Beatles (4 page)

Despite the Beatles’ enormous popularity, there were still, in the mid 1960s, many people who said their success was basically a matter of fashion. The clothes, the hair, the accent, the irreverence, the humour, that was what made people like them, not their music. It was all publicity and promotion. A new group would soon displace them.

In August 1966, ‘Eleanor Rigby’ came out (the B side of ‘Yellow Submarine’), and that seemed to me to
prove
that they could write real lyrics. The music, once again, was a development, using classical instruments and harmonies.

I went to see Paul at his house in Cavendish Avenue, St John’s Wood. It was pure self-indulgence. I wanted to meet him, but I also wanted to hear the background to ‘Eleanor Rigby’. I presumed he had written it, as it was his voice singing, though in those days they were simply Lennon–McCartney songs and no one bothered to separate them. I had never read any interview in which they had been asked seriously about how they composed. The popular newspapers were obsessed by the money and the crowd mania, while the fan mags wanted to know their favourite colour and favourite film stars.

I planned to reproduce all the words of ‘Eleanor Rigby’, to let the ignorant see how good they were, admire the imagery,
feel the quality, but my superiors on the newspaper were against it. They didn’t want so much space wasted on humdrum pop songs. So, what I said was that no pop song at present had better words or music.

The interview was revealing, so I thought, though reading it now, Paul does come out a bit self-satisfied, while at the same time appearing to be self-aware and even self-deflating. Has he really changed all that much? In it he used the word ‘stoned’. Until then, in normal English usage, it referred to drink, not drugs, which was how I took it at the time.

I think I got on well with him. We talked about the background to many of their other songs, though I had no room to write about them. It struck me afterwards that there was so much I didn’t know about them or their work, and that everybody had been asking the same old questions about their fame and success, and wondering when the bubble would burst.

There were only two books I could find on the Beatles, both unsatisfactory. There had been a fan club book, a short paperback, called
The True Story of the Beatles
, which came out in 1964, produced by the people who did
Beatles Monthly
. There was also a book by a young American, Michael Braun, called
Love Me Do
, which was much better, but limited, based on conversations with them on tour. This also had come out in 1964. They had developed so much since, but nobody had looked at their whole career, or spent time talking to them properly, or their friends and relations, or even tried to investigate what had happened in Hamburg, let alone their school days.

It seemed a good idea, but why should the Beatles agree to cooperate on such an enterprise? They were already, in 1966, millionaires, rich and famous and successful enough not to be interested in any more boring old chats about being Beatles. So I forgot about it, and went on with the business of living and working. My second child, Jake, was born in 1966.

I was already in the middle of my third book, a documentary study of universities, a look at students and teachers in Britain, to be called the
Class of ’66
. I had so far completed about half of it,
including profiles of two young girl students, one at Manchester University called Anna Ford and one at Sussex called Buzz Goodbody, and had written 10,000 words on each.

Then in December 1966 I paused from the book to get started on the screenplay of the novel that had been bought by United Artists,
Here We Go, Round the Mulberry Bush
, a slice-of-life Northern story, about a boy on a council estate, hoping to pick up a girl from a semi. I was surprised when it was bought by the film people – and even more surprised now that they planned to make it. Far more books get bought than ever get filmed. It was going to be a contemporary teenage film, and the director, Clive Donner, had the idea that Paul McCartney might do the theme tune for us. He had already done some film music.

On this occasion I went to Cavendish Avenue not as a journalist, looking for good quotes, but as a film writer, hoping he would collaborate on the project. He did seem interested, and we had several meetings and telephone chats, but in the end he said no. (The music was eventually done by Stevie Winwood plus the Spencer Davis Group – and was very good.)

Talking to Paul, this time with a slightly different hat on, I put to him the idea that had originally struck me. How about a
proper
book on the Beatles, a serious attempt to tell the whole story, to get it all down, once and for all, so that for ever more when people ask the same old dopey questions, you can say it’s in the book; wouldn’t that be a good idea, hmm?

It was always difficult to get any of the Beatles to concentrate on anything for more than a few moments. Even in his home, there was a queue of record people, designers, artists, assistants, sitting around waiting to see him. So I threw it out, not expecting a reaction or a reply there and then, but he said fine, why not, it would be useful. But there was only one problem. I thought for a moment that some other writer had already asked and been granted permission.

‘What you’ll have to do first of all is talk to Brian,’ said Paul. ‘He’s the one who will decide. But come on, sit down, I’ll help you draft a letter.’

So there and then I sat down and did a rough letter. The next day I typed it out and sent it to Brian Epstein. How funny that for all these years I should have kept a copy. It was on the lines Paul had suggested, boasting what a big cheese I was, saying I had ‘interviewed the Beatles several times’. Did I make that up? Or have I forgotten? No, now it comes back to me, I did interview them, on the set of
A Hard Day’s Night
, in 1964. I remember a complicated joke John made that day. They were about to record a song in a studio and a light came on saying ‘Sound On’. John started making up doggerel about ‘Sounds on, Sound on’. There used to be a phrase ‘Sounds on’ meaning something seemed possible, or all right. I think I must have made a mess of trying to explain the joke, such as it was, because the article, as far as I can remember, never got into the newspaper.

My appointment with Brian Epstein was made for Wednesday, 25 January 1967. At the last minute, he cancelled, through pressure of work, and made it the next day. Even so, he kept me waiting a long time, so I mooched around his drawing room, admiring his two fine paintings by Lowry. He lived at the time at 24 Chapel Street, Belgravia, a very posh address, right in the middle of the diplomatic area.

He eventually appeared, in a suit as always, looking very fresh, chubby-cheeked and healthy, but rather distracted. He played for me the tapes of ‘Penny Lane’ and ‘Strawberry Fields’, their new single, about to be released in a few days’ time. He sat back with a sort of paternal pride and watched me, not really listening to the music, just watching me listening. I was amazed by ‘Strawberry Fields’. It was such a leap forward, an enormous advance on juvenile stuff like ‘Yellow Submarine’, full of discordant jumps and eerie echoes, almost like Stockhausen. I wondered if Beatle fans would like it. I asked him what the title meant. He didn’t seem to know.

He carefully locked the tape away, saying that he could not be too careful. A previous Beatle tape had been stolen and it was very embarrassing. They could fetch a lot of money, if they were leaked to the pirate radio stations before the official launch date. In those days, there were several pirate radio stations around Britain. I didn’t actually believe him, that people would steal tapes, just to get a few days ahead of their rivals.

I eventually got the conversation round to my letter, asking what he thought, had he taken the topic further? He appeared not to know much about it at first, though he smiled and was very charming, so I went over the details, and he said yes, it did seem a good idea and he would have to put it to all four Beatles.

I then added what I had not put in the letter, which was that I expected to share the advance with them, if they agreed to give me exclusive cooperation. That seemed only fair. He waved his hand, his white shirt showing expansively over his well manicured fingers, as if that was a trifling consideration. I told him that my publisher was Heinemann, a very distinguished imprint, and he said he would like to meet them, and my agent, so we could all agree on the details. He arranged another meeting for the following Wednesday, 31 January. By then, he said, he would know what the Beatles thought.

The boss of the literary agency I was then with, Curtis Brown, the biggest agency of its type in the world, said he would like to come in person, as did Charles Pick, managing director of Heinemann, but I told them just to stand by. I would ring from Epstein’s, if it looked as if the deal was going forward. I saw Brian at three, and he said the Beatles had raised no objections, so I rang Spencer Curtis Brown and Charles Pick and told them both to come round, sharpish.

I’m sure they just wanted to get inside Epstein’s house, to see how this man of the moment lived, as the deal in prospect was not really a very big one. I had already talked to other people in the publishing firm about the possibility of this book, and no one had been very impressed. We know all we’ll ever want to know about the Beatles, as one person said. And anyway, books about pop stars don’t sell. Look at that Cliff Richard book, that didn’t do very well. I said, this is practically sociology, about a group that has affected the way we live now. Sociology? Who needs sociology? That doesn’t sell either.

Brian explained to the three of us that I could do the book, and that he would give me all facilities, but he couldn’t force each Beatle not to talk to other people. This rather worried me. I left it to Spencer to discuss how we should split the advance, and he suggested one third to the Beatles and two thirds to me, as I was doing all the work and would have to go round the world, interviewing former friends and associates. It would be a big job, as we all wanted it to be the definitive book, not a cheap, paperback, fan-mag quickie. Brian agreed.

The contract was eventually drawn up, with Brian organizing it personally, in his capacity as their manager. Heinemann agreed to pay £3,000 for the book, which meant £2,000 to me, less ten per cent, of course, for the agent’s fee. Even in those days, it was not a large amount. Now, of course, it looks unbelievably small, when I know that one subsequent writer of a Beatles book in the 1980s managed to earn 100 times that amount.

However, I was very pleased. I had secured access to the four people I most wanted to meet. Even if it all collapsed for some reason, I would have been inside their homes and been in the recording studios and seen them at work. One worry was that other people might get to hear about the book, and do a quick version, based on some passing conversations with them, or just newspaper cuttings, so we all agreed to keep the project secret.

I also worried, though I hate to admit it now, that perhaps there was some truth in the feeling, held by many in 1966, that the bubble would very soon burst. I liked their music, but the world at large in two years’ time could have moved on to something else. That would explain why nobody had done a proper book about them so far. I didn’t want it to be a flop, with poor sales, and I would feel embarrassed about having taken the money. As for the
Class of ’66
book, it was agreed I could put that back till I had finished the one on the Beatles. We could always call it the
Class of ’67
.

On 7 January 1967, my 31st birthday, I started work on the book by talking to Ringo. I thought he might be the easiest.
With all biographical books, at least to do with living people, there is always the fear of falling out, of not getting on before the project is properly under way. Ringo always looked kind. As a fan, that was the image I had picked up. That same day, I got a call at
The Sunday Times
, where I was still writing the Atticus column, planning to do the Beatles book in the evenings and at weekends, which was how I had produced my previous two books. It was from a strange-sounding lady called Yoko Ono. She said I was the most eminent columnist in London, so she had been told, creep creep, and that she wanted to feature my bare bottom in a film she was making. Don’t bugger around, I said, who are you? I thought it must be some drunken journalist from the
Observer
, having me on.

No, no, she said, this is very serious, and she proceeded to list other films she had done, all of them sounding equally dopey. She gave me the address where the filming was taking place and implored me to come along. I said I might, but I wasn’t promising; anyway, if it meant revealing my bottom, she would have to contact my agent.

I went along, as it sounded the sort of daft story I might need for the column that week, though still half expecting it to be a hoax. Sure enough, there was a queue of blokes in this very smart apartment in Park Lane, lining up to stand on a revolving stage, like a children’s roundabout, while Yoko filmed them as in turn they dropped their trousers. I talked to a rather distracted American called Anthony Cox, who turned out to be her husband, and I gathered he had put up the money as she, apparently, had none. He looked so clean-cut, an educated Ivy League American, I found it hard to believe he had fallen for all this nonsense. The more he explained, the more there did seem quite a serious point she was making. I’ve forgotten now what it was.