The only thing that I ever heard about was over thirty years later when someone sent me an e-mail saying that they’d bought a gold disc at a boot sale of a smash hit number-one record which was presented to me for getting it to the top. (I won’t name and shame the artist.) They didn’t want to get into trouble but could they possibly keep it? I e-mailed them straight back and said, “Please! Be my guest! Keep it.” My largesse lasted until they e-mailed again, to ask if I had any others I didn’t want.
A lot of interesting, showbiz types of people lived in Barnes. It was one of those leafy, traditional places where very little has changed over the years, yet trendy, with Olympic Studios where the Stones did their early stuff, the Eagles recorded their first album, and all sorts of rock stars used it regularly. They liked it because the pace was slower. You could take a break and stroll around the village or go to the Sun Inn, a nice old-fashioned pub right by the Village Green. The Sun was always full of actors and rock stars, sitting inside and out, and drinking beer.
There was also a bowling club that went back to Tudor times and a cricket team. It was all very sedate and quaint. A lot of people joined so they could carry on drinking when the pub was supposed to be closed. I was elected captain of the bowling team because I lived close by and seemed to have plenty of time on my hands. The members were people like comedian Billy Connolly, Roger Chapman from the band Family and Captain Sensible from the Damned. It was a real mixture. We had a team but very little competition, and there was a good reason for this. The rules we played by and the layout of our bowling green were almost unique. Only one other club had similar rules and green. This was the ancient bowling club at the Tower of London, and once a year the Beefeater Bowlers from the Tower would invite us to play a grand match against them. We always thought it was a great honor to play these eccentric-looking men with their mutton-chop whiskers and their historic red-and-gold uniforms. The first match was actually played at the Tower on their marvelous green, which was like velvet. Imagine playing on grass that Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth I and Henry VIII used to play on, not to mention Drake and Raleigh! The return match at the Sun Inn was an event, but still, it didn’t have exactly the same cachet. We always used to win, too.
Brian May, of Queen, wasn’t a member of the bowling club, but I got to know him very well because he was another neighbor of mine. Brian would come along to drink beer and cheer us on. He and I had met when the Beatles first tried out Trident Studios in Soho. Trident always kept way ahead of anybody else technically. The Beatles cut “Hey Jude” there and Apple did “Those Were the Days,” with Mary Hopkin. Trident was owned by two brothers, Barry and Norman Sheffield, ex-musos from the early sixties. They also had an American guy called Jack Nelson working for them. I would drop by at Trident to do some business for Apple or maybe just to hang out. That’s when Jack and a mate of mine named Ronnie Beck would play me these Queen tracks, probably hoping that I would take it to Paul or John, and Queen would get signed to Apple. I liked what I heard, but never took it further. Sometime late in 1973 or early 1974, Jack and Ronnie talked me into going to a Queen gig at a technical college. Maybe it was an off night, but I wasn’t knocked out. Before I left, Ronnie gave me a tape, or acetate, and I played it for John Lennon, who hated it.
“It’s dreadful,” John said. “Rubbish.” At that time, John thought most things were rubbish, except the genuine article that Yoko was creating. However, I liked the sound of the group’s music and persisted a little.
“It’s different, John,” I said. I think “Seven Seas of Rhye” was on the tape, and “Killer Queen.” It was almost the finished album, all ready to be taken up by someone. Looking back, there was really no excuse not to do anything with it, but we didn’t. Despite that, all the members of Queen, including Freddie Mercury, who was very disappointed, stayed friends with me. I used to chat to Brian while he was mowing his back lawn, and we would often go to the pub for a beer. About a year after this, “Killer Queen” went massive.
“You should have signed us, Tone,” was all Brian said.
“I wish we had.” I said, ruefully.
After that, it all happened for Queen. If John had been more positive, I would have given the other Beatles a listen, but once you got a negative from one Beatle, you didn’t pursue it. That’s how it worked at Apple—except for Ringo. Ringo didn’t really participate in the A & R thing at Apple. He had his own ideas about things. In fact, he didn’t spend all that much time at Apple if he could help it. For a long time after Brian’s death, John and Paul would come in virtually daily, and George about once a week after Yoko moved in. After Klein’s installation, it was a matter of tracking them down at home.
Often I would drop in on Jack Oliver, who continued living in Moon’s flat, dusting the framed champagne. At GHQ Apple, things were tense. Jack and Alan Klein, who hated each other, continued to fight, but plotting and intrigue takes on a much more positive feel if you have the power to hire and fire as Klein had. Eventually, Jack got the chop, something that was always in the cards. He went to work with Peter Asher in L.A., but first he “bequeathed” the Moon flat to his brother, Jeff. On the grapevine, I heard that Jack had left Peter’s employ to set up on his own in a decorating business, importing English fireplaces and Anglicizing wealthy people’s homes around Malibu. Many years on, living in Devon with my wife, Lesley, and our two boys, I called a cab to take me to the train station to get to London on business. The driver had a London accent.
“I’ve seen you in the papers, haven’t I?” he asked. “You’re in the music business.” I agreed that I was. “My best mate, Jeff, is in the music biz. He lives in Highgate,” the driver continued. “Maybe you know him? His name’s Jeff Oliver.”
And that was how I learned that Jack’s brother Jeff had lived in “my” Moon flat for twenty years, gotten married, had three children and had never been asked for a penny in rent. Nobody had ever asked, since the night Moon gave me the keys in the Speakeasy, and of course, ironically poor old Keith Moon—who’d gobble down and drink anything he was given or got his mitts on—died in 1979 from taking some proper medication he was prescribed. There is another a strange little footnote to this story. In 1997, I was in Chicago while managing the Falling Wallendas, when I got a telephone call from Butch Vig, who produced among other big acts the likes of the Smashing Pumpkins and Garbage. Butch was doing the music for the Nicolas Cage movie, Wild Card. He had put the Smashing Pumpkins on the soundtrack and also wanted to use the Falling Wallendas.
“Nick Cage is very hands-on with his movies and would want to discuss the situation, Tony,” Butch said. “Why don’t you give him a bell?” Then he gave me Nicolas Cage’s home number in Los Angeles. A very English voice answered the phone. I got as far as saying, “This is Tony Bramwell,” when I was interrupted.
“Fuckin’ ’ell, is that you, Tone? Jack Oliver ’ere. Yeah, I’m Nick Cage’s fucking manager, ain’t I?” That’s how I learned that Jack now lived in Hollywood and also managed Rosanna Arquette, Cage’s sister-in-law. Two weeks later he and Cage came to England for a vintage Lamborghini sale and we caught up on gossip, mostly about Keith Moon.
Dear old Moon was larger in life than most, so it wouldn’t be stretching the imagination to wonder if he’s not in charge of some weird accommodation in Paradise. Handing out keys in the heavenly speakeasy to the wifeless and flatless, hurling magnums of pop at the clouds, dressing up as Queen Victoria, driving the odd Cadillac into God’s swimming pool and blowing up the gates of Eden. I miss him.
35
March 18, 1970, was a momentous day. Paul was convinced that Klein was crooked and issued a writ to try to dissolve the Beatles partnership. It would take a year for the case to come to trial, but meanwhile, he and Linda, who they also blamed, became pariahs in the eyes of the other three Beatles. They couldn’t believe that Paul would take such a step. He tried to explain that he had nothing against them personally, that this was the legal way, but they wouldn’t listen. He insisted tha
t the lawyers had advised him that the only way they could sort the mess out, get rid of Klein and start again with a clean slate, was to start over.
Previously, the Beatles had tried to get along; now there were factions. It was like walking on a knife-edge of conspiracies and backbiting. I watched the madness and the slow disintegration of Apple as barriers went up and years of lawsuits and wrangling began. Work became boring since there was nothing to do in the world of the Beatles, where nothing was going on. Klein tried even harder to get rid of me, as he had gotten rid of all the old guard, but strange as it sounds, he didn’t seem capable of coming up to me with the words, “You’re fired.” In the absence of that, if I saw a job that needed being done, I did it; but mostly I did my own thing and continued to draw my salary.
People who worked for the Beatles and Apple were supposed to be totally faithful, but it was impossible to be loyal to everybody. Paul stayed away, but he still expected me to be faithful to him, and I was. He called me regularly and said things like, “Don’t tell anybody but . . .” Sometimes he varied it by asking me what was happening, who was doing what.
George expected the same. No sooner had I put the phone down on Paul, then it would be George. “Hey what’s happening?” I knew what he was asking, “Have you heard from Paul? What’s he up to?” Then John would call and beat about the bush a bit trying to gauge if I knew something he didn’t. I’d try to walk the line. We had been friends for a long time, and I felt equally loyal to all of them. Ringo was the only one who was out there, quite happy doing his thing, making records and being a pop star. As Klein thrashed about angrily, making waves, determined not to give up his position, and as the lawyers prepared for trial, the scene got ever more bitter. Everyone tried to get their “team” behind them; but the problem was the team was the same small handful of people, getting smaller.
Nasty comments started to fly. There had been a time when most people and the Beatles in particular had been pleasant to each other. They squabbled, yes, but real affection and regard underpinned their relationship. Now it seemed they didn’t care what they said. Yoko and John were the worst. They seemed to go out of their way to give long interviews in which they came up with some very nasty comments about Linda’s arrival in their midst. They got personal, describing her looks. But the worst that John could say about Paul was that he was a “Beatleholic.”
During the long run-up to Paul’s High Court writ to dissolve their partnership, the Beatles were shocked to discover that Dick James had secretly sold Northern Songs to ATV for a very large sum. He had been able to do this because not only was his company the major shareholder, but Brian had persuaded the Beatles to go public on the Stock Exchange with Northern Songs. It was true that they made about £365,000 in the deal—which was a lot of tax-free money back when John’s house, Kenwood, was bought for £20,000—but they lost control of the best of their early work.
In addition, Paul found that any new songs now had to be signed to ATV Publishing. He was busy writing songs for his own albums and he had no intention of “giving them away” to ATV. Instead, he said that Linda worked on them. Lew Grade—boss of ATV—didn’t believe that Linda was doing any songwriting—even though she was, and continued to do so—and he bought a case against Paul for breach of contract, which Paul settled out of court. Part of the deal was Paul agreed to make James Paul McCartney, a TV special made for ATV, Lew’s television company.
Research showed that in the past judges had always ruled for the publisher against writers no matter what the circumstances. Paul made a big effort to get to grips with the music publishing side of the business. With Lee Eastman’s help he made headway, although it was too late to save his early work. John also signed a separate deal with ATV and things appeared to be on a better and more equitable footing.
I was relieved when I was asked to take Mary Hopkin to the U.S. and Canada for her opening at the Maple Leaf Gardens in Toronto. All this was a long way from Wales, and she was very excited. She looked very beautiful, seated alone on stage with just her guitar, her golden hair falling over her shoulders. When she started singing everyone was quiet and entranced throughout. After the booking, we headed to Greenwich Village, where James Taylor was at the Bottom Line. This was the best folk club and the place to play. I had installed myself comfortably at the Drake Hotel, where The Who also happened to be staying, and when I returned to the hotel in the early hours, the telephone rang. It was Peter Asher in London, saying he was joining me. “Is anything happening?” he asked.
“Yes, tons of talent to check out,” I said. I think Klein was glad to see the back of Peter for a while. To Klein, we were all annoying little reminders of Brian and the old guard. He wanted a clean sweep, but so far Paul at least had resisted my dismissal. He was a bit more ambivalent about Peter though, because of his breakup with Peter’s sister, Jane. Paul was far too decent to have fired him out of hand, but there was always that slight awkwardness.
Peter was fixed to stay with Gloria Stavers, the editor on 16 magazine. He adored Gloria. She was the most powerful woman in the record world, since 16 was the mag! Gloria was fast, funny and very attractive. She had run off at fifteen to marry some guy. By sixteen she was in New York trying to become a model, which didn’t work. When she was offered the job of subscription clerk for the teen-idol magazine, it was take it or starve. A year later in 1958, at the age of seventeen, she was editor in chief. Single-handedly, she pushed the circulation up from a couple of hundred thousand to one and a quarter million. Her method was simple: she thought like the teenager she was. She worked hand in glove with American Bandstand promoter and fledgling TV producer, Dick Clark: she wrote about the acts he promoted; he promoted the acts she wrote about. Together, they helped shape the teen scene in the U.S., but it was Gloria’s passionate love affair with Jim Morrison, the beautiful and doomed singer of the Doors, and the black-and-white pictures she took with an old-fashioned press camera that made her into a legend.
By the time I knew her, unbelievably she was Frank Barselona’s wife. Frank was a big-time promoter. He had a great deal of clout and had promoted a couple of the Beatles’ U.S. stadium concerts, as well some for The Who. He would soon get to work with Bruce Springsteen among many other legendary bands, in the U.S. In those days, there were always union problems but Frank was always able to sort them out. He and Linda had been close when she was a photographer in New York. Often she would photograph the acts Frank promoted at the Fillmore East in the Village. She was there when Keith Moon went deranged in Franks’ house. He’d gone back to the Gorham Hotel and blew up his toilet with a cherry bomb. Then he climbed out onto the ledge and started hurling cherry bombs into the street at the police. Barselona managed to keep Keith out of jail, but The Who were thrown out of the Gorham. They spent the night sleeping at Grant’s tomb, draped with a Union Jack—which made for great photos—and the next day checked into the Waldorf. It was Keith all over—he always came up smelling of roses.
That night, the Scene was booked solid, but we got in because the doorman was Paul Simon’s little brother. He looked exactly like him too. When we went inside, Jimi Hendrix was jamming onstage with Stephen Stills. It was absolutely amazing. At that time Jimi was probably the biggest thing in America and Stills was of Crosby Stills and Nash and Young, possibly the best West Coast soft-rock group around. David Crosby had been with the Byrds, Graham Nash with the Hollies. Stephen and Neil Young joined from Buffalo Springfield. They had played Woodstock, along with all the greats and many of their songs, like “Marrakesh Express” and “Woodstock,” were anthems of a generation. At the Bottom Line the next night James Taylor was out of this world. It was just him and an acoustic guitar, but what made his performance particularly poignant was this was the first time he had played for almost a year. After finally kicking his heroin habit, he had made a successful comeback at the Troubadour in Los Angeles, but shortly afterward, had broken both hands in a motorcycle accident, and been unable to play for many months.
He was just great. I sat there and listened, thinking back to how different things had been when he first walked into Apple. We had been excited, fresh and looking to the future. Now, all we were doing was scattering. James was tremendous, but Klein had already decided to drop him from Apple—a real smart move. Apart from the little bit of money the first album cost, artistically speaking what it had to do with Klein I really don’t know. He was making decisions way beyond his brief and there was nobody to stop him.
However, watching the reaction of the audience, Peter Asher sat there like the cat that had gotten the cream. He had decided to manage James and very wisely was saving the news for when Klein dumped him. Peter had worked with James on his eponymous album, James Taylor, for Apple, mostly at Trident Studios. James used to sleep at his flat and sometimes at my place on the couch. When the album didn’t set the world alight, Klein acted aghast, shocked that James hadn’t made a fortune immediately and that was when he decided to get rid of him. I don’t think he had any idea what James was about.
As I sat there brooding about the past, the present and the future, I suddenly felt that I’d had enough. It was already crazy at Apple and I sensed that it would be getting crazier, especially now that Paul had set the cat among the pigeons by instigating the lawsuit against Klein. Instead of returning to London right away, I flew to Los Angeles. I checked into the Capitol Tower for a week or two to get away from it all. Shortly, Peter arrived in L.A. and finally told me he had made up his mind to quit Apple and stay in the U.S.
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