“Brian’s dead,” he said. “We have just broken down the door of his bedroom and found him. He won’t be at the show.”
It was such a bizarre way of putting it, that I repeated it to the staff. We looked at each other, unable to take it in. I got Eric Burdon to go on stage and announce that the next show would be canceled. When the theater was cleared, we closed the doors on the second show, giving people their money back as they arrived. Eric and Jimi went out into the street to talk to the crowds, to explain why the show was canceled. Little groups of people stood about, talking. We sat in the dark theater in shock, going over memories of Brian, talking about the past as you do.
As I walked home that night from the Saville I couldn’t help thinking about the day Brian took me on as the office boy at NEMS in Liverpool. My mum listened patiently to Brian, hoping I wasn’t making a big mistake, that there was some sort of a career there for me, instead of going back to Ford. But she was worried all the same. Similarly, Brian’s family had been worried. Patiently biding their time, his mum used to tell people in confidence that they were “letting Brian get this beat group thing out of his system.” She seemed to think that it was just a fad, as so many of his fads were, and he would soon revert to running the proper business of selling records for the family stores.
I lived near Brian at the time. My way home led past his house, which was surrounded by lights, cameras, police. The square was cordoned off and police held back the gay mob that had turned up. It was horrible. I remembered Brian’s pleasure when he first bought the Chapel Street house. He had been so proud of it, so delighted to have a smart, pretty place in the heart of town. He loved to throw small supper parties in the evening for a few intimate friends, after which there’d be a film show. Brian liked grim black-and-white films of the kitchen sink genre, films like The Butterfly Collector, or Budgie, or The War Games, a kind of documentary by Peter Whitehead. When I asked him what he wanted, he’d say, “Oh, you choose, Tony.”
He adored Terry Stamp, one of the most beautiful young men of our generation. Cracking a little joke, he’d say, “You know I always enjoy Ugly Young Man films, get one of those.”
I used to borrow these from the extensive library at the BFI (the British Film Institute) and take them round to Brian’s, where invariably he’d be entertaining the kind of dreadful men I couldn’t stand: parasites and hangers-on and people you felt would rob you blind. I’d set up the projector in the drawing room, get the film running, then go and sit in the kitchen in the basement and drink wine with Joanne. Sometimes I’d go to the pub. Later, I’d go back and rewind the film and put the projector away.
Brian was so different when around his beloved protégés. He became one of them. He was a friend, a chum, charming, trustworthy and kind. He set out to do what he promised and they all said it would never have happened without him. It was unbelievable that the man who had got all this going—the vast money-making machine and the culture shock that had changed the world, was gone.
If only he could have stopped and smelled the roses, not been such a perfectionist. The last few years had been a learning curve for us. We had all made many mistakes, but Brian took everything with such deadly earnest, anguished too much and bottled up most of it.
I sighed. Staring at the brightly lit house, filled with strangers and activity of a depressing nature, I wondered where Brian was now. I wondered if the Beatles had been told—would anyone have thought to do that? I think it was at that moment I realized that there was no one “in charge,” Brian had no real second in command. Many people, like Peter Brown on the business side and Neil Aspinall, who was still only the road manager, or agents and managers like Stiggie and Vic Lewis, had specific jobs, but none controlled all the strings like the puppet master himself.
Joanne was in shock. She had seen him first. The doors had been broken down and there he was, curled up on his side in bed with Saturday’s mail lying next to him. “We all knew at once that he was dead, but I heard myself say, ‘It’s all right, he’s just asleep. He’s fine,’ ” she said.
As soon as Peter Brown arrived from Kingsley Hill he called the Beatles in Bangor. There is the famous story about the phone ringing and ringing off the hook in another room and Paul eventually saying, “Shouldn’t somebody answer the phone?” Jane Asher then did so.
Fueling rumors that Brian’s death hadn’t been an accident, the Daily Express had apparently called out of the blue before anyone else knew that he was dead, to say they had heard that Brian Epstein was seriously ill. “Any truth in it?” the Express wanted to know. Nobody ever owned up to tipping them off. I watched the evening news which showed the scenes outside Brian’s house in the late afternoon and TV cameras showing the Beatles leaving the Maharishi’s conference a couple of hours before, heading back to London and a future without Brian. It was all very surreal. The coroner’s verdict on September 8 was that Brian’s death was accidental, due to an accumulation of bromide contained in Carbitral, the sleeping pills he had been prescribed.
His funeral, a Beatle-less family affair—to keep the press away—took place in Liverpool. He was buried at Long Lane Jewish Cemetery, not next to his father as his mother wanted but in a separate avenue. Nat Weiss was there and wept as he tossed a sunflower given to him by George into the open grave. The rabbi infuriated all Brian’s friends by declaring pompously, “Brian Epstein was a symbol of the malaise of our generation.” It was a very harsh epitaph for a man who had shown great kindness to so many and meant well.
Everyone asked: who would manage the Beatles? The quibbling started at NEMS between the Suits and Stigwood by midafternoon on the Tuesday following the August bank holiday, only two days after his death. David Shaw joined Stigwood, who had been enjoying the break with the Bee Gees on a luxury yacht at Monte Carlo, for a pow-wow to plan their takeover of NEMS that had already been initiated by Brian. They made statements to the press, staking their claim. So too did other minor directors of NEMS. It was awful. But worse was that none of the pretenders and heirs apparent had grasped the fact that Brian hadn’t really managed the Beatles for a long time, or at least, not in the same way as he did at the start, when they had nothing. They no longer gigged or toured. They turned up at Abbey Road and made records. They had just made Sgt. Pepper, their best ever. They might have appeared eccentric and woolly-minded, they might have surrounded themselves with many useless hangers-on who encouraged them to do vast quantities of drugs, but essentially, they were very tight and focused when it came to their work. I thought that they could manage quite well on their own, with a good staff to run things under their direction and initially, so did they.
It never occurred to me that in the wake of Brian’s death my job might be at risk. Right from the start when I’d gone to work for Brian as a kid straight from school, he had always shown me special consideration. Some people resented this and did their best to whisper in Brian’s ear, but office gossip and tittle-tattle annoyed him and such attempts to gain his favor usually rebounded. Generally in our world there was always a big turnover of staff. People who worked in the music business came and went, or they got fired. There were always office politics, or you screwed up and it was good-bye.
I know I was called teacher’s pet, but I was easygoing and it didn’t trouble me. I saw it as petty jealousy, as Brian did. Many wondered why I didn’t get fired, or more to the point, why firing me was never an option. I was aware of the intense jealousy because I was close to Brian and the Beatles. Anybody new who came in to work at any level, whether as general manager or a director or as chief accountant, expressed bafflement at what my job description was. To them, I appeared to be doing nothing. All they saw was that I would be down at the Speakeasy or some club, or hanging out at the studios, or at a gig, or perhaps filming something around town, and to them it looked as if I was doing everything and nothing, just having fun. They had specific roles and titles and were very territorial, but I sort of weaved in and across other people’s job descripti
ons. They simply didn’t understand that Brian didn’t want me to be “one thing.” He wanted me to be very adaptable, always there to troubleshoot at a moment’s notice, to scout, to produce, to promote, to manage, to TCB—“take care of business” like Elvis’s boys did. In other words, to do whatever was required at that moment. I was good at what I did, I got on with people and was willing to learn. Lord knows, some of the jobsworths tried to get me fired—but Brian had promised my mum that I would have a career and he had meant it.
When he died, that sense of being suited up for all seasons continued. The Beatles respected Brian’s wishes that I remain there as a multifaceted employee until I eventually left of my own accord. Not knowing what else to do, I continued as normal. My first task was to organize Traffic’s first British show at the Saville. I was alarmed when I learned that some of the Suits intended to close down the Saville Theater. I pointed out that we had booked several acts, and had contracts to honor, the Bee Gees and the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band among many.
“Brian has never canceled a show yet,” I said, quashing the panic. I continued until the contracted shows were done and the lease of the theater expired.
While the pretenders to Eppy’s throne met and fought and schemed, rallied their troops, rattled their little sabers and called each other spiteful names, the Beatles met in Paul’s house on the first of September to discuss the future. The fallout from Eppy’s sudden death, and the realization that now they were on their own in the complex financial and business world, brought them together to seriously consider their future. What were they going to do, what did they want to do? On one subject they were united: it would not be what a bunch of greedy Suits wanted them to do. The Summer of Love was over and autumn coming.
PART IV
1967–1970
20
Because Stigwood and Shaw hadn’t come up with the half-million pounds before Brian’s death, the offer was considered withdrawn by NEMS’s lawyers. The two Australians lost the boardroom battle to take over NEMS and were paid off with twenty-five thousand pounds plus clients like the Bee Gees that Stiggie had brought in. His severance from the Beatles complete, he went off to set up the highly successful Robert Stigwood Organization, and eventually produced Saturday Night Fever and Grease.
One by one, the Beatles drifted into the offices after Brian’s death to make plans. I think only Neil Aspinall and Mal Evans were in evidence as we gathered in the usual office the Beatles always used. I think they felt the strangeness of being there for the first time without Brian around. Despite their firm intentions to be sensible and grown up and talk it through properly, the Beatles were confused, especially John, who voiced the opinion that without Brian, “They’d had it!”
They all knew that Stigwood had been a director of NEMS, but none of them had any idea of how involved he had been. When they learned for the first time about the proposed deal between Brian and Stigwood to sell NEMS, they were stunned, unable to believe that Brian had even contemplated it.
John was the most outraged and upset. “He was going to sell us down the river for a crap half million?” he said. “Was he out of his mind?”
The answer of course was that yes, Brian was deranged—but no one wanted to say it. Besides, Stiggie was out of the picture and they had to move on.
George said, “Without Brian, we’re dead.”
Paul said, “No, we’re not. We just have to get on with it. We’ll have to delegate.”
They were under the microscope now, with the world looking to see what would happen next. George said, “Maybe we need some space. Let’s go to India.”
Before Brian’s death, following their induction by the Maharishi at the level-one boot camp in Wales, it had been their intention to fly almost immediately to the ashram in the foothills of the Himalayas, to immerse themselves for at least six months in meditation at level two while the lessons the Maharishi had taught them were still fresh in their minds. But Paul questioned whether this activity would now appear a little flaky to the rest of the world. They would be gone for months at an exceptionally crucial time, just when they needed to get a grip on reality.
George thought it would do them good to get away and meditate. He said there was nothing flaky about it. He was convinced that the Maharishi was misunderstood. George and Pattie had already been to India, where George had done some recording of Indian music, and had gotten to know the people and the country. “Their culture is different from ours,” he said. “They’re deeper and know things on a different philosophical level.” Enthusiastically, he exaggerated. The yogis were practically magic! They could fly! They could read your mind! Learning all this would surely help them enormously in business.
“Yeah, that’s what we need. Learning how to read people’s minds, so’s we can tell if we’re being ripped off,” John said.
They argued it back and forth for a while, but ultimately they all agreed that the trip to the ashram had to be put on hold.
“Next topic,” said Paul, who, as he often did, acted as chairman. The next topic was the Magical Mystery Tour film, which on paper sounded original and creative and all those artistic things, but which looked as if it might turn out to be a nightmare. Alistair Taylor was sent off to hire a sixty-seater coach for the Mystery Tour. Personally, I thought that filling it with an ill-assorted crowd in fancy dress and driving it here there and anywhere at all without an itinerary was bound to be seen by the media as being a bit airy-fairy and ripe for a well-placed custard pie unless the lads looked and sounded confident that it was the logical sequel to Sgt. Pepper.
“It’s going to be great,” Paul said and they all nodded in agreement. The title track to Magical Mystery Tour was already in the can and sessions for the rest of the soundtrack were booked at Abbey Road. They needed a script. They needed more songs. They needed organization. They needed Brian.
However, Brian was gone. Paul picked up the phone and called Denis O’Dell at Twickenham Studios, to ask him if he would produce Mystery Tour for them. During the conversation, in which John and Paul grabbed the phone from each other, they went even further and asked Denis if he would become head of Apple Films.
Paul turned to me. “You can be his assistant, Tone,” he decided.
I was looking after the Saville, was head of promotions for NEMS and would do the same for Apple; but taking on another role didn’t seem too much. Nothing seemed too much or impossible to achieve because none of this seemed real. It was almost an “are we playing at businessmen, or is this really happening?” feeling. But, now that it did look as if we were hurtling ahead into a complex film, George, who had been brooding, suddenly said he wanted to postpone the Magical Mystery Tour. He desperately wanted to go to India to study Hinduism and couldn’t wait. John said, “Yeah, let’s go.” Ringo said he’d go along for the ride.
“Listen, we’re gonna to stay here and do the Mystery Tour,” Paul said firmly. “Then we can go to India.”
“What about NEMS? And the staff?” Ringo wanted to know. “Any changes there?”
None of the Beatles really knew what the full situation was with regard to the running of NEMS, their role in it, or what influence the company had on their lives. As far as they were concerned, it was “Brian’s company,” set up to manage bands and tours, and they’d never questioned any of it.
Paul thought things should continue to run as they had before. He said, “Well, Eppy appointed everybody and they all know what they’re doing. If it worked for him it will work for us, at least for now. There’s no need to rock the boat when we’ve got so much to do. Let’s stick to one thing at a time.”
“But what about a manager?” John said. “Who’s going to do that now?”
They looked at each other doubtfully. Paul said, “I don’t think we need a manager. We don’t tour anymore; we’ve always made our own decisions about records and films. Agreed?”
Everyone nodded. Satisfied they’d covered everything on the agenda, the meeting broke up.
I knew that Paul was really only doing the Mystery Tour as a project to keep the Beatles doing something. He said it was a kind of therapy that he thought would stop them from panicking and make them feel they were continuing as normal—and normal was working. Over the years, their work rate was astonishing. They hardly ever had time off, hardly ever had a holiday—none of us did. Looking back, I think it was enthusiasm and passion for the amazing things that were happening on a daily basis that fired the entire structure of NEMS and the Beatles. We didn’t want to stay away, we all wanted to be on the spot because it never ceased to be exciting. More and more we came to realize that Brian had driven it all. The big question in everyone’s minds, including the Beatles themselves, was: could they pick up and carry the flame? Paul, who had a very quick and businesslike mind, was convinced that they could.
John started working on “I Am the Walrus” on September 5, only nine days after Brian’s death. To most people it became a strange song for a strange time. I didn’t think it was strange. I was used to John’s gobbledygook, Lear-type poetry, which was just a bit further on from Sgt. Pepper. It didn’t take long to do, nor much doing. John did it all himself in about two days, time which included recording other songs and simultaneously working on the film.
Most of “Walrus” was done on a Mellotron, a big, cumbersome machine that John was nuts about and swore was the future of music. In a way, he was right. It was used by musicians who liked to experiment a lot, and was a kind of tape recorder with a wide range of instrument sounds to choose from, all on tape loops. It also had a bank of backing tracks and percussion tracks. The machine was based on the principal invented by Harry Chamberlin, where each key set a length of tape in motion, and played back whatever was recorded.
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