Ringo gave the one and only copy in the world to Maureen, and she’s dead now. I don’t know where Apple 1 is these days, but it is an incredibly rare object, a record collector’s Holy Grail.
On August 30 we launched Apple Records. True to the spirit of the whole Apple ethos, I gave myself a “field” promotion to head of promotion. There was nobody else with my experience, probably nobody else in the entire industry. I had done it from the start, when we first came down to London when no such job existed. On “The First Day Of Apple” all the media got a box full of cheer labeled, OUR FIRST FOUR. This was a presentation pack of four records, two of which became chart-toppers: “Hey Jude”; “Those Were The Days”; “Sour Milk Sea”, which George wrote and produced for Jackie Lomax; and “Thingummybob” by the Black Dyke Mills Band, backed by “Yellow Submarine.” And, a friendly touch, typical of the Beatles, as in a Christmas stocking, there were apples and oranges, some nuts and some gold chocolate money.
For some reason, Sandie Shaw, who was an established singer, rushed out her version of “Those Were the Days”—how this happened I don’t know—but many thought she could have cast a damper on Mary’s party. Instead of saying, “Ours is best,” Paul put out ads that said, “Listen to Sandie’s, listen to Mary’s, then buy the one you like best.” Fortunately, everyone preferred Mary’s version. Her single shot rapidly up the charts to number one. Within four months, it sold four million copies worldwide. All four records were simultaneously released in more than thirty countries worldwide. It was all a great deal of work, with few of us to do it, but it got done. The gold chocolate coins were very soon replaced with the crash of gold, real gold, pouring into Apple’s coffers. Apple Records was a very successful company and made a great deal of money.
The one that gave me the most pleasure to promote was “Hey Jude.” Definitely! The reaction was unbelievable. It was the first Beatles single on Apple and just to go along with the very first advance package for the bright new company was wonderful. The BBC had recently started Radio One, a station that played nonstop pop for at least eight hours a day. It was the first time that we’d had that kind of radio access to the public and I’d found myself walking around with boxes of “Hey Jude,” giving away about one hundred advance copies instead of the more usual ten. More importantly, it was also the first long single that had ever been out. It was about seven minutes and everybody thought that the deejays would just fade it, after about three minutes, never mind getting to the repetitive “La la la la” bit at the end. But right from the launch date, everyone played the whole thing.
Mary Hopkin’s first album, Postcard, was a fun promo example. Billy Butlin, owner of the Butlin’s holiday camps our little gang had gone to with our families as kids and where Ringo played with Rory Storm, ran the restaurant at the top of the Post Office Tower. It revolved, and as you ate you could watch London unfold in a magnificent panorama. The first time Paul had gone, shortly after the restaurant first opened, he was still living at the Asher’s house in Wimpole Street. Dr. Asher decided he wanted the full guided tour and arranged for the entire family to go, including Paul.
Sometime later I was sitting in the restaurant, having dinner with a girlfriend, when Bobby Butlin, Sir Billy’s son, came over to my table and told me all about Paul’s earlier visit. He said, “If there’s anything I can ever do for you, or Paul, or Apple, let me know.” When we launched “Postcard” the question of a location for the launch party arose. Paul said, “Hey Tone? Do you think by any chance they would let us have the Post Office Tower restaurant?”
I acted nonchalant and said, “Oh, I dunno. Hang on and I’ll have a word with them.” I picked up the phone, quickly made the arrangements. Paul looked at his watch and said, “Great. Tell you what. Why don’t we do some location scouting?” So we all went off to lunch at the Tower. We had a smashing time, and suitably oiled, Paul and I decided to have a race down the stairs to the door. It was a very stupid idea, especially after a big lunch. There are some photos somewhere of us lying at the bottom gasping for breath and probably trying to light a cigarette.
The launch party for “Postcard” was marvelous, with a really good turnout of rock stars. Jimi Hendrix came and Brian Jones and Donovan, as well as Mary’s future husband, Tony Visconti. I was going out with Mary at the time but he fancied her too, and eventually they got married. He would later produce Mary, David Bowie, T Rex, Lou Reed and loads of other stars.
There was no doubt Apple Music Publishing was seriously successful but, much to the confusion of many hard-working people in the industry, Terry Doran was appointed managing director. Terry was Brian’s old partner in his car company—a car dealer with no experience whatsoever in the music industry and even less in publishing. But he was into music, as were most of Brian’s crowd from Liverpool and, given the timing, he couldn’t go wrong. Though he did make some silly decisions—such as selling George Harrison’s song catalogue off to Doris Day’s son, Terry Melcher, who produced the Byrds for CBS. The Beatles had been introduced to Melcher through Derek Taylor, among whose clients were the Beach Boys and the Byrds. To counteract his lack of industry knowledge, Terry hired Mike Berry, a former assistant at Sparta Music Publishing to do the copyrights and offer advice.
The writers we signed were fantastic. Many were big behind-the-scenes talent who did not become household names but nevertheless wrote commercially and well. Gallagher and Lyle were both great writers but Graham Lyle was probably the luckier. He became one of the biggest songwriters in the world because he wrote hits for Tina Turner in her heyday. The Family was signed as a band. Jim Cregan, Rod Stewart’s guitar player and co-writer for many years was signed, as were Steve Miller; Dr. John; Tony Ashton of Ashton, Gardner and Dyke and numerous others.
Apple Records, under the brilliant and experienced Ron Kass, flew from its inception to survive in a tough field for some eight years. One of Ron’s first tasks when he was hired was to buy back George’s catalogue from Terry Melcher. On the downside there was resistance to poor old Jackie Lomax. We tried and tried. The material was great but we just couldn’t get it to fly. The big image at the time was Jim Morrison, so, in modern-day business parlance, that’s where we “positioned” him: the moody genius with the great voice. We even brought in Justin de Villeneauve, who was Twiggy’s manager and beau, to manage him. We had super production by George Harrison. It looked good, sounded good—and didn’t work. Apple’s product was licensed through EMI and maybe some wires got crossed occasionally. They worked on what appealed to them, but went slow on most other records. Ultimately, all they were really interested in was the Beatles because their records jumped off the shelves. It was very much a case of “We like this, we don’t like that, when’s the new Beatles LP coming out?”
Paul went through his late adolescence after he broke up with Jane. Previously, he and Jane had small dinner parties or went to the theater, or occasionally he might have gone to a club. But immediately after Jane and he split up, he was in one every night. His catch-up period lasted about six months—but what a six months. Then, suddenly he sickened of it. He flew to New York to stay with Linda, not in an expensive hotel, but in her small, two-room walk-up off Lexington Avenue. Yorktown was a safe and cosmopolitan district three blocks from Central Park and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was easy to hop on and off the subway to Harlem, or to wander into Irish bars and listen to music. Linda showed Paul where she shopped for clothes, in Goodwill, or thrift stores. He bought an ex-Vietnam combat jacket and a herringbone tweed overcoat that he wore for years. Paul loved the sense of freedom, and for ten days they ate in little German and Italian restaurants and hung out. Paul admired the way that Linda looked after her child. He would lie on the couch and watch while she fed Heather with real food and not take-out. “She had a wonderful maternal instinct,” he said. “I suppose in a way I was remembering how my own mum used to look after us.”
Paul returned home after the ten days, but couldn’t settle. Casual flings no lo
nger held any charm for him. As the nostalgic smells of autumn filled the air and the leaves started to turn to gold, Paul quietly told me that he had asked Linda to fly over and join him. He missed her and had spent long hours every day talking to her on the phone in New York. He wanted to see if they could make a go of it. Paul wasn’t really a womanizer at heart and was burnt out by the almost deranged chaos of the groupie-scruffs period. He felt ready to settle down, to get some normality into his life.
Linda arrived while Paul was going through a particularly intensive period in the studio with the others, working on the White Album. Mal collected her from the airport and dropped her off at Cavendish Avenue, telling her to give Paul a call at the studio if she needed anything. Linda walked into the house, tired from the trans-Atlantic flight, to find Martha running wild, dog hair and dog crap everywhere because Paul had gotten rid of the scruffs who walked Martha, and he had no time himself. There was no food, just a carton of stale milk. Linda was amazed that this man, who could have bought up the entire food hall in Harrods, had nothing at all to eat and lived in such squalor, with a minuscule refrigerator instead of the big American ones she had been used to, and a television set that barely worked. She telephoned the studio and got me on the line. I said, “Hey, shall I get Paul?” She told me not to disturb Paul if he was working, but she was going to clean up the pigsty.
“I’d love to see you, Tony,” Linda added. “And if you come, would you pick up some dog food, milk and some coffee?” It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked to transport groceries around town, or the last. And Linda was nice. She didn’t treat people like they were there to work for her because of her relationship with Paul, as Yoko did with John. The comparison is unfair anyway because Linda was warm, funny, and talented. She also organized Paul’s life which even he said needed organizing badly. His house was a tip from the minute Jane left, to when Linda turned up. Previously, Paul had invited people like Nico the blond druggy singer from the Velvet Underground to stay. People like her never helped out. Being a star and OD’ing was all they ever did. Like a lot of stars, they used to spout crap about equality, but someone else always had to pick up the pieces, the clothes, the mess. People like that who mistake success for talent, or are just arrogant and selfish and lazy by nature, will never change, something Paul came to appreciate when he saw how grounded Linda was. He stopped inviting hangers-on to stay. Linda sent for her daughter and the two of them were never to live permanently in America again. Paul and Linda closed ranks and the front door on their private lives.
26
John and Yoko’s Two Virgins album evolved from their conviction that everything they did, from their first lovemaking, to the first argument, to their first boiling of an egg, was important art. In the cause of important art everything they did had to be chronicled, documented, filmed, taped, the dots joined up and colored in carefully—with their tongues sticking out to show concentration and focus.
My contribution to the cause started on a quiet Saturday afternoon in late September or early October when I was gently dozing in bed. The phone rang. It was John.
“Hey, Tone, can you do us a favor? We’re up at Montagu Square. It’s not far from you, is it?” I agreed that it was close. “Well, can you bring us a couple of bottles of milk?”
In those days I had one of those miniature Honda monkey motorbikes. Lots of people, including Twiggy, had one, finding them ideal for whizzing around town. I got dressed and was soon zipping up Park Lane, looking to buy milk. A deli was open; I bought the milk and was soon chaining the little bike to the railings in Montagu Square. John opened the door to the flat, took the milk, and shuffled about a bit. I waited.
“Uh, Tone,” he said. “While you’re here, could you set up the camera for us? I want to . . . uh . . . you know about cameras, don’t you? ’Cos we want to . . . uh . . . could you set it up in that room there and get the light right and everything to . . . uh . . . and all that stuff . . . uh . . . how do you use the timer?”
“You want to use a timer?”
“Yes . . . uh . . . like to take pictures and stuff later.” He smiled. “You know, later on,” he said meaningfully. I took hold of the camera and talked him through it.
“Well, you push that back to there, do this there, push this button and then this makes this noise and then you do it again.” John watched intently.
“All right, Tone, thanks very much, I think I’ve got it,” he said. “Thanks for the milk.” And off I went on my little monkey bike.
Next day, Sunday afternoon, gently dozing, the phone rang again.
“John here. Could you pop round for a chat? And could you bring some more milk? And while you’re at it, could you bring some coffee?”
It wasn’t as easy finding milk and coffee back then in the West End on a Sunday afternoon, but eventually I succeeded. When I arrived, I handed John the milk and a jar of Nescafé.
“By the way,” John said, “could you take the film out of the camera?”
I did, while he watched me intently, so he would know how to do it next time.
“Uh, Tone, you know when you’ve got some dodgy pictures . . . uh . . . you know the sort of thing, like . . . uh . . . page-three nudies . . . well, how do you get them developed? Where do they get them done?”
These were obviously the “later on” pictures.
“Well, you don’t want to take them to Boots the Chemist,” I said. “You take them to Sky labs in Soho.”
“Do you know them there?” John asked tentatively.
“Yeah, of course. We get everything done there, like album covers.”
John’s face brightened. “Album covers? Right, then, Tone, so can you get these ones done? I mean, they’re a bit risqué, you know. Don’t let anyone see them, know what I mean?”
“Well, someone will have to see them, John,” I said.
“Yeah, I know, but they’re sort of our people there, aren’t they? Like on the team. We can trust ’em, eh?”
I took the reel of film into Sky the next morning and asked if they could do a rush job on them. Back at the office, the phone rang. It was the developer at Sky.
“Ah, Tone, do you know what’s on these pix?” I said I had no idea. “Oh,” he said and seemed surprised. Then he started laughing. “I’ll send ’em round in a brown envelope.”
When the brown envelope came, I opened it and shuffled through the ten-by-eights, then shot them straight back into the envelope. John’s idea of page-three stuff was a wild understatement. These pictures were hairy. That’s an unintended pun, but in America they would call them muff shots.
John came into the office later that afternoon. Casually he asked, “Did you sort out the pictures?”
“I did John, I certainly did,” I said, handing the envelope over. That was the last I heard of it until Jack Oliver came in a couple of days later, holding up two large prints that he had just collected from Sky.
“This is going to be the cover of John and Yoko’s new album,” he said, handing one around for us to look at. We all fell about laughing. As I have said before, Yoko was not a pretty sight, but she and John in the buff together were plain embarrassing. None of us thought they would go through with it, but we hadn’t figured on “Art” having the last word, as it often does. A couple of days later, there was a big pow-wow with me, John, Ron Kass, Jack and Derek Taylor to discuss the new album. Unfortunately, before we got down to the discussion, John made us sit and listen to the Two Virgins gibberish all the way through. Since most us were stone-cold sober, it was probably against the Geneva Convention and when Yoko’s last scream died away, John got out the by now familiar album-sized prints that we had already seen and had hysterics over, and cleared his throat.
“This pic is gonna be on the cover,” he announced, “and this one here is gonna be the back.”
Ron Kass, who was Mr. Straight, Mr. Clean-Cut-American-from-Connecticut, was so appalled he seemed to have gone into shock. Recovering some of his composure, he sai
d, “John, you can’t do this!”
But John started giggling his head off, whether out of nerves, marijuana or delight, I don’t know, and said, “I don’t care, Ron. I’m doing it anyway.” The meeting broke up soon after, because it was obvious that Yoko had made up John’s mind and nothing Ron or anyone could say would change it.
Sir Joseph Lockwood, the chairman of EMI, always took an interest in these matters, and as soon as the pictures hit his desk, he almost had a heart attack. He sent for Ron Kass immediately, for some kind of an explanation.
“Yes, John says it’s art,” Ron said weakly.
“He’s determined, is he?” Sir Joe said.
“You could say that,” Ron agreed.
“Well, I’ll have to show it to the people at the pressing plant at Hayes,” Sir Joe said. “As you are no doubt aware, we have to deal with the shop stewards and the unions, you know. Some of them can be very Bolshie. It’s not as straightforward as John seems to think to print up this kind of obscenity.”
But the unions and their view were nothing compared with Brother McCartney’s reaction. Paul got to hear of it and then saw the photos. He had seven thousand kinds of fits. He thought it was disgusting and was absolutely appalled that John was seriously intending to go through with it. Paul, of course, blamed Yoko’s influence. He was bang on target. John had been very prudish before he met Yoko. Now he said she had released his inhibitions.
“Doesn’t John realize that we’re all in this together?” Paul said. “It might be him and Yoko, but people will say it’s the Beatles who are out of their tree and getting into straight porn now.”
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