How the Beatles Went Viral in '64 (2 page)

With the band back in the UK, Beatlemania continued to spread. Almost as quickly as the Beatles had grabbed the attention of the British press as objects of a barbarous throng’s coarse obsession, they morphed into being embraced as those loveable moptops, perhaps even the pride of the British Empire. The vehicle through which this swift transformation occurred was their appearance at the Royal Variety Show on November 4th. Like all acts on the bill at this annual charity event, the Beatles performed at the invitation of Queen Elizabeth, although the Queen herself stayed home that evening, pregnant with Prince Edward. The Queen Mother, best-loved of the royals, was in attendance, however, and was reported to have been clapping along on the off beat during the Beatles’ set, while Princess Margaret snapped her fingers.

Famously, John Lennon introduced the band’s finale that evening, “Twist And Shout,” with the quip “Will the people in the cheaper seats clap your hands? And the rest of you, if you’ll just rattle your jewelry.” This was a display of cheekiness that heretofore one simply did not exhibit before the royal family. And yet, by narrowing the distance between the monarchy and his own working class foursome onstage, Lennon brought down the house—and in the process managed to make the band all the more beloved in an England where notions of one’s proper place were evolving rapidly. Even the Queen Mother came away a fan, calling the Beatles “so young, fresh and vital.”

From then on, the Beatles were treated as something akin to national heroes. While the November 2nd Daily Telegraph had compared a Beatles concert to Hitler’s Nuremberg rallies, the morning after the Royal Command Performance saw the band achieve a new legitimacy from a lovestruck press. As the Daily Mirror put it, “You have to be a real square not to love the nutty, noisy, happy, handsome Beatles.” Victory was total: By December, London Sunday Times music critic Richard Buckle was favorably comparing their music to Beethoven.

Despite the undeniable phenomenon of the Beatles in England—which was growing by the day—US Capitol Records dealt yet another blow to the band in early November when Dave Dexter again turned down their latest single. This one, “I Want To Hold your Hand,” had advance orders in the UK of over one million singles (and yet, curiously, when it was released in the UK on November 29th, it was initially kept out of the number one spot by “She Loves You,” which had rebounded back to number one after a seven week absence, in the wake of intensified media attention). The day after the Royal Command Performance, the band’s manager Brian Epstein headed to New York. Ostensibly the trip was to promote one of his other acts, Liverpudlian singer Billy J. Kramer, who was signed to Liberty Records and who’d accompanied him on the journey. But more importantly, Epstein was determined to figure out how to get the Beatles’ US career on track.

Part of Epstein’s efforts in New York would center around securing the Beatles a spot on the Ed Sullivan Show. While Sullivan had been intrigued by the band after the airport incident, he had not yet committed to booking them. Sullivan’s European talent scout, Peter Pritchard, had taken the show’s talent coordinator Bob Babb to see the band perform earlier in the year and was regularly updating Babb on the band’s progress. With Epstein due in New York, Pritchard called Sullivan and encouraged him to meet Epstein and consider booking the Beatles. The reception the band had received at London Airport was interesting, but it was Pritchard’s report of how they’d wowed the royal family the previous night that gave Sullivan enough of a hook to agree to take a meeting with Epstein.

After two meetings, the deal was set: The Beatles would appear on two consecutive episodes of The Ed Sullivan Show, on February 9th and 16th, 1964. Plus, a third appearance would be taped for broadcast at a later date (the three episodes would ultimately be broadcast on consecutive weeks). Sullivan had done something similar with Elvis Presley in 1956, when he booked the singer for three appearances over a four-month period. Because the Beatles were flying in from England, the time frame for their appearances was compressed to avoid the expense of flying them in and out of the US multiple times.

Sullivan had a reputation for being quite budget-conscious in general, but in the case of the Beatles he was particularly parsimonious. While performers on the Sullivan show regularly received $10,000 or more for a top-billed appearance—a red-hot Presley had received $50,000 in 1956 dollars for his three appearances—Sullivan held the upper hand in his negotiations with Epstein, who represented a group that was, after all, almost entirely unknown in the US. Thus, Epstein settled for $10,000 total for the three appearances. But he’d gotten what he wanted, which was a top-billed performance on The Ed Sullivan Show, plus two more. For an unknown act, such a commitment from Sullivan was unprecedented, but, as Sullivan later recalled in a New York Times interview, “I made up my mind that this was the same sort of mass hysteria that had characterized the Elvis Presley days.”

Sixteen seasons into his unparalleled 23-year prime–time run on CBS, Sullivan was just now reaching the zenith of his own fame and his show’s star-making power. A few months earlier, he’d been lionized in the film version of the stage musical “Bye Bye Birdie,” in which he played himself and which featured an eponymous musical number—performed cathedral choir style—devoted to just how monumental it was to appear on the show: “Ed Sullivan,” the choir sang. “We’re going to be on Ed Sullivan!” A single appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show could be a ticket to the top for a lucky performer. Getting three made Epstein feel like it was a lock.

In the case of the Beatles, mere word of Sullivan’s agreement to feature them on three episodes was enough change the band’s fortunes in America. With Sullivan sewn up, Epstein set out to address Capitol Records’ indifference toward the band. He had the hottest pop act in the world, and was convinced he could do better than have them released on Swan Records. While there is considerable debate about what happened next, it appears Epstein paid a visit to Brown Meggs, Capitol’s east coast chief, to plead the band’s case—and came away with a release commitment. Unknown to Epstein, EMI’s Managing Director L.G Wood had already greased the skids for the band’s US release on Capitol after Dexter had passed for the fourth time. Wood, furious that Capitol would not license the Beatles, flew to New York and met with Capitol’s President Alan Livingston, who was summoned in from L.A. Armed with a mandate from EMI Chairman Sir Joseph Lockwood to break the logjam, Wood demanded that Livingston agree to a Beatles release on Capitol.

Livingston was offended by EMI’s demand, as the understanding with EMI was that Capitol would merely have the first right of refusal on EMI product, with no obligation to license. A highly successful record man, whose prior accomplishments ranged from signing Frank Sinatra to creating Bozo the Clown (and who later in life would own the production company that signed Don McLean’s “American Pie”), Livingston was used to running Capitol as his own fiefdom. But the truth was, EMI owned 96% of Capitol and Livingston was an employee. Wood refused to let Livingston leave the meeting until he’d acceded to EMI’s demands for a Beatles release. Livingston grudgingly agreed to press up 5,000 copies of the next single. Only later, after word came in that Epstein had secured three appearances for the Beatles on Ed Sullivan, did Capitol finally get on board in a big way, agreeing to a $40,000 marketing budget (about $300,000 in today’s dollars), a then-unprecedented sum for promoting a new act.

For the record, Livingston’s version of the story differs entirely from the above account: In Livingston’s recollection, he received a call that November from Brian Epstein, who wanted to know why Capitol hadn’t released any Beatles records. Livingston responded to Epstein that he’d never heard a Beatles record, which seems implausible in light of the fact that the Beatles were, by this time, a bona fide phenomenon to which Capitol held US rights, and Livingston was in regular contact with L.G Wood, who presumably had been encouraging him to release their records. That this decision would remain entirely in the hands of Dave Dexter, with no oversight, in spite of all the mounting pressure just doesn’t make sense. Livingston further contends that upon speaking with Epstein, he asked Dexter to bring him up some Beatles records, and after hearing them he immediately sensed the band’s US potential and agreed to put them out with the $40,000 marketing budget. (Amazingly, Dexter kept his post as head of international A&R in spite of having turned down not only the Beatles, but also Gerry and the Pacemakers, The Hollies, The Animals, The Dave Clark Five, Herman’s Hermits, and the Yardbirds, not to mention Epstein’s Billy J. Kramer. In fact, it was Dexter who remained in charge of A&R-ing the Beatles’ records for the American market and was responsible for the reconfiguration of the UK albums on Capitol. Years later, upon the death of John Lennon, he wrote a fairly mean editorial in Billboard about the late Beatle, for which the magazine later apologized.)

Epstein’s New York visit was jam-packed, including an interview with The New Yorker magazine that would be published the following month. “I think America is ready for the Beatles,” Epstein told The New Yorker. “When they come, they will hit this country for six” (a reference to the cricket equivalent of baseball’s home run). He also made visits to various music publications, and engaged in all manner of Billy J. Kramer promotion—culminating in a TV performance of Kramer’s cover of the Beatles’ “Do You Want To Know a Secret” on New York’s Joe Franklin Show.

But besides the Sullivan meetings, his most significant encounter was with Sid Bernstein, an agent at General Artists Corporation, who was hell-bent on booking the still-unknown Beatles into New York’s Carnegie Hall. Bernstein had found out about the Beatles while taking an evening western civilization course at the New School, in which one of the requirements was reading British newspapers to better understand the Parliamentary system. As a booking agent by day, his eyes inevitably drifted over to the entertainment pages, where with increasing frequency he began to see mention of the hysteria the Beatles were causing. He tracked down Brian Epstein and in early autumn pitched his Carnegie Hall idea over the phone. Epstein was hesitant to commit to anything before the Beatles were famous in the States, out of fear of playing before an empty house. For their part, GAC were equally hesitant to book an unknown pop group.

Bernstein thus made the audacious offer to rent Carnegie Hall at his own personal expense, leaving out GAC, with a proposed concert date of February 12th. As fate would have it, that was precisely when the Beatles were set to be in the US to do the Ed Sullivan Show. Bernstein felt confident that with the Sullivan deal sealed, the Beatles would be huge and ticket sales assured. While Epstein did not formally agree until after New Year’s to do the concert, Bernstein took their conversation as a yes and proceeded to rent Carnegie Hall. When the booker at Carnegie Hall asked him what kind of an act the Beatles were, Bernstein, who knew that Carnegie Hall did not tend to book pop bands, replied, with more truth than he’d intended, “They’re a phenomenon.”

Simultaneously, the American media were becoming fascinated by Britain’s fascination with the Beatles. Within the course of a week in mid-November, the band experienced intense US press and TV attention: On November 15th, Time Magazine published an account of “The New Madness.” Newsweek followed three days later with an article simply titled “Beatlemania.” Both pieces focused mainly on the fan frenzy, as did a Life Magazine feature two weeks later, and they all emphasized the appearance before the royals, which to the press added a certain legitimacy to the whole phenomenon.

All three American television networks sent camera crews to cover the Beatles’ November 16th concert in Bournemouth, which was marked by the usual clashes between fans and police. Once again, timing worked to the Beatles’ advantage: Just two months earlier, both CBS and NBC had expanded their evening news shows from 15 minutes to a half hour. This left them with airtime to fill, allowing coverage of the kind of light features for which the evening news never previously had room. NBC was first out of the gate, running a 4-minute Beatlemania story on the top-rated Huntley-Brinkley evening news on November 18th. Correspondent Edwin Newman’s piece was mainly about the fans’ hysterical reaction to the band, although he did include 30 seconds of the studio recording of “From Me To You,” as well as a snippet of the live Bournemouth performance of the same song, nearly drowned out by the fans’ screams. “One reason for the Beatles’ popularity,” Newman quipped, “is that it’s almost impossible to hear them.” Commenting on a report that the Beatles might soon be coming to America, Newman rejoined, “Show us no Mersey!”

CBS’s story followed four days later, on November 22nd,, the same day the “With The Beatles” album was released in England (ABC, whose newscast still stood at 15 minutes, never aired their story). As a teaser of sorts for the full four–minute piece that was set to appear on Walter Cronkite’s evening news show, an abbreviated version aired on the CBS Morning News with Mike Wallace. But the full piece did not run that evening; instead, everything came to a standstill with the news that President Kennedy had been assassinated.

The JFK assassination sent all of American society into a depressed stupor. And perhaps no societal group was more crushed by the death of the president than the nation’s youth, to whom JFK was a hero, embodying idealism and instilling optimism. To be a young American right after the assassination was to be afflicted by shock, giving way to sadness, disillusionment and doldrums. The spell weighed heavily and cried out to be broken.

Even the Top 40 airwaves were no place to find respite in the wake of the assassination. By some strange coincidence, a folk ballad about the founder of a Roman Catholic religious order, sung in French, sat poised to ascend to the number one position on the chart just as the nation’s first Catholic president was killed. No song could have captured the nation’s mood at that moment more precisely than “Dominique,” written and recorded by the Belgian Sister Luc-Gabrielle, billed as The Singing Nun. The austere “Dominique” remained atop the chart for the rest of the year, reinforcing America’s sober tone.