by Peter Brown
3
“Could anything be more important than this?” Brian was heard to ask time and time again, knowing that now there always seemed to be something more important, some feat to top the previous dizzying success his boys had achieved. Brian walked around NEMS beaming like a child proud of blowing the perfect soap bubble. He turned to Queenie, to Harry, to his brother Clive, to me (Peter Brown), even to Rex Makin, and basked in the satisfaction of his success. Suddenly, we were all treating him just a little differently, even Queenie. Brian was no longer just a charming eccentric, he was a genius, and he was indulged even more.
It seemed to Brian that once he had secured a recording contract for the Beatles it wasn’t very hard at all to turn them into chart-topping stars. He decided that if he could do it with one group, why not another, and another? It never crossed his mind at the start that the Beatles were completely unique or that the chemistry that existed between him and the group could not be duplicated. He figured, Svengali to one, Svengali to all, and set out to sign an enormous catalog of music acts. He asked me to completely take over the day-to-day affairs of the Whitechapel and Great Charlotte Street stores, and he turned to band management full-time, including promoting his own concerts. NEMS Enterprises was now incorporated as a talent management and booking company.
Brian’s next “discovery” was announced in early 1963. It was a boyishly cute, one-time delivery boy named Gerry Marsden who had been knocking around Liverpool since 1958 in a group called the Pacemakers. Brian ordered for Gerry and his band members distinctive handmade suits from the same tailor who made the Beades’ clothes, observed Gerry’s performances, and sent him typed memos about his stage deportment. He arranged a contract for him with EMI’s prestigious Columbia label, much to the chagrin of the Beatles, who were stuck on Parlophone. Gerry and the Pacemakers’ first record was a song that had earlier been recommended for the Beatles to record called “How Do You Do It?” George Martin produced, and the record was released in March. Within a month it was number one on the charts, where it remained until the end of April when it was replaced with a new Beatle tune called “From Me to You.”
By now we were all astonished. Brian had done it a second time and had made it look easy at that. We hadn’t had a chance to catch our breath when Brian announced he was signing a third group, Billy Kramer and the Coasters. Brian had a crush on the lead singer, whose real name was Billy Ashton, and bought the band’s contract from a small-time Liverpool manager. He changed the name of the group to Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas, ordered them new suits, sent memos on showmanship, and supplied them with a Lennon-McCartney composition, one of the many extras they seemed to have floating around, called “Do You Want to Know a Secret?” It was a line John remembered that Jiminy Cricket asks Pinocchio. Less than a month after its release on the Parlophone label, Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas’ “Do You Want to Know a Secret?” was number two on the charts, just behind the Beatles.
Then came the Big Three, a Cavern group who played at the Star Club with the Beatles, then the Four Jays, whose name Brian changed to the Fourmost. Then a local, freckle-faced lad named Tommy Quigly, who was rechristened Tommy Quickly. They were all given suits and songs and recording contracts. There was even a female star under Brian’s management, an ex-clerk-typist named Cilia White. Cilia was what they called a “Cavern screamer,” a girl with a zesty, full voice. However there was some quality about the warm, funny, round-faced girl that sparked Brian’s interest. He changed her name to Cilla Black, because it was more “her,” got her a new haircut of short pixie bangs, redid her makeup, and restyled her clothes. Most importantly, he gave her a Lennon-McCartney tune, one Paul had written while walking home late at night across the Allerton golf course called “Love of the Love,” which instantly placed her on the record charts. Billy J. Kramer scored again with another Lennon-McCartney tune called “Bad to Me,” followed by Gerry Marsden’s number-one smash “I Like It.” Then Billy J. Kramer came through yet again with “From a Window,” followed by Cilia Black with “It’s for You.”
The music business was all abuzz about this thing called the “Mersey sound,” for want of a better description for Brian’s and the Beatles’ self-generated monopolizing of the charts. That spring and summer Liverpool became the focus of a massive talent hunt. Every record company that had rejected the Beatles now sent A&R men to Liverpool. These talent scouts descended on the clubs and dance halls like hungry wolves, signing up every band with a scouse accent. Contracts went to the Searchers, Faron and the Flamingoes, Earl Preston and the TT’s, the Merseybeats, the Undertakers, and the Chants. Even Rory Storm and the Hurricanes, famous now for their ex-drummer Ringo Starr, were given a recording contract with an obscure label. Some of these groups recorded singles, others never made it any further than signing a contract. One or two of them had hits because of the airplay afforded them because they were Liverpool groups, but most of them eventually returned to Liverpool on that long train ride home from London, wondering what made Brian Epstein and the Beatles so different.
For Brian, success had fulfilled many cravings save one; Brian was still in love with John Lennon. He was the light of Brian’s life and in some small way the impetus for almost everything Brian did for the Beatles. As far as Cynthia was concerned, Brian hadn’t seen her in months, nor had anyone else. She was in her ninth month of pregnancy by then and safely tucked out of the way. Anyway, between touring and London recording sessions John had hardly been in Liverpool. In May they were signed up to do yet another tour, and in between Brian felt that the Beatles needed a little vacation. Paul, George, and Ringo went off to Tenerife in the Canary Islands for some sun.
Brian had other ideas for John.
4
Cynthia lived in solitude in a room at Aunt Mimi’s house and watched her husband’s success with a mixture of awe and silent pride—awe because nobody expected his success to be this big, and silent pride because she was unable to tell anyone she even knew John Lennon, let alone that she was married to him. He was gone so much it hardly seemed to matter, and although everyone said the money must be pouring in, she never saw any of it.
Her husband had been on the road for weeks when Cynthia went into labor one Saturday in April while shopping on Penny Lane. Late that night, dressed in her nightie and slippers, curlers still in her hair, she boarded an ambulance in front of Mendips and went to Sefton General Hospital. She spent two days alone in a long and difficult labor. A son was born Monday morning, April 8. He was named Julian, after his grandmother who had been pronounced dead in the same hospital five years before. Cynthia held the little boy in her arms and marveled at how much he looked like his daddy. John called her at the hospital that night, but it was a full week until he was able to come and visit.
At Sefton General Hospital it was not known that Cynthia was John Lennon’s wife. Brian saw to it that a private room had been secured for Cynthia “Powell” at a cost of twenty-seven shillings a day, so that if John did arrive at the hospital to see the child, there would be a modicum of privacy. However, the only private room had a large glass window, with one side adjoining a public ward. John eventually appeared on the last day of Cynthia’s confinement, dressed in a serious attempt at a disguise in a hat, fake moustache, and dark glasses. Cynthia laughed when she saw him. John was ecstatic at the sight of Julian, and his hands trembled as he took the tiny boy in his arms. “He’s bloody marvelous, isn’t he Cyn?” he said.
Out in the hallway Cynthia heard one of the other new mothers say, “It’s ’im! It’s one of them, the Beatles!” Soon there were a dozen people staring in the window, patients and nurses alike, ruining the moment for both of them. John gave Julian back to her and said he better go before he attracted too much attention and made them suspicious about his connection to the baby, although he had a few things to tell her. First, he wanted to make Brian the baby’s godfather. Second, he was leaving on holiday as soon as this tour was over. He was going away with Brian—ju
st the two of them. The other Beatles were going to the Canary Islands. This meant John wouldn’t see Cynthia for several weeks, long after she had returned home from the hospital.
Cynthia lay back in the hospital bed, her head spinning. How could John go off and leave her and Julian like that, she demanded, and with Brian Epstein no less? John flared up at her. “Being selfish again, aren’t you?” he said. “I’ve been workin’ my bloody ass off on one-night stands for months now. Those people starin’ from the other side of the glass are bloody everywhere, hauntin’ me. I deserve a vacation. And anyway, Brian wants me to go, and I owe it to the poor guy. Who else does he have to go away with?”
Brian and John went to Barcelona at the end of April 1963. It was a city that Brian had explored on his 1959 solo trip to Spain. He had since become a great fan of the bullfights and considered himself something of an aficionado. He took great pleasure in introducing John to the pageantry and excitement. They spent the days shopping and taking side trips. At night they toured the nightclubs. Later in the week they rented a car and drove down the coast to the glistening white town of Sitges on the Costa Brava. Each night they would sit in the candlelit cafés and watch the couples stroll by in the moonlight. Over many bottles of wine they talked candidly about Brian’s personal life. It was a great relief for Brian to finally be able to talk honestly with John. He told John that for a man who valued honesty as dearly as he did, it was a terrible burden for him to live his life a lie.
“If you had a choice, Eppy,” John said, “if you could press a button and be hetero, would you do it?”
Brian thought for a moment. “Strangely, no,” he said.
A little later a peculiar game developed. John would point out some passing man to Brian, and Brian would explain to him what it was about the fellow that he found attractive or unattractive. “I was rather enjoying the experience,” John said, “thinking like a writer all the time: I am experiencing this.” And still later, back in their hotel suite, drunk and sleepy from the sweet Spanish wine, Brian and John undressed in silence. “It’s okay, Eppy,” John said, and lay down on his bed. Brian would have liked to have hugged him, but he was afraid. Instead, John lay there, tentative and still, and Brian fulfilled the fantasies he was so sure would bring him contentment, only to awake the next morning as hollow as before.
5
It wasn’t long before word spread among the Beatles’ families and close friends that John and Brian had gone off to Spain together. The trip became the number-one topic of conversation and conjecture around NEMS and the Cavern Club. The most puzzling question was, “What could have gotten into John to agree to such a trip? He knew that Brian had been trying to ‘set him up’ for years.” The person most confused by this question was Cynthia Lennon. John’s explanation, that he owed Brian the pleasure of his company, didn’t make much sense to her in retrospect. What was even more peculiar, she realized, was that she and John’s infant son lived in total secrecy at his Aunt Mimi’s house, unable to admit to anyone that she was married. Some acquaintances took it for granted that Julian was an illegitimate child, and Cynthia never corrected them. John’s newfound fame made the situation even more delicate. Mendips had recently become an object of fascination for the growing legion of local fans. Going to visit the house where Beatle John was raised became a pilgrimage, and more often than not there were two or three girls waiting at the gate with a camera. Mimi found that if she left the back door to the house open, her teacups would be stolen as souvenirs.
The fans with their cameras kept Cynthia a virtual prisoner in the house. Her only break was a daily trip to the greengrocer. She would slip out the rear door and wheel Julian surreptitiously through the streets in his grand Silver Cross carriage, a gift from Brian. Occasionally, a girl waiting at the front gates of Mendips would spot her and ask if she knew John Lennon. Cynthia would say, “Who? John who?” and keep walking. Once, startled that a girl asked her point-blank if she was married to John, Cynthia snapped, “My name’s McKenzie!” and rushed away.
In a sense, John never really returned to Mendips after Julian was born, except for a few overnight visits. John was usually on the road or staying in a London hotel, and for the next six months it seemed as if they weren’t really married at all. Cynthia didn’t even have Julian christened for six months, waiting for John to be home to attend the ceremony, and then went ahead and did it without him anyway. On the rare occasions he came to Mendips, he would play with Julian for only a few minutes before he got disgusted with his crying, and if Cynthia had to change a diaper, John would bolt for the door, and that would be the end of the visit.
To make matters worse, the jealousy and thinly veiled dislike between Cynthia and Aunt Mimi was exacerbated by the baby. Now it wasn’t only John they quarreled over, it was the raising of Julian. In some ways Mimi saw Julian as belonging as much to her as to Cynthia, and having reared John, she had a lot of opinions about his son. The baby turned out to be what Cynthia called “a crier.” In fact, he howled ferociously every hour of the day and night, and there didn’t seem to be anything Cynthia could do to make him stop. Of course, Mimi blamed every second of the child’s unhappiness on Cynthia’s mishandling of him. Sometimes Cynthia would get so exasperated with the howling she would just push the baby out to the farthest corner of the walled-in garden and let him cry his heart out—much to Mimi’s grating dismay. Yet when it came to her baby, Cynthia was a formidable opponent, and in her own quiet way she began to defy Aunt Mimi at every turn.
To add a lighted match to this combustible brew, Lillian Powell, encouraged by Cynthia’s letters and clippings describing John’s success, decided to return to Liverpool and move into Mendips with her. It was decided that Lillian Powell’s arrival was the perfect excuse for Cynthia and the baby to move out of Aunt Mimi’s without offending Mimi or John. Unfortunately, there was nowhere for Cynthia and her mother to move; the family house in Hoylake was still rented to tenants for several more months. Ideally, they would have stayed on at Mendips, but the three women and one crying child wouldn’t have lasted a fortnight. Very quickly Cynthia and her mother found themselves living in a seedy bedsitter for which they paid £5 a week. It never dawned on her that John was earning hundreds of thousands of pounds at the time and could have afforded better accommodations for his wife and child. Cynthia never thought of asking him for more money—and he never offered any.
One of the few times Cynthia saw John that spring was at Paul McCartney’s twenty-first birthday party. Paul’s family house on Forthlin Road also had recently been put under surveillance by Beatles fans, and in order to avoid them the party was being held at Paul’s Auntie Gin’s house across the Mersey in Birkenhead. More than just a birthday celebration for Paul, the afternoon garden affair had turned into a wild celebration of the Beatles’ success. It was a spirited, happy occasion, where old friends were reunited, and all the NEMS groups entertained for each other. Cynthia was ecstatic at being brought as John’s date and was having the best time she had in months. As the hours passed, the guests got drunker and the celebrating more frenzied and rowdy. Suddenly, at the other end of the garden from where Cynthia was sitting, there was a great commotion. John, in a mad rage and obviously very drunk, was pummeling Bob Wooler, the Cavern disc jockey who had been so instrumental in the Beatles’ earlier bookings. It took three men to pull John off, but not before he managed to break three of Wooler’s ribs and send him to the hospital.
This fistfight brought the party to a sudden halt. Cynthia, trembling and on the brink of tears, approached John timidly; if he was in a bad mood, she knew he would consider her a handy punching bag.
“I broke his bloody ribs for him,” John told her, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
“What did he do?” Cynthia asked.
“He called me bloody queer,” John said. “He said that Brian and I were queer.”
Bob Wooler sued John Lennon for damages, and the incident threatened to mushroom into an impendin
g scandal. Brian was very anxious not to publicize his vacation to Spain with John or John’s fistfight at Paul’s party. He had Rex Makin settle the suit quietly out of court for £200, quite a generous sum of money in Liverpool in those days. It was not the end of the conjecture about Brian and John, either, and Cynthia, in her £5 bedsitter, sat and wondered herself.
6
While John Lennon’s marriage had no romance, Paul McCartney’s life was filled with it. Since Paul had become famous in Liverpool, he had been having a romance a night. Generally acclaimed to be the “cutest” member of the group, he also was the most available. His already healthy ego exploded as though it had been detonated by twenty tons of TNT. Of the four Beatles it was Paul who never tired of having his photo taken, and Paul who volunteered to do interviews. It was Paul who wooed the girls with sly smiles and encouraged them to run after his car, shouting at them from the rear window, “Run, girls, run!” It was Paul who devised various disguises of hats and fake moustaches and took them on tour with him so he could wander about the crowds of girls waiting outside the stage entrances and eavesdrop on what they were saying about him.
After having dumped his childhood sweetheart, Dot Rohne, Paul took up with Rory Storm’s sister, Iris Caldwell, for a short time. Like Rory, she was tall and blond and effervescent, but the relationship soon palled with the availability of so many dollie birds after Paul’s tail.4 Paul indulged himself like a starving man at a feast yet somehow never managed to fulfill his appetite. Such were the spoils of fame. Yet for Paul, no matter how many girls he duly dated and bedded, there seemed to be something missing in each of them. They were not “nice” girls, not the kind of girl he could take home to his mother, Mary, if she were alive. For although every northern man likes whores, in the center of his predominantly Irish-Catholic, middle-class heart, what he wants most is a nice girl to settle down with and raise his children.
