please Mr. Postman” was “a wow moment. I was struck by how tight they were. As a semi-pro group, the Four Jays would take a month to start playing a new song really well.”20
The occasion described by Hatton was probably the Cavern evening session on December 13, when the Four Jays and Gerry and the Pacemakers were support acts in the Beatles’ Wednesday residency … and Decca A&R man Mike Smith was in the audience. Brian Epstein would recall the moment, saying it “caused a tremendous stir. What an occasion! An A&R manager at the Cavern!”21
Decca had responded swiftly to Brian’s London visit on the first day of the month, and he could justifiably claim a triumph in getting an A&R man up to Liverpool just ten days after John had assented to his management. The timing actually augured well for all sides, because Decca had just announced a root-and-branch revamp of its popular-singles A&R team, “a dynamic new policy” designed to be more in tune with changing trends and “increase Decca’s success with singles by British artists.”22 The news was all over the music press: Mike Smith, previously Dick Rowe’s assistant, had been promoted to A&R man in his own right, one of a team reporting to Rowe but able to make creative decisions of his own; another member of the team, the one who took the headlines, was Tony Meehan, who’d quit his position as the Shadows’ drummer in order to become a record producer. Smith, then, arrived in Liverpool buoyed by his promotion, empowered to find his own artists and keen to make his mark in the new setup.
Paul McCartney wasn’t so happy that Smith was in the Cavern this particular night, worrying the Decca man would prefer Gerry and the Pacemakers over the Beatles. The smart dinner to which Brian treated the A&R executive before he saw the Beatles may have been timed so he’d miss most of the Pacemakers’ set. He certainly saw the Beatles, though, and was impressed: “It was incredibly hot, crowded, smoky, but very exciting in the Cavern. Everybody’s reaction to the Beatles was amazing. It was very early in my career as a producer—they were probably one of the first people I’d seen play live. I didn’t have the power to give them a contract that night in the Cavern but I told Brian they should come down to London for a test in the studio.”23
The date fixed between the two men was January 1, 1962.
Some of the gloss was then knocked off Brian’s delight. Six days later, he received a “No” from EMI. Ron White had played “My Bonnie” to EMI’s Artistes Managers, who’d concluded the company had “sufficient groups of this type at the present time under contract and that it would not be advisable for us to sign any further contracts of this nature at present.”24
With hindsight, Brian must have appreciated that he’d made an error of judgment in presenting the Beatles to EMI by this method. He’d expected it to lead to a personal appraisal, as it had at Decca, but instead they’d closed the door. He might need to try forcing it open at some point, but, for now, with Decca’s strong interest, he could afford to leave it be and concentrate his efforts there.
What had happened, though? The official line within EMI, after managing director L. G. Wood reviewed the matter in December 1963, was that Ron White played the record to only two of the company’s four A&R men, Wally Ridley and Norman Newell, and both turned it down “on the basis that it sounded like a bad recording of the Shadows—and apparently it did!” (a strange explanation, given that it didn’t sound like the Shadows at all).25 However, the fact remains that in the only surviving document from the time, White specified he’d played “My Bonnie” “to each of our Artistes Managers” and mentioned nothing about excluding Norrie Paramor and George Martin. There’s no way of knowing if he was being entirely truthful, but he wrote this when there was no need for anything else.
Such rejections were part and parcel of everyday work, and increasingly now A&R men were having to deal with applications from vocal-instrumental groups. This very week (December 16, 1961), Disc examined the situation in an article headlined MORE BEAT GROUPS THAN EVER—BUT THEY DON’T STAND A CHANCE ON DISC. Its author, the venerable music journalist Dick Tatham, wanted to know why groups were flourishing in the ballrooms but couldn’t get recording contracts, and he sought answers from two recording managers, including George Martin, who replied, “A beat group presents far more of a problem than does a solo artist. Many approach me; but I’m not interested unless I hear a distinct sound—one you can recognize right away. I hardly ever get it. Even when I do, there’s the snag of finding the right material. For a group, that’s most difficult.”
• • •
Record companies didn’t routinely hold artist management contracts, but it was probably from Decca or EMI that Brian Epstein first obtained a sample document. He never revealed whose it was, only that the terms were “quite disgraceful: it gave the artists no freedom, hardly any money, and bound them. It was tough.” It could have been a “weekly wage” contract or the kind that stole as much as 50 percent of an artist’s earnings—they were all one or the other, their every clause shaped solely to the manager’s advantage, many of them concealing outright theft of present and future rights and income. Line up every 1950s/’60s pop artist in Britain and America and ask those who weren’t screwed by management to raise a hand, and you will see very few hands. This was the lions’ den Brian was now entering, intent on being fair.26
The Heads of Agreement he’d sketched out with the Beatles’ accountant was fine on one level but not enough to do the job properly. Brian knew he and the Beatles needed an actual contract—and, as E. Rex Makin wouldn’t handle it, he turned to David Harris, a young partner at lawyers Silverman, Livermore & Co., who had a smart reputation and mixed in the same social circles as his family.
I’d never done this before so it was a challenge, and good fun. Brian may well have given me something to work from, I don’t exactly remember, but he was very keen indeed to ensure that th
e contract was a fair one. This was the tenor of his instruction: “I want to be fair.” He was a middle-class boy, well educated, well spoken, dealing with lads who were, in that sense and in those days, of an inferior class. And he was very conscious of that, and he wanted to ensure that he wasn’t seen to be taking advantage of them because of his position and because he was a director of a record retail company. So it was stated, and understood, and indeed acted upon. It was absolutely admirable.
I did say to Brian that I would be happier if they [the Beatles] were independently represented—on the basis that he didn’t want to take advantage of them—but, as I recall it, they didn’t want to be. They were perfectly happy for him to let me do it and to accept what we did.27
The first fruit of the Harris-Epstein labors was never seen by the Beatles—they saw it only after extensive alterations. Harris extracted the substance from the sample nothing contract, copying its outline terms, and took instruction from Brian on the specifics. He also talked him out of the notion of only claiming a percentage of any additional income he earned them, on the basis that it was unfair to Brian himself. As first drafted, the agreement was between Brian Epstein, the four named Artistes (this was the standard word in such contracts; “Beatles” didn’t need to appear) and also the fathers of Paul, George and Pete because their sons were under 21. It was an exclusive contract for five years from February 1, 1962, paying Brian 10 percent of all monies received, rising to 20 percent if their earnings exceeded £1,500 each per year (presently, they were earning about £1,000–1,100). Brian sought sole direction over their advertising, publicity, photographs, clothes, makeup, presentation and construction of acts, and the music they would perform.
One additional clause (7) specified, “The manager may at any time if he so desires split up the Artistes with whom this Agreement is made so that they shall perform as separate individual performers.” This was probably nothing more than a hangover from the sample contract, or perhaps it reflected Brian’s thinking after (as Alistair Taylor alone would claim, without verification) Paul had said he hoped the Beatles would be successful as a group, but, if they weren’t, he’d still be shooting for stardom—presumably alone.28
The draft went to Brian a day or two before Christmas and he worried about it through the holiday, taking a red pen to lines here and entire clauses there. As much as he’d hoped to have the contract wrapped up by the time the Beatles went down to Decca on New Year’s Day, it was clear there’d have to be a second draft in January.
Brian’s influence over the Beatles’ clothes would become apparent in time; for the moment, he was happy for them to keep their leather image and to promote them dressed that way. He arranged, and paid for, the Beatles’ first photo session done expressly for PR—its images would be used for promotion and advertising over the next few months—and instructed his boys to wear their leather suits and black T-shirts; he also got John, Paul and George to hold their guitars and Pete to set up his drums.
The session took place in Wallasey Village on Sunday, December 17. The photographer, Albert Marrion, mostly did wedding and portrait work—in fact he’d already taken portrait shots of Brian. He was a Liverpool drinking acquaintance, had a military bearing, was much older and almost entirely bald—which was why (to Marrion’s irritation) John kept calling him Curly. He’d recall how “John and Paul joked and laughed throughout most of the session, George Harrison was quiet and Pete Best didn’t speak almost at all.”29
Brian was present, and involved himself in suggesting the different groupings and setups. Except where their faces betrayed a moment of private humor, these were not smiling shots: the Beatles were instructed to keep a straight face and, in most of them, look right into the camera. Brian pressed Marrion to print the photos quickly and returned to select the one main shot he needed for publicity. In this, they’re all gazing into the lens, and George seems particularly stern; only Paul shows the slightest trace of a smirk.
Brian’s PR buildup for “My Bonnie” ’s release was boosted with news, revealed three days before Christmas, that the Beatles had won the Mersey Beat poll. The results would be announced in the first issue of 1962, but they’d finished ahead of Gerry and the Pacemakers, the Remo Four and Rory Storm and the Hurricanes. Brian sent Christmas cards to each of the Beatles—his own stock, his home address printed on the bottom—and personalized the message “With all Good Wishes for Christmas and the New Year” with the words “(especially January 1st).” He also gave them alarm clocks, writing on each gift tag—the back of his business card—“My little bit to get you all on in time.” The presents were both practical and symbolic: these were traveling alarm clocks. They’d be going places in 1962.
On December 27, 1960, the Beatles had closed a year full of surprises and startling progress with a climactic show at Litherland Town Hall. On December 27, 1961, they closed a year full of promise and triumphs as John, Paul, George and Ringo. It was their own special night in the Cavern, advertised as The Beatles’ Christmas Party, a right rockin’ seasonal knees-up with guests Gerry and the Pacemakers and King-Size Taylor and the Dominoes. It was Liverpool’s coldest December night in eleven years (16°F/minus 9°C) and Pete called in sick. Instead of using Fred Marsden of the Pacemakers, or Dave Lovelady of the Dominoes, John, Paul and George decided to get Ringo, although it isn’t clear whether they sent word via Jones the Newsagent or if Ringo was in the Cavern anyway—the Hurricanes didn’t have a booking and the night did promise to be a good one.
John, Paul and George all liked Ringo, and George was forming the closest relationship. Dick Matthews had just taken another photograph of them together, when the Beatles and Hurricanes shared a bill at New Brighton Tower. They’d enjoyed each other’s company since playing alternate sets in the Kaiserkeller in October/November 1960, and spent much of 1961 weaving through each other’s lives. At The Beatles’ Christmas Party they engaged deeper still, as musicians. The Beatles instantly enjoyed having Ringo in the group. It felt good, as George explained: “[When Ringo] sat in with us it felt complete. It just really happened, it felt really good. And after the shows we were all friends with Ringo and we liked him a lot and hung out with him, whereas Pete—he was like a loner. He would finish the gig and then he would go.”30
Whether Pete’s dismissal from the Beatles would come within weeks or months, it was coming. His days had been numbered from the start, but he’d maintained his status through the combination of his being generally invaluable to John, Paul and George, and their being too reticent to deliver the push. It hadn’t taken Brian long to work out the situation. He personally liked Pete, though he found him moody, but the others told or gave him the impression that Pete was “Conventional. Didn’t fit in too well as drummer or man. Beat too slow. George thought so. Friendly with John, but Paul and George didn’t like him.”31
If having Ringo in the group this night put the Beatles in mind of kicking Pete out and bringing him in, that possibility was instantly rendered unachievable because three days later, out of the blue, Ringo quit the Hurricanes and went abroad.
His Houston emigration plan had come to a halt. After completing application forms and jumping through different administrative hoops, what Ringo called “the really big forms” arrived, inquiring into not only his political allegiances but those of his wider family, questions he would paraphrase as “Was your grandfather’s Great Dane a Commie?” The forms were impertinent; worse than that, they were complicated. “They were just ridiculous, too crazy to bother with, so we ripped them up and said, ‘Sod it.’ ”32 In place of Houston, Ringo went to Hamburg.
Tony Sheridan was to be the star attraction at the Top Ten Club through January and February 1962, and instead of being backed by whatever group was around, he’d have his own musicians—in effect, a temporary Top Ten house band. Needing a drummer, Sheridan and Peter Eckhorn took advantage of a quiet Hamburg post-Christmas to journey to Liverpool, where they were sure to find a good one. Their first choice was Fred Ma
rsden but he said no—then he pointed them in the direction of Ringo’s house, across the other side of the Dingle. As Sheridan recalls, “We spent a while looking for his street and then I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Ringo invited us in, we told him why we were there and did he want to come back with us to Hamburg? And he said ‘OK’ and did.”33
Ringo had been chasing a challenge since the summer, his tenure in the Hurricanes merely an accommodation. There was more to life than this. Rory and the group might not have realized his thinking, but surely they did now—he gave them only twenty-four hours’ notice before shooting off to the Continent for a couple of months. Ringo operated like this: he’d made up his mind, and that was it; times had been good and now they were over; he wished them well, he owed them nothing, he was moving on.
His decision marooned the Hurricanes up a creek. Rory and Johnny had to decide whether to find temporary deputies for two months and hope Ringo came back in March, or ditch him and get a real replacement. They elected to wait for his return and pick up a different drummer every night from whoever was sharing the bill. Hindsight would show they made the wrong choice. On the slide anyway, Rory Storm and the Hurricanes floundered. In 1960, by common consensus, they were the biggest Liverpool group; they’d already slipped to fourth in the coming Mersey Beat poll, and in 1962 they would plummet, just when everyone else was coming up.
Tune In Page 79
