by Bryce Zabel
On the other hand, no one could doubt that these were songs written by men who had issues with each other. It was one thing to witness McCartney and Lennon slug it out in the music trades, but now Harrison and Starkey had gotten in on the act as well.
Rockstar gave Savile Row the cover treatment, using the stark black-and-white photos from the Get Back—Live at the Roundhouse album and rotating them so the band members’ faces were turned away from each other. Over a third of the issue was devoted to dissecting the album’s meaning. The magazine branded it “The Shootout at Apple Corral” to drive home the metaphor that Lennon and McCartney had assaulted each other with virtual guns on this thirty-three RPM firing range.
[Rockstar] “Rhetorical bullets are flying in these songs, some are near misses, some are direct hits, and all of them carry with them the capacity to cause great injury. It’s a dangerous, emotional album, full of raw power. The fact that it ends with a Lennon-McCartney tune is the kind of mystery that only the Beatles can serve up to their fans.”
The imagery never really took off: Lennon and McCartney seemed more like dark assassins of the Beatles myth than gunslingers, even though the B-side felt less combative to most listeners. And there was the matter that both Harrison and Starr had participated in the stirring of the proverbial pot, contributing three and two songs, respectively.
Rockstar’s Booth Hill tried to interview John and Paul together, but they refused. At that particular moment in their historical feud, it was still all they could do to get in the studio to make the music; they certainly were not going to go at it in front of a journalist, even one they knew personally.
Rolling Stone characterized the Savile Row album as one beginning with an “angry and mournful” state that ended with a meditation on friendship, after touring through spouses, religion, loneliness, and existential doubt.
In Creem’s article, Lennon said the album had to happen in order to “clear the air” and allow Paul and him to work together in the future. McCartney simply shrugged and said he accepted it was the price of keeping the band together and that he was willing to pay it.
Savile Row—the concept album—would sweep the Grammy Awards, a high compliment to a group in the middle of what appeared to be public therapy. The success of Savile Row was a surprise in itself, but no one could have predicted what was to come next. Incredibly, the Beatles were about to put something even bigger and more complex onto the world’s cultural radar.
Stanley Kubrick Presents J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings Starring The Beatles
Released on May 23, 1971, Stanley Kubrick Presents J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings Starring The Beatles was a film phenomenon, shattering records, inspiring mass repeat viewings, and vastly enhancing the value of anyone who touched it.
And the Beatles not only touched it, they embodied it.
Clearly, having what remains one of the longest film titles in cinematic history (nearly an entire Tweet by today’s standards) provided no obstacle to the film’s ability to gain momentum. The film’s title came together when lawyers—representing United Artists, Kubrick, Apple, Tolkien, and representatives of the Screen Actors Guild, Directors Guild, and Writers Guild—joined up in Hollywood and ultimately, after much discussion, found the most value in placing everyone’s name in the top credit.
United Artists had originally planned to call the film The Lord of the Rings. Stanley Kubrick then insisted as an incentive to signing his contract that he be given the possessive credit in all marketing. Stanley Kubrick Presents The Lord of the Rings is what the director wanted.
When Allen Klein heard about this, he instantly phoned Beeching and said that Apple should sue UA if they used that title without including the Beatles. UA knew the Beatles would either carry or kill the movie, so they agreed to call the film Stanley Kubrick Presents The Lord of the Rings Starring The Beatles. At the last minute, in a nod to the now raging popularity of The Lord of the Rings in its trilogy novel format, the title was finalized as Stanley Kubrick Presents J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings Starring The Beatles.
Today, regular film lovers refer to the movie as simply The Lord of the Rings. Serious fans, however, recite the entire name as if it were a mantra. At conventions, it’s possible to hear lines like, “The set design on Stanley Kubrick Presents J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings Starring The Beatles is groundbreaking for its time.” Others try to call it “SKPJRRTTLOTRSTB” or “Skip Jert Loter Stub,” but those haven’t really caught on, despite best efforts of some devotees.
In a way, Stanley Kubrick Presents J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings Starring The Beatles deserved any distinction bestowed on it in 1971. Whatever name you called it, the film blew away the competition the week it opened. The collaboration between Kubrick and the Beatles had a domestic gross that year of over $91MM, decisively edging out another United Artists film Fiddler on the Roof for the highest-grossing film of the year. It also had what Hollywood refers to as “legs,” meaning that people wanted to see it again and again. In most cities of the United States, before the advent of home video, revival houses played it year-round. It has always drawn crowds and has sold to new audiences in VHS, DVD, Blu-ray, and now, streaming.
At the time, however, it was a bumpy promotional ride for the film. Kubrick publicly complained that he could have done more with better actors. Lennon responded that the Beatles felt the same way about the director they got stuck with.
In truth, both were right. The labyrinthine Kubrick screenplay, weighing in at 187 pages (120 pages was considered normal at the time) had 37 minutes removed from it in the UA cut that Kubrick ultimately signed off on. Several of the trims were done because the performance of one of the Beatles was considered to be “less in character than we would have liked.” Others were done because Kubrick had attempted certain visual effects sequences that simply were not realized well enough to be shown.
Regardless of the behind-the-scenes drama, the film remains the Beatles’ most beloved, primarily because it seems to transcend them. They are the stars, yes, but only as actors. The film itself became the star. The only other film that seems to have had the equal staying power is one that followed it in 1972: The Godfather.
Fans and filmgoers alike seemed happy with the film, and some were downright delirious about it. Only a small minority carped that the Beatles should have been doing something more important with their time than making some fantasy flick. Naysayers also pointed out that it was the second film the Beatles had made about a ring (the first being Help!)—only this time Paul got to wear the sacred jewelry instead of Ringo.
Critics were in the distinct minority, however. The film was nominated for an Oscar along with The French Connection, Fiddler on the Roof, The Last Picture Show, and Nicholas and Alexandra. All of the Beatles showed up for the ceremony, except for John Lennon, who did not want to see Stanley Kubrick and force a smile for reporters.
For many people, seeing the film is when the 1970s really started. For everyone else, it seems, that pivotal moment occurred when they first heard the film’s soundtrack.
The soundtrack, like that of Yellow Submarine before it, was divided into two sides: one was devoted to music from the Beatles and the other to the George Martin soundtrack score. Fans consistently refer to the “Two Georges” in describing the soundtrack’s creators.
The soundtrack’s A-side was produced by George Harrison, who worked with the other Beatles to incorporate songs still left over from the ill-fated Twickenham Studio sessions. Many listeners remain adamant that it is George’s own spirituality that translated so beautifully to the story behind The Lord of the Rings that it still, to this day, elevates the music to its iconic status.
My Friends Came to Me
Two days after the recording sessions on Savile Row ended, John Lennon and Yoko Ono packed up most of their worldly belongings and headed for New York City. It was the summer of 1971, and they were looking for Yoko’s daughter, Kyoko, and felt they ne
eded to be in the United States to fight a custody battle with Yoko’s former husband Tony Cox, who had taken Kyoko to America back in 1969 to keep her from Lennon’s influence.
More than that, however, they just wanted to be in America. Lennon famously compared New York City, the home base of the American empire, to Rome, where you need to be if you wanted to be in the middle of all the action.
Apple had made England the center of the Beatles empire, but the office had provided only stress for over a year now.
Lennon had his mind on the New World, literally. “America is where it’s at,” he said in December. “You know, I should have been born in New York, man, I should have been born in the Village! That’s where I belong.”
As they found themselves increasingly at home in the Big Apple, the Lennons moved beyond an interest in avant-garde music and art to immerse themselves in the radical political movements of the time. The day they arrived in New York, they were met by Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman, leaders of the Youth International Party, a.k.a. the Yippies. “They almost grabbed me off the plane,” Lennon recalled, “and the next minute, I’m involved.”
They began to take part in rallies for political prisoners, as well as in demonstrations in support of the IRA and Attica prison riot victims. But for all the good they thought they were doing, there were still people who saw John Lennon, and his bandmates, as a threat—particularly after Lennon and Ono headlined the “Free John Sinclair” concert before fifteen thousand fans in Detroit, Michigan, on December 10.
Sinclair, a poet and former manager of MC5 (Motor City Five), had been sentenced to ten years in Michigan State Prison for marijuana possession. The week before the concert, Lennon had joined the bill. Ticket sales, which had been sluggish, went through the roof.
If that was to be expected, the state of Michigan’s decision to set Sinclair free just days after the concert was astonishing. Lennon could not only move concert tickets. He could move state legislatures.
The night of the Sinclair rally, however, an undercover FBI agent was in the crowd, trying to blend in. He wrote down every word Lennon said and sang that night. This became page one in an FBI file that would ultimately be used against Lennon, and, by association, his bandmates.
Clearly, John and Yoko made no attempt to hide their beliefs. They even co-hosted The Mike Douglas Show for an entire week, booking radicals like Abbie Hoffman as guests. In New York City, the arrival of John and Yoko was being seen in radical and leftist circles as a once in a lifetime experience that was having the practical effect of bringing people together. But all this activity also drew increasing attention from the U.S. authorities, particularly men in high places within the Nixon Administration.
The Lennons were stirring other darker forces against themselves and, by association, the Beatles. Without knowing it, they had managed to get the attention of President Nixon’s lawyer, John Dean.
• • •
While there was always the primal pull to break apart, the Beatles seemed to have an equally strong force keeping them together, one that continued to work in mysterious ways. In the early winter of 1971, this counterbalance was in full effect.
“My friend came to me,” started George Harrison in a note he sent first to Eric Clapton. The message went on to explain that he had heard terrible things from his friend Ravi Shankar about what was happening on the other side of the world, in the vulnerable and crumbling country known as Bangladesh. The place had been ravaged by both the war of liberation and a war of nature incited by the Bhola Cyclone and was facing an imminent refugee crisis.
After meditating on what could be done to effect change, Harrison came up with the idea of championing a charity concert that he would call The Concert for Bangladesh. Clapton thought the idea sounded like it just might work, although he pointed out that it had one large drawback: no one had ever done anything like this before.
“No one ever thought a rock band could make millions of teenage girls scream and faint, either,” George answered. “Maybe we can harness all that madness into something good.”
As the idea evolved in the back-and-forth between the two men, it became obvious that they’d have to take action no later than August, which was only seven months away. They would reach out to friends and put together an all-star lineup, and all the profits would be donated to the relief effort.
“Why don’t you just do it with the Beatles?” asked Clapton.
George, having just made yet another angry album with John, Paul, and Ringo, had had his fill of the still-simmering tensions. He wanted to do this one on his own. He planned to issue only halfhearted invitations to his bandmates, hoping that they would be too busy or otherwise engaged to attend.
Clapton, to his unending credit, told his friend that was not acceptable. Clapton was a serious heroin addict at this point, and he feared that without the Beatles, Harrison might depend on him to get through the concert, a role he was not prepared to fill.
Clapton argued that asking the Beatles to play a set hardly prevented them from reaching out to other artists. With the Beatles on the roster, they might even be able to get Bob Dylan to play, something he hadn’t done in years. While George was supposedly considering a more magnanimous approach to his own bandmates, Clapton send effusive telegrams under Harrison’s name to John Lennon, Paul McCartney, and Ringo Starr.
“Come on over for a set,” the telegram read. “We’ll make it short and sweet like half of a Roundhouse, only in Madison Square Garden. You have to be here. I’m counting on you.”
George was furious and threatened to expose Eric’s insane meddling. But by the time he was entertaining that as an option, Eric had received return telegrams from the other three Beatles saying that they’d be there. John pointed out he could walk to the venue from his apartment. Paul, who would have to travel from his farm in Scotland, slipped into his telegram a proposed set list that generously included one more song for George than John and himself. Ringo received his invite at the exact moment he had signed the papers to buy John’s home in Tittenhurst Park, after it had become clear that the Lennons, smitten with New York, had no immediate plans to return to England. On the phone with John, Ringo pointed out the irony: “I’m the one who wants to do the bit with Georgie, but I live half a world away, and you’re the one who wants to get out of it but has no excuse.”
“He knows I don’t want to do this,” said John, “but even I can’t refuse to play so some starving kids can eat.”
So, there it was. George had become a concert promoter and had just booked the biggest band in the entire world. It would be the height of craziness to turn down the opportunity. With the Beatles now involved, more money would go to Bangladesh and, after all, that was what the whole idea was about in the first place.
The power of the Beatles did, in fact, get Bob Dylan on the concert bill. Then they booked supporting musicians to fill out the roster, names like Leon Russell, Billy Preston, Badfinger, Klaus Voormann, Jim Keltner, and Jim Horn. Ravi Shankar would start off the night with the opening performance, as well as introduce the political aspect of the occasion.
They had an all-star concert. The date was set as August 1, 1971, at Madison Square Garden. The idea was to play an afternoon and evening concert that same day and edit the best version together for a film and a soundtrack.
First, Ravi Shankar performed for a half hour to polite fans who were crawling out of their skins with expectation. The Bengali musician was followed by George Harrison, who appeared with a collection of backing musicians to blow the house down with his new song “Bangladesh.” Besides raising money for the good cause, the concert was also designed to raise consciousness for George Harrison by featuring some of his own classics, affording him the recognition he had often been denied in the Beatles.
Harrison followed with his hit “My Sweet Lord” and went spiritual with “Awaiting on You All.” Then he stepped back, letting Billy Preston shine with “That’s the Way God Planned It” and Leon Russel
l, with “Jumpin’ Jack Flash/Youngblood.” Everyone joined him for “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” the final song in his set.
Bob Dylan came next and did not disappoint. His choice of songs seemed to be brutally relevant in this new decade, particularly his politically infused version of “Blowin’ in the Wind” and his apocalyptic “A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall.”
At the end of Dylan’s set, Harrison came on to stand side by side with Dylan and usher him offstage to thunderous applause. Most of the people in the audience still could not believe that the best was yet to come.
The stage sat dark and silent for an eternal thirty seconds. As the shadowy visage of Ringo Starr appeared, taking his place behind the drums, the crowd came alive. When John Lennon, Paul McCartney, and George Harrison emerged from the wings seconds later, the crowd of twenty thousand exploded. As he tuned up, Paul yelled, “Hello, New York City!”
The screaming drowned out what Paul said next. Then something wholly unexpected happened. The entirety of Madison Square Garden fell into a hush, wanting to hear from the Beatles, not to drown them out.
John, stunned, looked over at his bandmates. “Now we have to say something important.” He flashed a peace sign to the audience. “The last time we played in the U.S., up in Woodstock, we nearly got electrocuted in the rain,” noted John. Then he pivoted to George, saying, “Thanks for getting us back to the city.”
“He wanted to make sure you’d show up,” said Paul.
“The Garden’s only a cab ride for John,” George explained to the crowd. “We all had to come here just to see him.”
