by Larry Kane
Maybe it was the childhood mystery of his parents’ challenges, or the antiestablishment protest at schools, but the middle-class boy who would become a millionaire and an icon championed the real people. On tour, he constantly criticized “the authorities” for keeping the crowds so far away.
“All they want is a wave, just a wave of a hand, Larry,” he would tell me on tour.
For people like Billy J. Kramer and Billy Kinsley, John would offer help and sympathy. The “working-class hero” in him surfaced whenever he met people he felt were challenged economically, many of whom lived in Merseyside.
That part of him, the anarchist turned human-rights fighter, was wonderful to watch. Just as he perceived his own wants and needs, the amazing, sometimes caustic and unpredictable leader of the boys wanted a perfect world.
That, along with personal ambition, is usually the end result of imagining the future. John Lennon could be a malcontent. He was constantly frustrated and, at times in his life, often drunk. He could be violent, as you will discover, graphically, later in this story. His affections were reserved for only a few, and then, in bursts of love, they flowed faster than an overflowing river. In youth, and later, he was a man who abhorred bullshit, and didn’t suffer obstructionists lightly. But watch out! If you got in his way, he would throw you under the bus, and a few blocks later, check to see if you were really dead.
Complex? The word is too minimal to explain him. He was a lot of things.
But above all else, the man who penned the immortal “Imagine,” the milkman who walked his teenage beat, was a dreamer.
CHAPTER TWO
INSPIRATION, PERSPIRATION, AND ADMIRATION
“Lonnie Donegan. All of us listened to him, you know. Inspiration, of course. We all wanted to be Lonnie.”
—Ringo Starr
Lonnie—A Bit of a Lad
For the milkman and his current and future cohorts, there was plenty of inspiration. But one man, who sang in an unusual staccato voice and used the barest of essentials, set the early standard.
In 1959, a novelty song made its way to number five on the record charts in the United States. At the time, I was in twelfth grade and worked part-time at a Top 40 radio station. You couldn’t miss the song, but who knew the singer of this wacky melody had almost single-handedly changed the music scene in Britain? The tune was catchy, its lyrics fun. It was called “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor (On the Bedpost Overnight)?”
The artist was the most successful solo artist in British history. And there was, in his life, a dual legacy—he scored twenty-four hit records on the British charts, and he was the greatest musical influence for the boys who became the Beatles, and for almost every other British artist or group of the time. An original member of the Quarrymen, the learned Rod Davis, remembers the sound and the man.
“Lonnie Donegan? When you look at the pictures of the Quarrymen, in the beginning, we were all emulating Lonnie. I truly believe, in fact, his songs, so successful, were borrowed from America.”
Lonnie Donegan, the lad, was “the King”—that is, until the lads, ironically, ended his reign. Once a jazzman, the Scotland-born Anthony James Donegan was to the kids and adults in the 1950s what Elvis Presley was to America at the same time.
Skiffle had been around for many years before Lonnie emerged from the nightclubs of London and discovered a uniquely American style of country music—the raw and spiritually inspired folk and blues music made by the likes of Woody Guthrie and Leadbelly. In 1954, he recorded Leadbelly’s “Rock Island Line,” later immortalized by Johnny Cash. Donegan, washboard and guitar in hand, catapulted the song to solid gold in Great Britain that year, and it also became his first top-ten song in the United States.
What was skiffle? Skiffle was a mixture of folk, jazz, blues, and some country. Most of the artists created their own instruments, like the washboard and the tea-chest bass.
To get the real feel of Donegan’s music, take a listen, as John Lennon did, to “Rock Island Line,” and feel the fast-paced flavor of the artist, relying only on primitive instruments and the speed of his delivery. There are no sophisticated arrangements, just the almost eerie sound of Donegan’s storytelling with a hint of a church revival, his voice breaking into different cadences of emotion. To the country-music-addicted Richard Starkey, Donegan’s music, and that washboard humming in the background, sounds fresh and very different even in the modern day.
To the teenagers of the early and mid-fifties, listening to Lonnie Donegan’s no-frills style, his energy, and his haunting and “new” sound was not just a treat. It was an opportunity.
“He was the first person we had heard of from Britain to get . . . to number one. . . . We studied his records avidly. We all bought guitars to be in a skiffle group,” says Paul McCartney. “He was the man.”
The sense of opportunity, in fact, empowered young John Lennon to form a skiffle group.
“Lonnie Donegan was like a god to us,” recalls Rod Davis. “If he could do it, we could do it. John was really inspired by Donegan. It was a true case of hero worship, plain and simple.”
Of the four Beatles, John, Paul, and George were so impacted by Donegan and an appearance he made in Liverpool in 1956 at the Empire Theater that they were inspired to buy guitars. Richie Starkey was crazy about Donegan, too, as well as country music. In my vast archive of audiotapes, several episodes feature all the Beatles talking about influences. There were mentions of Johnny Cash, Fats Domino, Elvis, and Little Richard, of course, but the only person uniformly mentioned by all was Lonnie Donegan. And remember, these interviews were conducted within a few years of their rise to fame, so the veracity of their thoughts was not tarnished by memories fifty years later. Ringo talked about Donegan with me in the summer of 1964.
“Who was the most influential to you, all of you?” I asked.
“Lonnie Donegan. All of us listened to him, you know. Inspiration, of course. We all wanted to be Lonnie.”
Paul was so inspired by Donegan that father Jim paid fifteen British pounds to buy him his first guitar. George was likewise inspired, and borrowed three pounds from his mom to buy a secondhand guitar. But that wasn’t enough for George, whose idolatry of the suave and handsome Donegan, and his music, had no boundaries. George investigated the whereabouts of the superstar in Liverpool. He knocked on the door again and again until the star emerged. The curious, stargazing George refused to leave without an autograph, which he got.
The original Quarrymen were dazzled by Donegan. Many of their informal concerts leaned heavily on his songs. Colin Hanton was infatuated with Donegan’s music. “We loved ‘Rock Island Line,’ ‘Railroad Bill,’ ‘Midnight Special,’ and all the songs. It wasn’t rock, more folk, but John rocked with it anyway, getting up there and holding his guitar close, chest high. In his mind, at that time, he was Lonnie Donegan, and nothing could stop him.”
When the Quarrymen first played in earnest at the Cavern on August 7, 1957, John offered to play a version of “Don’t Be Cruel,” the Elvis favorite. But the club’s management reminded him that rock ’n’ roll was forbidden at the club. John improvised with his own version of the song in Lonnie’s skiffle style. Eventually John, Paul, and George would rock the place into the history books. But in the beginning, they were forced to improvise, and with the addition of Paul into the band, the future Beatles did a creative imitation of Lonnie and his style.
Key to that style is something that goes beyond the music—a stage presence that would be emulated by the three Beatles front men (Ringo being in the back). Donegan held his guitar close and high, and nearly swallowed the microphone when he sang. Look at Lonnie and you see the influence on John—his guitar pulled up high against his chest, his neck held high, his mouth so close to the microphone’s metal. Even in the beginning, with the Quarrymen, John Lennon was Lonnie Donegan. Lonnie’s charisma when performing was loved by all genders, and he knew it. He had the reputation of being a “bit of a lad,” an English expression
for a ladies’ man, with very serious talents in the arena of social interaction. His stage presence led the way to an intense social life, several marriages, two cases of open heart surgery, and a career that had serious ups and downs.
More than any of his personal “ups” was his impact in the fifties on the young “wannabes” in Britain.
“When the boys walked through the streets of Liverpool, or for that matter, any city, they envisioned themselves as Lonnie—his hair, his walk, his skiffle sound, the cadence,” remembers Alan White, longtime drummer for the band Yes, who also joined John Lennon and the Plastic Ono Band on various recordings, including the classic song “Imagine.”
“I grew up to all the British rockers. They grew up to Donegan. He may have had the most influence on the so-called British Invasion period. . . . His impact was mostly in the fifties, but it was mostly felt by some of the young stars of the sixties,” White says.
Ironically, Donegan’s star faded as the Beatles’ star emerged, partly because of his failure to embrace the rock ’n’ roll wave. So, the man who so completely inspired them became a victim of his own inspirational success, and of theirs.
Eventually the Beatles and other fervent admirers paid him back. In the late seventies, Paul suggested to Donegan that he reprise some of his skiffle music hits. An album, Puttin’ on the Style, was released early in 1978. The list of musicians backing him up included Ringo Starr, Elton John, Leo Sayer, Brian May of Queen, and Lonnie’s regular band. Ringo made appearances on the tracks “Have a Drink On Me” and “Ham ’n’ Eggs.”
Lonnie Donegan spent twenty-four more years writing songs, trying to revive his career and his health. He was keenly aware of his effect on the British groups, and especially the Beatles, whom he admired so much. He received a written tribute from George in 1997, in a foreword to the book Skiffle by Charles McDevitt. George wrote, “Of course, Lonnie Donegan was the reason so many of us loved skiffle.”
At the millennium, Donegan was honored by the queen. Two years later, after another heart attack, he died in the middle of a national tour. Ironically, his death came when he was en route to a memorial concert honoring George Harrison.
John Lennon once told me, “Yeah, Chuck Berry, the Everlys, Little Richard—they were all important to us. But no one, not one single person, was more important than Lonnie Donegan.”
Music Addiction
“We did everything we could to get our hands on American music—anything. For most of us [in Merseyside] it was as important as drinking and eating.”
—JOHN LENNON
America had its baby boomers, born after World War II. Britain’s war started earlier, and so did its baby boom. It began in 1938—the extraordinary birth explosion known as the “bulge.” The boys were all part of that people explosion. Like millions of other young people in Britain, they joined in a mass coming-of-age, little knowing that they would help lead it.
On the cusp of international fame, the boys, part of the “bulge” generation, were still hungry to listen and learn, and their role as “students” of the art of music provides an insight into the group’s early power dynamics.
Throughout 1962 and 1963, the Beatles were hooked on music—totally addicted, captivated—and they couldn’t get enough of the stuff. In fact, finding the right product was paramount. And there were two ways to get the music. Radio was the key, though it was scarcely available. But there were other ways to get the stuff.
And the “stuff” they wanted was mainly American music. Some records, by established stars, were available in stores. Brian Epstein sold many of those two-sided 45-rpm records in the record store his family owned. But the songs of less established stars, many who would set musical standards for the future, were hard to get. Or even hear.
There is no way to underestimate the impact that American pop music had on the 1962 and 1963 Beatles.
Joe Flannery, lifelong friend to Brian Epstein and early manager of the Star Club in Hamburg, says, “They spent most of their free time—mind you, there was not a lot of that—listening to 45s. They listened and listened, and exchanged records. John and George would listen together, Ringo by himself; he favored country. Paul listened to everything.”
Bill Harry, a member of the “bulge” generation, describes a social and cultural vacuum, especially on the radio:
THE FIFTIES WERE THE YEARS OF A BULGE OF TEENAGERS IN LIVERPOOL. THERE WERE MORE TEENS AT THAT TIME THAN ANY TIME BEFORE AND AFTER. I ACTUALLY THINK THAT IS WHEN THE TERM “TEENAGER” WAS INVENTED—IN THE FIFTIES. SUDDENLY WE WANTED OUR OWN THINGS. WE HAD BEEN DOMINATED IN THE MEDIA BY THE GENERATION OF PEOPLE OLDER THAN US. BRITISH RADIO, OR THE BBC, WAS THE FAMILY FAVORITE, THE WORKER’S PLAYTIME. NOTHING TO DO WITH ROCK ’N’ ROLL OR THE MUSIC TEENAGERS WANTED.
Future promotion executive and Beatles’ buddy Tony Bramwell remembers the swap meet that was going on every week, and the hunger for the music:
I HAVE TWO OLDER BROTHERS, AND GEORGE WOULD BRING RECORDS AND WE WOULD SWAP RECORDS. SAME WITH PAUL; HE WOULD BRING HIS RECORDS. THEY WOULD POP INTO MY HOUSE AND BRING RECORDS THAT THEY GOT IN THE PAST FEW WEEKS LIKE THE EVERLY BROTHERS AND CARL PERKINS AND STUFF. AND I HAD BUDDY HOLLY AND CHUCK BERRY. WE WOULD SHARE OR SWAP OUR RECORDS. WE USED TO SAVE OUR POCKET MONEY AND BUY RECORDS. IF THERE WAS ONE WE REALLY LOVED, IT WOULD BE STUCK ON THE REPEAT CONTROL ON THE RECORD PLAYER.
Bramwell and the boys, who were a few years older than him, would crawl under the covers in their bedrooms and take in Radio Luxembourg. He recalls,
ENGLISH RADIO WAS PRETTY CRAPPY. THEY DIDN’T HAVE POP MUSIC PROGRAMS [ON] THE BBC. WE USED TO LISTEN TO RADIO LUXEMBOURG FROM THE DUCHY OF LUXEMBOURG. THEY WOULD HAVE THREE-, FOUR-HOUR MUSIC PROGRAMS SPONSORED BY RECORD COMPANIES. DECCA. CAPITOL. EMI WOULD HAVE AN HOUR. MERCURY WOULD HAVE AN HOUR. MAYBE EACH A HALF AN HOUR—BUT SOMETHING LIKE THAT. WE WOULD BE LISTENING AT NIGHT IN YOUR BEDROOM TO CRACKLY PRE-TRANSISTOR RADIOS. THEY DIDN’T HAVE TRANSISTOR RADIOS YET—CAT’S-WHISKER RADIOS. IT WAS LIKE LISTENING TO AN UNDERGROUND STATION. IT WAS FUN.
From 1957 on, the kids of the so-called bulge were hungry for the “new” music that was being played in the States. But that is not all. Mersey Beat founder Bill Harry says it was a real cultural revolution. In many ways, he says, it was quite anti-establishment:
WE HAD NO DECENT ROCK ’N’ ROLL ON THE RADIO. IT WAS CONTROLLED. THE ONLY RADIO WAS THE BBC. WE HAD TO HAVE RADIO LUXEMBOURG BEAMED OVER IN ORDER TO GET ANY DECENT ROCK ’N’ ROLL ON THE RADIO. SUDDENLY TEENAGERS FOR THE FIRST TIME WANTED THEIR OWN CLOTHING, THEIR OWN IDENTITY. BUT WE COULDN’T HAVE IT BECAUSE THE MEDIA WAS ON A DIFFERENT SORT OF LEVEL. EVERYTHING WAS CONTROLLED BY MOGULS, THE BUSINESS PEOPLE. CLOTHING—EVERYTHING—WAS CONTROLLED. MANIPULATING TEENAGERS. AND THAT WAS AN EXAMPLE OF WHAT IT WAS LIKE. WE WANTED OUR OWN VOICE—WE HAD TO CREATE OUR OWN DESTINY, OUR OWN VOICE.
The boys were constantly searching for their voice. John, Paul, and George studied songs and discussed styles until their throats were dry from talking, or until their eyelids closed. Although they were enamored by the big names of music, they were also impressed by daring artists who were willing to break through.
One thing that all four Beatles were serious about was rolling out their reel-to-reel tape recorder and listening to any recordings they could find. I can say, from watching their in-flight, hotel, and pre-concert routines, that Ringo and George were as serious as John and Paul about learning all they could about other people’s music. There were two amazing moments on the Beatles’ North American tours, aside from the Elvis Presley meeting: the brief but exciting meeting in a trailer at Tulane Stadium in New Orleans with Fats Domino, and the backstage meeting with Johnny Cash at the Cow Palace in San Francisco.
These meetings were very revealing. Although the artists they met in America were thrilled to meet them, the boys were more like fans than contemporaries. Whether it was Joan Baez, Elvis, or the young Bob Dylan, the Beatles seemed thrilled, and in awe. America was always a marker for music excellence to
the Fabs, unaware that, in those early days, they were becoming the markers of the musical future.
Monitoring the rest of the world’s music, especially the American stars and one-hit wonders, took second place to priority number one: perfecting their sound on stage. Having covered sixty-three Beatles concerts in 1964, 1965, and 1966, I can say that their relentless pursuit of perfection made them the tightest and most nearly perfect performing band in history. They mirrored their early stirrings. Listening to the music, carefully listening to the music, John and Paul, with a heavy assist from George and Pete, were determined as early as 1960 to find the best music there was, put their own touches to it, and never settle for a bad night. They did have plenty of bad nights, but after a certain record retailer named Brian Epstein showed up, most of the bad habits, like eating on stage, vanished.
It all started with their obsession with devouring American music. Getting the music was not easy. But they had help.
Their record supplier during the early sixties was a young guy named Ron Ellis, who was and still remains a renaissance man. For years he has offered a uniquely important insight into the later influences on the boys. In his nearly fifty years of work, Ellis has been a group manager, promoter, singer, author, publisher, broadcaster, researcher, concert deejay, and one of the “go-to” guys when you are seeking the truth on Merseyside.
For four years, night and day, he researched the Beatles and John Lennon for controversial author Albert Goldman. Goldman’s book, The Lives of John Lennon, was despised by Yoko Ono and members of the Lennon family, almost universally. About one thing, almost every Beatles expert agrees: Ron Ellis’s recollections of his eyewitness accounts of the Beatles’ early performances, and their musical influences, is second to none. The book that he worked on for Goldman is not the first controversial book on the Beatles. Ray Coleman’s book, Lennon: The Definitive Biography, is beautifully written, but the author, for some reason, glosses over John’s eighteen-month relationship with May Pang in 1973 and 1974. Even the man considered to be the gold standard of Beatles biographers, Philip Norman, reserves just two sentences in his Beatles biography, Shout, to the Lennon-Pang relationship. Ellis will not reveal his opinion of Goldman’s work, but he guarantees that the research was impeccable. In the cutthroat world of Beatles history in Merseyside, where second-guessing and rewriting history is an art form, no one will challenge Ellis’s work.
