When They Were Boys

by Larry Kane

  The Beatles became the golden megastars, universally admired, and by default history backs up the change in drummers. But a question remains: Would the Beatles have been just as successful with Pete?

  The answer is obvious, isn’t it? “John, Paul, George, and Pete” would have no doubt made it.

  As a younger man, Pete talked about wanting to be an actor. He didn’t get there, but he did play a singular role, a very significant but disputed one, that certainly helped put the Beatles on the map, just months before they rocketed to enormous success. And his life, although lacking in the nuances and frills of superstardom, has been a life well lived.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE DECCA DISASTER

  “The disaster at the record company could have killed the Beatles, stopped them in their tracks. But Brian forged on and had the most fateful meeting. But before that meeting, it looked dark, really dark.”

  —Chris Carter, Beatles historian and host of Breakfast with the Beatles on KLOS radio in Los Angeles, and Sirius XM satellite radio

  IN POLITICS, AS IN LIFE, SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO LOSE TO SEEK A SECOND CHANCE. In sports, an early loss sometimes helps the athlete grind on, perfect the act, and soar to victory.

  In the world of music, there are few second chances. But in 1962, John, Paul, George, and Pete once again defied the limits of destiny and daring, with a lot of help from their friends, and with a high degree of misery and doubt along the way.

  It began with Tony Barrow, Mr. Pressman, who was looking for a way to help Brian Epstein get some attention for the group. And it continued with the marketing department at Decca Records, where Tony wrote album-sleeve copy. When Epstein, trying to show the boys his devotion to them in the early days of his management, called Decca for an audition, he was surprised by the reception. Tony Barrow and the marketing people had recommended that Decca audition the boys, out of respect for Epstein’s work as a major retailer for the music business in northern England. It was a courtesy call, but the usually provincial and proprietary record giants in London had also heard rumblings about the boys and, it should be noted, many of their counterparts. The boy bands of Liverpool were making news.

  And so the date was set. But who would schedule an audition for January 1—New Year’s Day? Was it a “blowoff”?

  Certainly the date was a mixed message. Barrow had written an item, based on his conversations with his Decca cohorts, that noted the Beatles were viewed favorably at Decca, especially by the company’s record producer, Mike Smith. The item, in the Liverpool Echo, was published four days before the scheduled audition. At the same time, Bill Harry’s Mersey Beat posted a similar item saying that Decca was big on the Beatles. Both notices were greeted with excitement by the boys and Epstein. But the excitement was short-lived.

  January 1, 1962, was a most important day for what it didn’t accomplish. Everything in the record industry was stacked up against the Beatles, even the weather.

  The drive the night before was unbearable—two hundred miles of high winds and blizzard conditions. Neil Aspinall, the man who could get them anywhere, through any ordeal, got lost on the road. Aspinall was a master of preparation and execution. He would be considered, in this century, as a human global positioning system (GPS). The weather and the directional failure were frustrating. They got in late, had very little sleep, and were stunned the next day when Decca producer Mike Smith, actually excited about the audition, was late for it. They were also surprised that their new manager, Brian Epstein, had selected a very conservative group of songs for them to sing—staid older songs, and not the electric set that constantly turned on audiences at the Cavern and their other gigs in the North. At that time, John and Paul were involved in their most serious songwriting efforts, but even some of their crowd favorites, written by others, were “scratched” by Epstein.

  What was he up to?

  Epstein later would say that he wanted to show their range, their variety, the fact that they could transition from softer rock to a harder version, but there wasn’t much chance to see the latter. In fact, George Harrison, who at the time was experimenting with his vocal skills (later quite powerful), was the lead singer for almost as many songs as John and Paul.

  There were fifteen songs in the audition, including such standards, for that time, as “To Know Her Is to Love Her,” “Crying, Waiting, Hoping,” Chuck Berry’s “Memphis, Tennessee,” and three Lennon-McCartney originals, “Like Dreamers Do,” “Hello Little Girl,” and “Love of the Loved.”

  Bruce Spizer, the world’s premier chronicler of Beatles contracts, music, and negotiations, with eight books on the subjects, understands where Epstein was coming from.

  “He had a vision, and this date with Decca was the beginning of his work. He didn’t want to take any chances, so he was cautionary with the music, perhaps too cautionary. But please remember that he was cunning, always weighing the risks of his decision. He thought it was important to display their reach.”

  Mike Smith, the producer with all that optimism, told Decca writer Tony Barrow that the Beatles did not do well. And Decca executive Dick Rowe, Smith’s boss, gave him the directive that he could sign only one group.

  Barrow, beginning to like more and more of what he heard from the boys before this point, was ultimately disappointed with their audition, but he was impressed with Epstein’s passion to make something, anything, happen, especially after the big boss, Dick Rowe, gave his appraisal. Barrow remembers Rowe’s words well.

  “Not to mince words, Mr. Epstein, we don’t like your boys’ sound. Groups of guitarists are on the way out. You have a good record business in Liverpool. Stick to that.”

  Eventually Smith passed on the Beatles and instead signed Brian Poole and the Tremeloes, a band with strong voices and consistency. The group is still working, after a superb career, though they’ve been overshadowed by many groups, including, of course, the Beatles.

  And what did Epstein do?

  “Brian didn’t ‘stick to that,’” recalls Bruce Spizer. “In fact, he was relentless in looking for any opening. He kept visiting London in the months after the Decca disaster. He was determined to get a label, even made some headway at EMI Records, and most importantly, he stayed in touch with Tony Barrow, who helped him navigate the rough terrain of the London music scene. That connection with Barrow would really pay off. For a young man, and with the skills of a journalist, Barrow had all the right moves on making contacts.”

  There was also a learning curve. Bruce Spizer explains:

  “Brian realized that letting the boys be the boys, just letting them do their wilder, more raw act, with that amazing harmony, was far better than doing a crooning, kind of older style. He had still not changed their appearance. That was to come. But first, he had to get a label, and with Merseyside groups coming out of the woodwork, time was his biggest enemy.”

  After January 1, the boys were nervous. Days passed, then a week, and they were waiting and hoping. They were devastated when they learned in mid-March that Decca had rejected them. But John, unlike during the post-Hamburg depression in late 1960, was more hopeful, especially with Epstein on the case.

  Cynthia Lennon recalls the mood in her reflective book, John: “John was down about it—but he couldn’t stay miserable for long. . . . In spite of lack of interest from the record companies, we all felt that change was in the air.”

  With Barrow advising him, and getting closer to the boys, Epstein was relentless.

  Epstein’s friend Joe Flannery emphasizes that Epstein was a bit nervous.

  “He had yet to sign them to a formal contract as their manager. [That did happen later in January.] He was upset that Decca said no, and so indignantly at that. But he told me he was determined to get them recorded and recorded well in 1962. And he kept searching. Through this time, the band played on.”

  From January through the spring, even as tragedy struck Stuart Sutcliffe in Hamburg as the boys arrived for another German adventure, the excitement a
t the clubs in Liverpool helped buoy their spirits. People like Brian Kelly and Sam Leach got bigger and bigger crowds, even as they began working with Epstein.

  But once again, irony ruled the day. And again, despite their own doubts, the relentlessness of Brian Epstein, his gut-wrenching determination, saved the boys, despite their burgeoning talent, from sliding into oblivion.

  “They failed at Decca, but that also meant they were through with Mike Smith and Dick Rowe,” says Bruce Spizer, emphasizing another fortunate break. “Rowe would never quite live it down that he passed on the Beatles, but of course, he would claim signing the Rolling Stones. Some people would call that a concession, but let’s face it, the Beatles would be better and bigger, and history would always say that Decca passed up a fortune.”

  History would also show, with tremendous hindsight, that the Decca audition was really not that bad.

  “In one way,” says music researcher and satellite radio host Chris Carter, “the audition showed something that would emerge later—the boys had wide range, which would eventually mean wider appeal.

  “The songs they covered were written by Carole King, Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly. They came from Motown [Gordy/Bradford], Phil Spector and many others. They had three of their own, but even though Brian was [in later years] criticized for not showing their own talents, it was, and remember this, it was the recording of the Decca session that got Brian in the door to meet George Martin.”

  That story is coming up. But Carter’s point is valid: the Decca audition served its purpose, and one company’s reject would become another company’s elation.

  “The disaster at the record company could have killed the Beatles, stopped them in their tracks,” Carter explains. “But Brian forged on, and had the most fateful meeting. But before that meeting, it looked dark, really dark. How amazing, isn’t it, that some people just couldn’t feel what they could turn out to be. But that is what people are all about. They make judgments and sometimes those judgments are flawed.”

  So it was in spring 1962. Epstein was offering his young band to anyone who would listen. Despite doubts about him from the parents, notably Jim McCartney, who had expressed anxiety about his business skills as well as his faith, Epstein was doing well. The door that Decca had shut would soon be opened, and on the other side, with the help of friendly writers who would soon join them, a driven Neil Aspinall, and his own inner gut, the merchant from Liverpool was getting closer to a breakthrough—in fact, a lot closer than he thought—and once again, Tony Barrow was riding shotgun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ON THE POOR SIDE OF TOWN—HURRICANE RINGO

  “I am Ringo. When I was growing up I was just plain Richard Starkey. Here I am, Ringo, but I will always be just Richie.”

  —Richie Starkey, aka Ringo Starr, during an interview with me in the summer of 1965

  RINGO STARR. HIS IS A STORY OF POVERTY, SICKNESS, SURVIVAL, A HEAVY DOSE OF LUCK, AND THE MEANING OF A NAME. Of all the young men who struck it rich in the Beatles, he was the most unlikely, not because of a lack of talent, but because when he was a boy, he faced a luckless challenge to find real opportunity. Yet, when he arrived, he maintained the standards of a boy who had grown up in a working-class neighborhood.

  Ringo is unique because when he was a boy, he found a place in the Beatles. Throughout his adult life, he has repeated the words. He is, at times, incredulous that people call him Ringo. In a year 2000 interview with me, Ringo repeated, “I am just Richie, that’s all.” His feelings about identity go back to the beginning, as you can see in the quotation above.

  Joe Flannery, Brian Epstein’s lifetime friend, onetime Beatles booker, former bouncer and manager of Hamburg’s notorious Star Club, and Liverpool’s cultural ambassador, finds Ringo’s attitude on his heritage loaded with hypocrisy.

  “Why do they call you ‘ex-Beatle’ Ringo? Because you are. You are you, living in luxury in the South of France and in Los Angeles because you are Ringo, and frankly none of this would have happened if John and Paul and George had not asked you to join their band. That is true, isn’t it?”

  Flannery may sound harsh, but he has great pride for his city’s cultural contributions to the world. Ringo apparently thinks less of Liverpool, according to recent comments, although he has backtracked on those sentiments. In 2008 he graciously opened Liverpool’s Capital of Culture Ceremony. During that visit, he was chastised in the media for refusing to sign autographs (not uncommon in a world where Beatles autographs sell for a small fortune). But that was the least of his problems.

  A reporter asked him what he missed most about Liverpool. Ringo replied with a laugh and the words, “Er . . . no.” Later, to his credit, he offered a more positive view of his childhood. But over the years his attitude concerning his city of birth has been vague.

  The lack of support haunted him as he began a 2011 tour of Europe with a scheduled appearance at the Liverpool Empire Theater. When asked again about his earlier remarks, Ringo apologized, in a certain way.

  “I apologize to those people [who were offended], as long as they live in Liverpool, not outside,” Starr told a BBC interviewer. “No real Scouser took offence, only I believe people from the outside.”

  The truth was that some of the people who were outraged may have misinterpreted his unusual sense of humor.

  It has been a long time since Ringo took the title of “Scouser,” the nickname for a resident of Liverpool. Ringo’s apology did not sit too well inside the city where he grew up, and the Scousers did take offense. Shortly after the 2008 comments, vandals cut off Ringo’s head in a foliage sculpture of the Beatles. People on the street expressed anger at his remarks, although he went on in 2011 to express his fond memories of growing up in the Dingle neighborhood of Liverpool.

  There is something you need to know about Ringo. He may be somewhat secluded in his later years, but in the prime time of his greatest success, there was no more engaged or friendly Beatle than Ringo Starr, because his was an early life of wonderment, gritty hard work, and a full appreciation in that time of where he came from, and where he came from was the poorest side of town. The houses were narrow and there was substandard plumbing, in some cases no indoor bathrooms. The Starkeys were forced to seek their relief in outdoor toilets. Imagine going to the bathroom in thirty-degree weather. The Dingle was bypassed by much of the middle-class expansion during the postwar years. Unlike John, Paul, George, and Pete, young Richie did not have any advantages, except for a loving, comforting mother who would do anything for her boy, even when he lost himself to drinking and drugs at a very young age.

  Although he will always be Richie, Ringo became Ringo at the direction of a man who plays so many roles in this miraculous story of success, the scintillating bandleader Rory Storm.

  Cynthia Lennon, John’s first wife, reports that Ringo became Ringo in recognition of the rings he displayed on his fingers. But the name was not his choice. Ringo’s name had a ring to it because of Storm, one of the most formidable figures in Liverpool, and in Richie Starkey’s life.

  Ringo became Ringo when he was the drummer for Rory Storm and the Hurricanes, the electrifying Liverpool band that the Beatles admired so much. Storm loved his players. Even though his own life was marked by insecurity and instability, Storm was quite paternal with his band members. He treated them with deep respect, and enjoyed featuring them, allowing them to stand out. Storm wanted all of his players to have stage names. Richie was known for his love of rings and American westerns. So Richard Starkey became Ringo Starr and the moniker allowed his idol, Rory Storm, to advertise “Starr Time” at his many concerts.

  But the name game aside, Ringo was a man with three lives: a delightful young Beatle, a victim of addiction in middle age, and a healthy and mature multimillionaire later in life. As with the sheer poverty he was born to and the sickness he endured, Ringo was able to overcome the drug habit.

  There are many stories about Ringo Starr, including the fact that, prior to his joi
ning the Beatles, he was offered a job with Kingsize Taylor and the Dominoes. Ringo of course took the ensuing calls from Brian Epstein and John with great anticipation. While working for Rory Storm and the Hurricanes, Ringo shared many a stage with John, Paul, George, and Pete in Hamburg, at the clubs in Merseyside, and of course at the Cavern. He had developed relationships with all four of them, and especially a real chemistry with John, Paul, and George. By the time he joined the band, Ringo was an old hand at dealing with the boys. He respected John’s eccentricities, adored George and his passion, and expressed great wonder at Paul’s ability to remain cheerful, at least publicly, amid the chaos and uncertainty that followed the Beatles.

  For me, getting to know Ringo was an absolute pleasure, and always newsworthy. On the Beatles’ North American tours of 1964, 1965, and 1966, we had a wonderful rapport on the airplanes, in the hotels, and on the back stages of Beatlemania. My complete history with him covered the period from 1964 through 1970, and again for brief reunions in 1989, 2000, and 2001. What I learned in recent years about his earlier life was stunning, even shocking. Ringo was generous. He gave me the first news in the summer of 1964 that he would soon have his tonsils out. It was, in the world of the young Beatles, a “major breaking story.” When his tonsils were removed on December 2 of that year, it was front-page news across the world.

  No doubt the tonsil surgery was a grim reminder of the earlier challenges faced by young Richard Starkey. And there were so many of them that his mother, Elsie, was always scared about what would happen next. When you look at the history, you can’t blame her.

  The scene at 9 Madryn Street was narrow, quite bare, and missing an important piece of life: his parents divorced when he was a toddler. In the ensuing years, Elsie and Richie moved to 10 Admiral Grove so Elsie could be closer to her work at a pub. The primary reason for the move was an attempt to cut monthly costs.