by Bob Spitz
Not quite everyone. It never even dawned on Williams to include the Beatals on the program. Without a drummer, they wouldn’t stand a chance alongside other major bands. To spare the lads the embarrassment, he made sure they had good seats. In the audience. Punters. Fans. Like everyone else.
[II]
All the same, the concert prevailed as “a seminal event.” It was the first time, says a local musician, “that all the Liverpool bands became aware of one another.” After the stadium show, the local scene was invigorated by a sense of community. According to Adrian Barber, the Cassanovas’ guitarist: “As the groups started to communicate with one another, they shared information about places to play. Phone numbers were exchanged, schedules coordinated.” They flocked to one another’s gigs. Since everyone played basically the same set, new songs became not only community property but currency. Bands burst out of obscurity by introducing the latest unknown American hit, then passed it around to fellow acolytes, to underscore its provenance.
By virtue of Williams’s new status, the Jacaranda became headquarters to the fraternal order of Liverpool bands that emerged immediately after the Stadium show. Gathering ad hoc in the early afternoon, minutes after most had only just crawled out of bed, they would graze around tables like docile water buffalo and recharge themselves on cups of inky espresso followed by a trough of eggs, bacon, and beans on toast, animatedly rehashing the highlights of last night’s gig, discussing the current hit parade, or airing the usual complaints about insulting pay and horrible work conditions.
John, Paul, and Stuart often sat on the periphery of these discussions. Socially aloof, young, and lacking credentials, they were seldom invited into the galaxy of the coffee bar’s guiding stars. They seemed to be waiting for a signal, a nod of approval—from a body of peers, not gurus—that they were worthy of joining the party.
Ultimately, Brian Casser of Cass and the Cassanovas gave them that nod. Cass was the first to express, even vaguely, the possibility that the Beatals might contain a gleam of real talent. A week earlier, sitting in the Jac with some cronies, he heard them rehearse, belting out a version of “Tutti Frutti” in the basement, and was struck by the haunting falsetto delivery of Paul McCartney. “It was [the type of] voice we’d never heard before,” says a musician who happened to be sitting next to Casser. “None of us sang like that; we sang full-voiced, street. This was something unique to our ears, and it got Cass’s attention.”
Cass told them not to test the market without a drummer and offered to help find one from among Liverpool’s lean talent pool. He also cautioned them against going out with their “ridiculous” name. A band’s name, Cass believed, must focus attention on its leader, like Buddy Holly and the Crickets.
Encouraged by the interest, John listened. When Cass returned to his table he told friends that “he had convinced Lennon to call the band Long John and the Silver Beetles.”
Convinced—maybe for a moment. John, after all, was practical and fired by personal ambition. If Cass could deliver a drummer, then pissing him off was not in John’s best interest. But while he was willing to do almost anything to advance the cause of the band, he was not about to demean it by posing as Long John Silver. A peg-leg pirate from a children’s tale? Never. He did admit to himself that Beatals gave them no handle to grab hold of. Everyone agreed it didn’t look right on the page. So, for the time being, they struck a compromise, calling themselves the Silver Beetles. Apparently that was enough to satisfy Cass, and a few days later he delivered on his promise by finding them a drummer named Tommy Moore.
It is not entirely clear who Moore was. Like many musicians who hung around the scene, he was familiar to others by his face, but few had ever heard Tommy actually play. Part of the reason was his age. Already thirty-six, he was well outside the core rock ’n roll demographic—twice Paul’s age—and part of another world as far as performance bands went. He also had a day job, operating a forklift at the Garston bottle works, which made him unfamiliar to the Jac’s daytime crowd. Still, he had all the qualifications: he was small but stocky, with powerful, responsive wrists and impeccable timing. “Tommy Moore was a pro,” says one of the Cassanovas, “what we call a session drummer today. He had played in dance bands, at social clubs. He could put the beat in the right place, and he could play anything.”
It’s a good thing he could. John, Paul, George, and Stuart were mildly shocked when Tommy showed up to meet them at the Gambier Terrace flat. No one had quite expected such an old guy, and they were unprepared—perhaps even a bit frustrated—by his lounge-act repertoire. Tommy had only just begun to show an interest in rock ’n roll. But during an impromptu audition, he drew knowingly on fifteen years of experience and impressed the boys with his chops and ability to play almost anything they threw at him. This was especially clear when they segued into “Cathy’s Clown,” with its tricky cha-cha beat, and Tommy hung right in there with them. Stripped of frills and flash, Tommy’s straightforward drumming made no attempt to upstage the rest of the band. But he would do.
Sometime during the merriment following the Stadium concert, Larry Parnes had pulled Williams aside and praised his efforts, expressing admiration for the Liverpool bands. He’d been especially impressed by how tight they’d played, how professionally they’d handled themselves. Finally, he had suggested that there might be something they could do together on a few upcoming tours. That is, of course, if Williams represented these bands.
Represented. A light went off in Allan’s head. Why not, indeed? With all the local bands pecking aimlessly for work, he could roll them, by contract, into a company and build his own northern talent stable, much as Parnes had done in London. The beauty of it was, it required no real investment on his part. It was what he’d counted on all along: “the crock of gold at the end of the rainbow.”
With the incentive from Parnes, Allan began to consider the options. There were a number of bands he planned on approaching, all obvious choices, all part of the small but close-knit community. But for the first time, he thought about the up-and-coming groups that used the Jac’s basement for rehearsal. He also began to reevaluate, in light of the potential market, the young bands to whom he had given the cold shoulder only weeks, even days, before. In a stroke of providence, his musings were interrupted by a visit from Stuart Sutcliffe.
Stuart had been after Williams about giving the Silver Beetles a break, and as usual, Allan’s responses were polite but noncommittal. But after the Stadium concert, Sutcliffe’s appeals grew relentless. The band had felt humiliated watching the action from the sidelines; they were desperate to get going. “But you must have a drummer,” Williams insisted. “If you haven’t got a drummer, then you’ll have to go and find one.”
Still “very dubious about the group,” Williams ran their name past Brian Casser, who gave him a quick thumbs-up. To Allan, Cass was “the prophet,” the only forthright musician in this scene on whom he could rely.
Not a moment too soon. A day after Tommy Moore showed up, Williams received a letter from London. Inside, on a page of plush, woven-linen stock used as personal stationery by the aristocracy, was an invitation that would ultimately alter the course of popular music. It was from one of Larry Parnes’s henchmen, Mark Forster, stating that both Duffy Power and Johnny Gentle had scheduled Scottish tours for June, which necessitated an urgent search for backing bands. “For these two periods, as agreed, we are willing to pay your groups £120.0d plus the fares from Liverpool,” he proposed. “Should you agree to these suggestions we will arrange for both Duffy and Johnny, who incidentally is a Liverpool boy, to travel up to Liverpool to rehearse with your groups towards the end of May.” Equally tantalizing was news that Larry Parnes would attend, too. Not only that, he was bringing Billy Fury with him, “as Billy will want one of these four groups for his own personal use.”
Williams had initially suggested they choose from among a pool of Liverpool’s best bands: Cass and the Cassanovas, Gerry and the Pacemakers, Cl
iff Roberts and the Rockers, and Derry and the Seniors—all of whom he’d persuaded to be represented by his new management firm, Jacaranda Enterprises. Later that day, he stopped by Gambier Terrace to deliver the news to Stuart Sutcliffe, albeit with one significant change: he intended to extend the list and include the Silver Beetles.
[III]
The audition had been scheduled for the early afternoon of May 10, 1960, at the Jacaranda, but because of severe space problems and an inescapable funky heat, it was shifted to a new location a few blocks away. Flush from his new endeavors, Allan Williams had taken a lease on two other places, the Wyvern Social Club on reedy-thin Seel Street (where the audition would be held) and another building down the block he intended to call the Maggie May, after a popular local legend.
It was one of those rare Liverpool days when the weather let up and the sky brightened. Outside, the crosscurrents triggered a strong sentimental tug: a lemony scent of blossoms and pine intermingled with the briny Mersey air. A blanket of warm escorting winds had transformed the dreary landscape from sober seaport to a true urban glen, inviting gulls and terns to kite weightlessly overhead, their tiny frames held motionless against the gentle breeze.
Inside the dark, shingled Wyvern there was the tumult of renovation, accompanied by the churning and chuffing of machinery. In its former life, the place had functioned as a workingman’s drinking club, with the kind of heavy-timbered decor that made thirsty punters feel right at home; now, in need of total repair, it was undergoing an expedited face-lift so that Williams could open in time for the hearty summer crowds. He’d decided to rename it the Blue Angel and to make it an upscale cabaret. Williams envisioned opening a more sophisticated hangout, a nightclub like New York’s Copacabana or Latin Quarter, where elegance and privilege played a prominent role. Rock ’n roll was an aberration to his ears, moribund, just noise for the teenage crowd; when its novelty appeal ran out, he believed, there would always be an audience of big spenders that appreciated the standards.
Because work was ongoing in the club, the musicians set up just past the bar, on the top level, against the rear wall. The Silver Beetles arrived a few minutes after eleven o’clock, minus Tommy Moore, who was retrieving his drums from another club over on Dale Street. Howie Casey, who was already inside with the Seniors, recalls seeing them come in and noticing how dissimilar they looked from the other groups. “They blew in, rough and tumble, dressed like gangsters, in black shirts, black jeans, and two-tone shoes,” he remembers. Everyone else showed up in a suit. But if the boys felt underdressed, they didn’t show it. “John, Paul, George, and Stuart sat laughing together on a little bench seat along the side of the room. Everyone else was crowded on the other side, ready to play. Initially, there was a lot of chatter from among our ranks when they showed up. We didn’t know [the Silver Beetles], and I don’t think anybody else knew them either.”
As the audition loomed near, the bands were introduced to the guests of honor—Larry Parnes and Billy Fury—who “sat stone-faced” three-quarters of the way back on folding chairs. So strong was the aura of celebrity that even a solicitous John Lennon pressed Billy Fury for an autograph, which he graciously signed.
The good news was the announcement by Parnes that in addition to the Scottish tours, Fury sought a Liverpool band to back him in Blackpool for the summer season. Everyone’s face lit up with expectation. The promise of a trip to Blackpool was magic in the north of England. “Just up the road,” it was a magnet for Scousers on a budget, a blue-collar “holiday resort” with fairgrounds, “Kiss Me Quick” hats, and racks of naughty postcards of the kind depicting fat men riding the slogan “Haven’t seen my Little Willie in years.” A three-month gig there would be icing on the cake. “Most important of all,” says Howie Casey, “we could justify to our families that there was money in music.”
The Cassanovas were up first and were horribly off their show. The Seniors, who followed them, sounded almost hot by comparison. The band was perfectly tight and live-wire, yet vocal flaws eventually shone through and they ended up sounding shrieky and shrill, with none of the hot, honking nitro needed to kick out the jams. Gerry and the Pacemakers, on the other hand, were loaded in the vocal department but without a dynamic musical spark. And Cliff Roberts and the Rockers couldn’t match the highlights on either end.
Stuart sat quietly, sketching a charcoal portrait of Larry Parnes while his mates studied the competition. All the pressure was on the other bands. They had nothing to lose. Still, they had to reconcile a larger dilemma that threatened to foil their chance of an upset: with only minutes to spare, Tommy Moore hadn’t appeared. There had been no word from him—not even a call to give them an update.
By the time they were summoned to perform, the Silver Beetles could read their fate in Allan Williams’s stooped shoulders. They’d never make an impression without a drummer. It was useless even to try. Desperate, John asked Johnny Hutchinson of the Cassanovas to stand in for the AWOL Moore. It was a bold move, considering Hutch’s reputation. He was a spitfire: he could become an ugly customer without any provocation. As Adrian Barber notes, “Johnny did and played whatever the fuck he wanted to do and play, and that was it, brother.” Most people knew to stay out of his way. But John was left no other choice. They had no drummer, and Johnny Hutch was the best in the room.
No one knows why he agreed to John’s request. According to Howie Casey, “It was Johnny Hutch’s [drum] kit that was there, so he reluctantly got up and played.” That sounds likely enough, but no matter what the reason, it did the trick. The band launched into a relentless set that left their predecessors in the dust—four songs, all up-tempo, with John and Paul trading vocals in the seamless way that was to become their trademark. There are so many varying reports of their performance that the only thing eyewitnesses can agree upon is that they were there. Adrian Barber concedes that “they blew everyone away,” while in Howie Casey’s estimation, “They weren’t brilliant, it sounded underrehearsed.” Only a few pictures of the session exist. On viewing them, it is impossible to draw anything conclusive about their sound, but the familiar body language reveals volumes. John and Paul stand shoulder to shoulder, cocked fiercely over their guitars, feet splayed and churning, in a gritty pose that defined garage bands for years to come. They look determined, unfaltering, comfortably in the groove. George, to their left, concentrates gamely on a lick, while Stuart and Johnny Hutch filled the gaps between the rhythm.
Billy Fury heard it immediately and cued Parnes that the Silver Beetles were a natural fit. Parnes, ever cautious, remained unconvinced. “I thought the boys in front were great,” he told a writer many years later. “The lead guitar and the bass, so-so.” Stuart had played in “a most off-putting style,” wandering toward the rear of the stage, with his back to the room either to create a bit of mystique or to conceal his lack of ability. Meanwhile, Tommy Moore stalked in, looking disheveled and breathing heavily from his sprint across town, and went straight to the drums, where he took over for Johnny Hutch. Together at last, they had time for one more song, but it was anticlimactic. Afterward, Parnes noted that the magic seemed to collapse. “It was the drummer… who was wrong,” he’d concluded.
Given how chaotic their audition turned out, the Silver Beetles were received with surprising kindness by Parnes. They weren’t perfect, by any stretch of the imagination, but there was something intriguing to work with, something that suited his artist’s style. “Quite suddenly,” Allan Williams recalled, “[Parnes] said he’d take the Beatles [sic] as Billy Fury’s backing group—but that he only wanted four [band members]. No bass.”
There are numerous accounts of what happened next, though most remain sketchy at best. According to Williams, John stepped forward like a knight-errant and turned him down cold. The message was bluntly clear: as far as the Silver Beetles were concerned, it was an all-or-nothing proposition. Stuart was a mate, a musketeer: one for all, and all for one. Parnes later said he had no recollection of this mythic
showdown and insisted that Tommy Moore, not Stuart, had soured the band’s chances. Instead, Parnes cast his blessing on Cass and the Cassanovas.
With sentiments running in such contrary directions, some clarity was needed. Williams and Parnes stole off to the Jacaranda, where they attempted to sort out a deal: who would play with whom and where and for how much. There were myriad configurations that might work. The bands trailed the two promoters to the tiny, deserted coffee bar and sat around tables near the door, speculating about their chances and casting glances at the two men huddled like warlords in the back. In the end, there was confusion in the cards. Parnes did a swift about-face and decided that no Liverpool band was needed to back Billy Fury. Instead, he offered the Scottish tours to Cass and the Cassanovas and the Silver Beetles, who would open for Duffy Power and Johnny Gentle, respectively.
The Silver Beetles were understandably ecstatic. In their eyes, Johnny Gentle, while hardly a household name, was an up-and-coming recording star. When Williams brought them the offer, they greeted it with jubilation, all except for Stuart, who felt he’d lost them the big-time Fury gig. Stuart’s mother recalled that he apologized to John for letting the band down. “Forget it, Stu,” John reportedly told him, ending any discussion of the subject. They’d been offered a legitimate tour at the astounding sum of £90 a week. For a Liverpool band, it was an unprecedented deal. Ten days on the road, most expenses paid by Parnes, playing in front of adoring audiences, hotels, girls, invaluable experience, proper exposure. An unprecedented deal from any angle.
Crowning a burst of energy and artifice, arrangements were hastily made. George and Tommy took time off from their jobs, Paul sweet-talked his father into a holiday before the upcoming exams, while John and Stuart simply cut classes. The problem of equipment was similarly solved when they decided to “borrow” the art school P.A. All the pieces fell neatly into place. Suddenly everything seemed possible. They were actually going on the road—a road from which they would never look back.