Tarrach felt the Beatles played well with Roy Young but not with Tony Sheridan. “It didn’t work for me,” he says. “Sheridan was like the old world and they were on the way to the new.” Only one half of the old knockout combination was moving on up … however, first they had some final studio business to complete.
The last “Sheridan and Beatles” recordings were made at this time, on May 24. While Brian Epstein’s other plan was scotched—events in London meant there was no need for the Beatles to cut an LP independently in Hamburg—Bert Kaempfert did want his one last go before releasing them from their 1961 contract.
RECORDING SESSION
Thursday, May 24, 1962. Studio Rahlstedt, Wandsbek, Hamburg.
RECORDING: Swanee River; Sweet Georgia Brown. Backing tracks only; order of recording not known.
Give or take the odd night in 1967 or ’68, there was never a more throw-away or forgettable Beatles session than this, their final spin for an expiring contract, a bizarre last tango in Hamburg with the 38-year-old German orchestra leader-arranger-producer Bert Kaempfert.
The Beatles had buzzed for the June 1961 recordings but now didn’t need to be here at all. And Kaempfert, for his part, made such strange decisions that either he didn’t know what to do with them or was persuaded to do almost nothing. There’s no proof of this, but perhaps he discussed the session with Brian Epstein and Brian expressed a wish that little of any substance be recorded—because this, emphatically, sums up what happened. Kaempfert used the Beatles less in 1962 than 1961, though they were top of the bill at the Star-Club and EMI had found them worth signing.
John and Paul didn’t show Bert their new songs and Bert showed the Beatles only very old ones: they were to beat up two great American standards, “Sweet Georgia Brown” and “Swanee River,” for Tony Sheridan to sing. Oddly, however, Kaempfert and Sheridan had already recorded these numbers—they were on the just-issued My Bonnie album—and no purpose was served by remaking them when they could have done something else. Kaempfert died in 1980 without being asked to explain his reasoning. To compound the oddness of it, paperwork was generated showing the two tracks would be issued as a 45, then it didn’t happen: the tape of “Swanee River” was lost before it was ever released; and the Beatles’ “Sweet Georgia Brown,” while issued, would always be hard to find—it appeared on a West German EP and as a 45 in Greece.
The session was at Studio Rahlstedt, a new sound-recording facility in the borough of Wandsbek, close to the city center. For reasons unremembered, Sheridan almost certainly wasn’t present (he overdubbed his vocal two weeks later, on June 7), but there were still five performers: John, Paul, George, Pete and Roy Young—along with bystander Bernie Boyle. “Swanee River” can’t be assessed because the tape is lost, but “Sweet Georgia Brown” indicates what was done: the musicians made a backing track, with Paul on bass guitar, John playing a bit of rhythm, Roy on piano and Pete hitting a snare drum; George didn’t play but he and Paul sang some backing vocals.
The session’s sound was all but identical to what had been achieved in both June 1961 and the subsequent recordings Kaempfert made with Sheridan: it was Bertbeat—crisp, sharp, ordered, clinically clean. The musicians turned in a perfectly competent backing track … except Kaempfert again denied Pete most of the drum kit. This time he didn’t even get to touch the cymbal, only the snare. (He did well, though, and his timing was fine.)
Since working with Pete in 1961, Kaempfert had also exercised discipline with other drummers—most “Beat Brothers” recordings were percussively limited and he clearly didn’t care for bass drum on his sound—but making Pete use just the snare was something he’d done to no other. This was the third time out of three studio dates when Pete’s work wasn’t trusted or appreciated. Roy Young observed that “Pete really could not cut it as a recording drummer.” He also says John, Paul and George had already canvassed his opinion of Ringo, knowing they’d played together in the Top Ten house band at the start of the year. “One night we were sitting around having a drink and they asked what I thought about Ringo. I told them obviously he was a great drummer. Ringo was a metronome.”51
The following day, May 25, five ink signatures were applied to a single sheet of typed paper: Kaempfert, JP McCartney, G. Harrison, J. W. Lennon and R. P. Best. It was the last legal document the Beatles would sign without the presence of management … and it was on this same day, or tightly thereabouts, in Liverpool, that Brian Epstein put pen to paper on a new recording contract, one that would prove altogether more historic and robust: the agreement with EMI.
George Martin had little time or reason to reflect much on his imminent signing, “the Beattles.” He was overseeing further excellent sessions with Matt Monro; he was working hard on yet another “oncer,” getting Bernard Cribbins the right follow-up to “The Hole in the Ground”; he was planning more Beyond the Fringe recordings; he had May 23 set aside to tape a conceptual LP with Spike Milligan, Peter Sellers, Peter Cook and Jonathan Miller, a satire of the war film The Bridge on the River Kwai that became an epic project all its own; and he was making his first foray into “pops” for many a moon, trying to emulate the success of actor John Leyton’s “Johnny Remember Me,” which raced to number 1 on the back of a TV soap opera appearance. George’s hopes were pinned on 24-year-old Leo Maguire from BBC-tv’s Compact. A storyline was developed in which his character was remodeled into a pop star; Maguire’s hit song would be “Crying for the Moon” and the real recording was produced by George in Abbey Road Number 2 studio on May 15. On screen, the big star moment was coming on June 5 and 7, with the Parlophone 45 released the next day. Plum at the time of the Beatles’ first session on the 6th, George Martin looked set to achieve the one thing to have eluded him in five years, a real pop hit.
Amid all of this, on Friday, May 18, he requisitioned a recording contract for the Beattles—and, as their name was typed this way twice, it was what he thought they were called. Six days later, EMI’s administration department at Hayes sent back a freshly typed four-page document for his dispatch to Liverpool. The contract was between The Parlophone Company Ltd. and Brian Epstein—as the manager of “a group of instrumentalists professionally known as THE BEATTLES.”
It confirmed the outline Brian received verbally two weeks earlier, although he might have been amused to see the records it specified were still 78rpm, which remained standard contract terminology for several years after the format was phased out. The Beatles’ agreement would start on June 6, 1962, and expire on June 5, 1963, with the three extensions in EMI’s option running those same dates in 1963–4, 1964–5 and 1965–6. Royalties were to be paid during the currency of the contract “and thereafter during the life of the Manager or for 25 years from the date hereof whichever is the longer”—that is, no monies would be paid after 1987 if Brian Epstein was dead by then; otherwise, they would be paid until his death. (This clause was eventually removed.)
Brian picked up his fountain pen, put a line through the second “t,” turning BEATTLES back into BEATLES, and added his signature to the final page, that florid Epstein flourish across the Queen’s sixpenny stamp. In need of a witness, he didn’t turn to his brother or to Beryl Adams but to Bob Wooler—and, so historic was the moment, the DJ signed with his rarely revealed true first initial, F. Wooler, completed with his characteristic jagged-lightning underscore. Brian returned the contract to EMI (where it would be dated June 4, 1962) and then sent off another unpunctuated telegram to the Beatles:
EMI CONTRACT SIGNED SEALED TREMENDOUS IMPORTANCE TO ALL OF US WONDERFUL52
Though the contract was drawn up in Brian’s own name, the company he was forming to embrace his entrepreneurial life had almost reached fruition. His request to call it BC Enterprises Ltd. had been rejected by the Board of Trade as being too similar to a company called C&B Enterprises Ltd.; on his return from Hamburg, Brian had to think again, and about May 13 he settled on Nems Enterprises Ltd. Its successes could only enhance Nems’ long-established g
oodwill. The one name-conflict now would be with Nems Ltd., and this was resolvable with the permission of Harry Epstein.
It must have been yet another difficult family moment when, on May 24, Harry signed a letter of authority permitting the new name … but, from here, everything slipped smoothly into gear. Nems Enterprises Ltd. would be a standard £100 company owned evenly by Brian and Clive. They were also its directors, and Clive was company secretary. A bank account was opened: Midland Bank in Kirkdale, Liverpool, was getting the Beatles’ business. A stylish range of stationery was designed and printed, not just letterheads but engagement contracts and accounts sheets for Brian’s groups—the Beatles and others who’d soon be signed. The company also appointed its first employee, Beryl Adams, who left Nems Ltd. and moved across to the new setup with identical functions: secretary, typist, payroll. The registered office was the same as Nems Ltd., the original shop in Walton Road, but otherwise the companies were wholly separate; all the day-to-day business would be conducted at 12–14 Whitechapel. It was from here—from the medium-sized suite of offices above this provincial new-build shopping parade—that Nems Enterprises Ltd., directed by Brian Epstein, planned to help the Beatles become bigger than Elvis.
Bob Wooler was privy to all the plans and eager to play his part. On behalf of Cavern owner Ray McFall, he agreed to terms for the Beatles to be presented exclusively at the Cavern for almost two weeks after their return from Hamburg: they would start on June 9 with a celebratory Welcome Home night and then play six further nights and five lunchtimes before appearing anywhere else. Everything would be cooking after twelve shows in the Cavern cauldron, then their following date would be the big Bruce Channel night at New Brighton Tower. Brian’s posters instantly announced the Beatles as “Parlophone Recording Artistes” and said this was “A Bob Wooler Show.” Horst Fascher got all the lads sharply on and off stage by intimidation, Wooler with a wagging finger and everyone’s respect.
The Channel show was announced via an Echo classified on June 1, the Cavern bookings—called a “fortnight season”—on May 19. Two further agreements were not advertised: the Beatles would have private use of the Cavern for two afternoons on their return, so they could rehearse for EMI, and Ray McFall had assented to a further hike in the Beatles’ fee. Brian was using their June return as the platform for another good increase, putting even greater financial distance between them and any rival. Their Cavern price was to be £25 for their usual Wednesday-night residency, and £30 for a Sunday-night residency to begin on July 1. Brian aimed to have the Beatles collectively earning £200 a week soon after their return; few other groups took as much as £20.
It was Bob Wooler who enticed Rory Storm and the Hurricanes home early from France. They’d been six weeks on le continent when suddenly they were rushing back to Liverpool … desperate not to miss the chance of appearing in a show with Jerry Lee Lewis. The hard-livin’ Louisiana rocker was making his first return to Britain since 1958, when he’d been drummed out in disgrace for marrying his 13-year-old cousin. Who could miss this?
In Liverpool, this wasn’t the only unexpected comeback, because Allan Williams—a year after losing the Beatles—was returning to rock promotion, and on Wooler’s advice booked Jerry Lee Lewis for a night at New Brighton Tower. Williams knew who the star was but, bad at names, kept referring to him as Jerry Lewis; Wooler just got on with assembling a vast cast, eighteen supporting acts, fast on and fast off the Tower’s triple-tier stages. Resigned as he was to being without the Beatles, he did get Rory Storm and the Hurricanes. They were in Orléans (north-central France) when they heard about the show, and fired off a telegram saying they were scooting home, tout de suite.
By then it was May 14 and they’d been in France since the first day of April. Having had a torrid time just getting there, Ringo would remember this period of his life mostly in a series of grumps. “The French don’t like the British—at least, I didn’t like them,” he said five years later. He’d recall the trip as a failure, saying they played United States Army bases “in the wilderness,” “weren’t paid,” stayed in “doss-houses” and that food cost them “a fortune.” But Johnny Guitar’s diary tells of a happier six-week sojourn.53
Their first month was at USA6, Fontenet. NOT THE BIGGEST BUT THE BEST shouted the sign outside the camp gates; Rory and the Hurricanes posed there for a blurry photo snapped by the lovely Vicky Woods. The audience of four hundred in the Enlisted Men’s Club were mighty appreciative of sweaty rock and sweet eye-candy: the shapely blonde Vicky, who sang five numbers a night, had to stay on stage throughout. They played six nights a week, 7:00–10:45 with four fifteen-minute breaks, and found the Americans friendly. One soldier claimed an association with nightclubs in Miami and said he’d book them there, but it didn’t materialize.54
They slept in town hotels and were meant to be at the Fontenet camp only at night—but often they snuck in by day too, trying to stay one step ahead of the military police who were meant to throw them out. Johnny Guitar’s diary says they managed to enjoy the bowling alley and movie house, and Ringo’s best memory is of filling their stomachs with Hershey bars and real American hamburgers, so vastly superior to their flabby English imitations. And when Rory ran an ad in the Echo announcing the Hurricanes’ surprise return, he promised they’d appear in “fabulous new American fluorescent suits”—so it seems they also made imaginative use of the quartermaster’s store. It was ever the Hurricanes’ lot to be draped in Rory’s desire to dazzle.55
On the downside, there were far too few women around (and it isn’t known if anything happened with Vicky). On the up, Fontenet was ninety minutes’ drive to the coast. They caught suntans on the beach at Royan and had days off in La Rochelle, Rochefort, Saintes and Cognac. Ringo, who generally drank Scotch, developed in this quaint old town a taste for brandy.56
But a month was enough. Refusing an extension of their Fontenet contract, they moved 325 kilometers north to the US Army base at Orléans, where they had mixed fortunes before their sudden departure. Johnny’s diary says three veteran committee members expelled them for performing rock and roll and for doing it too loudly. They played instead at the nearby Saran base and drew so many Orléans soldiers that they were allowed back. Two weeks in, though, came news that Jerry Lee was coming to Liverpool and they were hotfoot back home.
It was worth it. Bob Wooler would report another momentous night in the mighty Tower, with a record-breaking attendance of “nearly four thousand.” Brian Epstein was there to learn about promotions, and—amid the crush, crowds and chaos that defeated even Wooler’s finger-wagging—Mike McCartney took a photograph of Jerry Lee Lewis screaming at everyone to get off the fuckin’ stage so he could start playing.57
The Hurricanes lacked the proper planning skills of a good manager, but Rory and Johnny were always good at creating opportunities. After Jerry Lee’s show they quickly fixed up four more Tower bookings before heading straight off for their third consecutive Butlin’s summer season. This, they now learned, was not to be in Pwllheli as before but at the Skegness camp, on the bracing east coast of England; the pay was £100 a week less £10 agency commission, leaving the five with £18 each. They set off in their cars on Saturday, June 2. Ringo’s Zodiac—just repaired after crashing in the race against George Harrison’s Anglia—carried him and his Premier drum kit 166 miles across England’s midriff while the Beatles’ plane was flying overhead, bringing them home from Hamburg. They wanted him, but he was gone again and not due back until September.
The same man who sent Jerry Lee Lewis to England—the heavyweight manager/promoter Don Arden—also lured Little Richard out of an Alabama church for both a British autumn tour and a short season at the Star-Club, and he sent Gene Vincent to Hamburg. The deeply pained Virginia wildcat arrived at the Star-Club for a two-week season on May 28, overlapping with the Beatles for four days, and they were overjoyed to meet an American idol for the first time. Disc rightly called Vincent “the star who doesn’t need hits”—h
e was “Be-Bop-A-Lula,” “Ain’t She Sweet,” “Summertime,” “Over the Rainbow,” “Say Mama,” “Dance in the Street,” “Bluejean Bop” and so many more. As John expressed it, “It’s hard for people to realize just how thrilled the four of us were just to see any great American rock ’n’ roller in the flesh. We were almost paralyzed with adoration.”58
It wasn’t so much the chance of seeing Vincent in action that John found exciting—he stayed a “record man,” never much bothered about catching even his favorites playing live—it was being able to hang out with him, the chance of getting to know him, that was so thrilling. And here at the Star-Club, the Beatles hung out with Vincent in ways they wouldn’t forget.
They found out straightaway he was a serious drinker, rarely without a bottle of Scotch in his hands. Wanting his company and his whisky, the Beatles ensured he didn’t drink alone. Bernie Boyle was there too, punching above his weight: “Don Arden, Gene Vincent and their tour manager Henri Henriod had a booth at the Star-Club and everyone squeezed in, including the Beatles and me. John had something of the Vincent in him, the style and the persona. Vincent was a horrible drunk, on the hard booze, a bottle of whisky being shared around, no ice, no water, straight Scotch.”59 While the Beatles could still get up on stage and play, Boyle was out cold. “I was absolutely fucking hammered and passed out in the street. They carried me up to the flat and rearranged the furniture so I not only woke up with puke all over me, I couldn’t fathom where I was. Paul took one look at me and said, ‘For God’s sake go and clean yourself up, you look awful.’ ”
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