And yet it came out of two little scraps of songs, which were not connected, not related, leaving George Martin with the task of somehow fitting them together, instrumentally.
John’s contribution to the lyrics was the major part–writing the beginning and the end, with Paul filling the sandwich in the middle.
Once again it was a case of John lying around at home, fairly aimless, reading the papers, scribbling notes, tinkling on the piano, picking up on three stories–two from the newspapers, and one from his own life. One was about the death of someone they knew vaguely–Tara Browne, an Irish socialite around town and member of the Guinness family, whose death was reported in the Daily Mail on 17 January 1967. He had been driving his sports car and smashed into a parked vehicle, killing himself–possibly high on drugs, though this was not stated. He was not in fact in the House of Lords but was the son of a lord. ‘Tara didn’t blow his mind out, but it was in my mind when I was writing that verse,’ John told me.
In the same paper was a small story, really just a filler, about there being four thousand potholes in Blackburn, Lancashire–which begs the question: who counted them? It amused John to imagine how big the holes would be, what sort of space they would take up–and he came up with the idea of the Albert Hall. He had been looking for something to rhyme with ‘rather small’ and Terry Doran, his friend from the motor trade, suggested ‘Albert Hall’.
The bit from his own life is a reference to the film he had recently appeared in: How I Won the War. It is not clear from the lyrics whether people turned away after watching it, shocked by the horror of war, or if he is returning to the motor accident at this point.
The scrap of a song that Paul came into the session with was even smaller: a memory of his school days, back in the fifties, about him getting up, combing his hair, running for the bus. Just nine lines, getting nowhere, with no narrative or development–and of course no connection with the lyrics John had written.
The references to drugs–with John singing ‘I’d love to turn you on’ and Paul having a smoke and going into a dream–resulted in the BBC banning the song.
The BBC’s Director of Sound Broadcasting, Frank Gillard, wrote personally to Sir Joseph Lockwood of EMI, on 23 May 1967.
‘I never thought the day would come when we would have to put a ban on an EMI record, but sadly that is what has happened over this track. We have listened to it over and over again with great care and we cannot avoid coming to the conclusion that the words “I’d love to turn you on” followed by that mounting montage of sound, could have a rather sinister meaning.’
He had to take account of the interpretation many young people would put upon it. ‘ “Turned on” is a phrase currently in vogue in the jargon of drug addicts,’ as he helpfully explained.
The music has been endlessly analysed, the crescendos taken to pieces, the instruments catalogued and identified. For the final recording the musicians–almost a complete orchestra–wore formal evening dress, with the addition of some novelty noses, and the recording was captured by seven hand-held cameras. They knew at the time, as so much thought and love and attention had gone into its creation, that ‘A Day In The Life’ was a big event. Which it has remained.
The manuscripts, one side in joined-up writing and the other on the reverse in caps, are both in John’s hand (without the inclusion of Paul’s verse, so they are incomplete lyrics). Both have minor one-word differences from the final version. It looks as if an early version of the line ‘a crowd of people turned away’ was ‘a crowd of people stared and stared’.
‘A Day In The Life’, the final track on Sgt. Pepper, January 1967, in John’s hand, with minor changes.
It was first sold at auction in 1992, when it was said to have come from the estate of Mal Evans, for the record sum of $100,000. In 2010 it was sold at Sotheby’s in New York for $1.2 million, which remains the highest price paid for a Beatles lyric.
‘A Day In The Life’, in John’s capitals, again without Paul’s ‘woke up, got out of bed’ contribution.
I read the news today oh boy
About a lucky man who made the grade
And though the news was rather sad
Well I just had to laugh
I saw the photograph
He blew his mind out in a car
He didn’t notice that the lights had changed
A crowd of people stood and stared
They’d seen his face before
Nobody was really sure
If he was from the House of Lords.
I saw a film today oh boy
The English Army had just won the war
A crowd of people turned away
but I just had to look
Having read the book
I’d love to turn you on
Woke up, got out of bed,
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup,
And looking up I noticed I was late.
Found my coat and grabbed my hat
Made the bus in seconds flat
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke,
and somebody spoke and I went into a dream
I read the news today oh boy
Four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire
And though the holes were rather small
They had to count them all
Now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall.
I’d love to turn you on
Sgt. Pepper is still regarded by many as their greatest album–while others think it has dated. It does have some marvellous, inventive, reflective, disturbing, witty words and music. And a shattering ending, the sort of pop song we had never heard before.
It marked yet another massive stage in their development and Paul’s ascension to the role of dominant influence. John had as good as given up being the boss or the leader, now that he was sitting around all day at home in suburbia, relying for inspiration on mundane domestic activities such as watching TV, reading the newspapers, or lifting lyrics from circus posters.
Brian Epstein, meanwhile, had all but disappeared from their creative life. Two months after the album was released, on 27 August 1967, Brian was found dead. He was only thirty-two.
Sgt. Pepper flyer, January 1967, for the retail trade, now highly collectable.
10
MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR
1967–1968
After the exertions and excitements and success of Sgt. Pepper, they didn’t release another full-length new album for a whole year. Nevertheless they were highly productive when they did get together, working on two film projects (Magical Mystery Tour and then Yellow Submarine) that needed new songs and also a handful of singles.
Magical Mystery Tour was the first and most interesting project, in that it had some good songs and it also looked as if it would take them in a totally new direction. It didn’t quite go to plan, but I remember all the enthusiasm and ideas that went into it and the anticipation and excitement when we were shown it for the first time.
The Beatles decided to throw a private Magical Mystery Tour party for friends and family, which was held at the Royal Lancaster Hotel on 21 December 1967. We had been told to come in costumes, which had me moaning about having to spend money renting clothes. My wife and I went as a Girl Guide and Boy Scout, wearing ill-fitting stuff borrowed from some kids in our street. Everyone else wore really expensive costumes. Paul and Jane Asher came as a Pearly King and Queen and looked ever so loving and sweet. Four days later, on Christmas Day 1967, they announced their engagement. John was dressed as a Teddy Boy and looked menacing in his leather jacket, drainpipe trousers, brothel-creepers with his hair greased back in a duck’s arse (DA, in polite circles). At the same time, he seemed rather distant, switched off, not much interested–which was how he had been during most of the filming. Later he tried to disown the film, saying it was all Paul’s doing, he was just dragged along, which was more or less true.
For a year, t
hey had been putting off doing a third Beatles film, then on a flight back from the USA with Jane, Paul came up with the idea of doing an hour-long TV film in which they would all get on a bus, shoot stuff, see what happens. It would be mysterious in as much as no one would know where they were going. And magical, in that they could do whatever they wanted.
The ‘Mystery Tour’ notion harked back to their childhood; in the fifties, few working-class families had a car, so bus and train companies would run excursions to popular destinations, sometimes keeping the destination secret to add to the excitement. Growing up in Carlisle, as I did, you always ended up in the Lake District, so it was never much of a mystery. It was still a good day out though; the dads would take a crate of beer on board and everyone would sing on the way home.
The other element in Paul’s mind, which sparked off the idea, was hearing about a group of West Coast hippies, led by author Ken Kesey, who toured in a psychedelically painted coach.
Having come up with the idea, another six months went by before Paul began to flesh it out, by which time Brian Epstein was dead. With no manager to calm them down or provide back-up, they set off on the jaunt with little planning, no real script, taking along some character actors whom they admired (there were no auditions; they simply invited them to come along).
Paul, in his naïvety, thought they could just turn up at Shepperton Studios to shoot the big scenes–not realizing such places have to be booked months if not years in advance. In the end, they had to mock it up in an old airfield in Kent.
When it came to the editing, Paul set aside two weeks–but in the event it took eleven, hacking ten hours of film down to sixty minutes.
I used to visit him in an editing studio in Old Compton Street, Soho, up some stairs above a dodgy club. Outside there was often a drunken old tramp with carnations behind his ears who did a funny dance on the pavement. Paul was amused and would invite him upstairs–which led to more delays as they couldn’t get rid of him. His party piece was ‘Bless ’Em All’, with obscene words substituted.
At the time, watching Paul directing the film–which in essence he did–and then editing it, I thought it amazing that this young lad, with no training in film technique, was working it all out for himself, doing it his way. They’d done the same thing with music: composing songs without being able to read or write a note of music, and making records before they had any studio experience. This was their philosophy: you could do these things, if you really wanted. There was no need to follow the rules or be bossed around. A very modern concept. Of course, it helped that by this time they were multimillionaires who had already made their mark in the music business.
The film was sold to the BBC for £10,000 and broadcast on Boxing Day, shoe-horned between a Petula Clark show and a Norman Wisdom film. It was well and truly slaughtered by the critics. The Daily Express declared it ‘blatant rubbish’. Paul went on The David Frost Show next day to apologize, saying he had goofed, which I thought was slightly craven.
I think one reason for the criticism was that, after five years of Beatlemania, worldwide adulation, being hailed as the best-known people on the planet, bla-bla, many in the media were looking for a chance to take them down a peg or two, especially when they appeared to be condoning drugs.
They should have worked harder on the script beforehand, planned all the scenes in advance, but the idea was to make it spontaneous, provide family amusement over the festive season. As a Beatles fan, then and now, I enjoyed it. It was a modest, short film, done on a budget. I couldn’t see why the clever-clogs critics were so beastly.
The BBC’s internal Audience Research Report for Tuesday, 26 December 1967 reported that 25 per cent of the population of the UK had watched it–but alas the majority had not enjoyed it. Comments from viewers included: ‘The biggest waste of public money since the Ground Nut Scheme’, ‘A load of RUBBISH. We have made better home movies ourselves’, ‘I found it unspeakably tiresome and not the least bit funny–but perhaps this is “sick” humour in which case I am emphatically not “with it”.’ However, the songs were said to be the only redeeming feature.
The songs, such as ‘I Am The Walrus’, have survived the test of time (despite Russell Brand mucking it up at the 2012 London Olympics). The way the songs were shot as self-contained little rock videos was ahead of its time. Over the decades, the film has acquired a bit of a cult following. It has improved with age, as we all do, tra la…
Magical Mystery Tour
Six of the numbers from the film came out in the UK as a double EP, which was accompanied by a twenty-eight-page booklet with stills from the film, the lyrics of five* of the songs and a synopsis of the plot, written and drawn as a children’s comic. It was a neat little production.
‘Magical Mystery Tour’, the introductory number, didn’t really have much in the way of lyrics. More a list of clichés and exhortations, inviting punters to join the tour. And that was how the lyrics were first written, with Paul asking anyone around to shout out likely lines. They had tried to buy some mystery tour posters, so they could get the genuine words, but when Mal Evans was sent out on an expedition to find some, he came back empty-handed. It seemed there weren’t any mystery bus tours any more, at least in London and the South. So this first track is really just a list, telling you to roll up, make a reservation, satisfaction guaranteed, with Sergeant Pepper-type brass band music. I described the recording of the song in the biography.
When the Beatles arrived at the EMI studios at seven thirty one evening to record ‘Magical Mystery Tour’, all they had was the title and a few bars of the music.
There was the usual crowd of fans waiting for them as they went in. Not screaming. Just quiet and contrite, like humble subjects subdued by the Presence. As they went in, one girl very shyly gave George a button badge that said ‘GEORGE FOR P. M.’
‘Why wouldn’t Paul McCartney want you?’ said John to George.
Paul played the opening bars of ‘Magical Mystery Tour’ on the piano, showing the others how it would go. He gestured a lot with his hands and shouted Flash, Flash, saying it would be like a commercial. John was wearing an orange cardigan, purple velvet trousers, and a sporran. He opened the sporran and took out some pot, which he lit, then passed around. They all had a drag. Someone shouted that Anthony, John’s chauffeur, wanted him on the phone.
They leaned round the piano while Paul was playing, going over and over the opening. Paul told Mal to write down the order of how they would do the song. In a very slow schoolboy hand, Mal wrote down the title and got ready for Paul’s instructions. Paul said Trumpets, yes they’d have some trumpets at the beginning, a sort of fanfare, to go with ‘Roll Up, Roll Up, for the Magical Mystery Tour.’ Mal had better write that line down as well, as it was the only line they had. Paul told Mal to write down DAE, the first three chords of the song. Mal sucked his pencil, waiting for more of Paul’s inspired words, but nothing came.
The instruments were then set up and they got ready to record the backing, which as usual was to be the first track they would do. John came back and asked Mal if he’d got in touch with Terry yet. Mal said he couldn’t get through to him. John said it was his job to get through. Just keep on until he did.
It took a couple of hours to work out the first backing track and get it recorded. After it was done, Paul went up to see George Martin in the control room. Paul had the track played back to him, again and again. Below, in the studio, while Paul got the technicians to do things upstairs, George got a set of crayons out of his sheepskin painted waistcoat jacket and started to draw a picture.
Ringo stared into space, smoking, looking very unhappy, which is his natural expression when he’s not talking. John was at the piano, sometimes playing quietly, other times jumping up, pretending to be a spastic, or thumping out loud corny tunes. No one was watching him. He smiled fiendishly to himself through his spectacles, like a Japanese gnome. Neil was reading a pile of occult weeklies which they’d all been thumbing through ea
rlier in the evening. Mal had disappeared.
Paul was at last satisfied with the sound of the first track. He came back down and said he thought they could now add a few more things to it.
Mal reappeared carrying a big brown paper bag full of socks, all in bright self-colours. He passed the bag to John first. He grabbed it in great delight. He chose several pairs of orange terry-towelling socks, then passed the bag around for the others to have a dip. The night before he had said, just in passing, ‘Socks, Mal.’
After the socks had been handed out, Paul asked Mal if he’d managed to get any real mystery-tour posters. Mal said he had been round the bus stations all day looking for them. But he couldn’t find any. They had hoped that some real posters would have given them some ideas for the words of the song. Instead they all tried again to think of some good words apart from ‘Roll up, roll up,’ which was still all they had.
As they shouted ideas, Mal wrote them all down. ‘Reservation,’ ‘Invitation,’ ‘Trip of a lifetime,’ ‘Satisfaction guaranteed.’ But they soon got fed up. They decided they would just sing any words that came into their heads, just to see what happened. So they did.
When they’d finished that, Paul decided that on the next track he would add a bit of bass to the backing. He put on the headphones, so he could hear what they’d done so far, and strapped on his bass guitar. After that he said they should add even more instruments. All of them, Paul, Ringo, John, George, Neil, and Mal, then picked up any old instruments that were lying around–maracas, bells, tambourines. They put on head-phones and banged and played to the music.
By two o’clock they had recorded a basic backing and had layered onto it a bass track, a lot of shouting and disjointed words and some percussion instruments. The ‘Magical Mystery Tour’ was then forgotten about for almost six months.
The Beatles Lyrics Page 23