by Bob Spitz
Nothing was settled by the fight, but as Pete Best interpreted it: “It was the beginning of the end of Stu as a Beatle.” Sutcliffe realized the situation was untenable. There was no place for him on that stage anymore; Paul—and even John, by his neutrality—had made that absolutely clear. Stuart moped around for a few days, disillusioned with the band and with himself. The constant insults, the humiliation—he’d had enough. There were more important things than playing with the Beatles. He had barely touched a paintbrush in months. That alone struck him as absurd. He’d made a horrendous mistake in ignoring his art for so long and needed to reclaim that part of his life.
Despite the consequence of Stuart’s decision, there was no formal resignation. Later that week he simply turned up at the Top Ten and told the others he was through with the band. It was all very matter-of-fact, devoid of lingering resentment or even drama. If any of the Beatles were surprised, no one let it show, nor did anyone try to discourage Stuart from leaving. Stuart, for his part, couldn’t have been more accommodating. In a magnanimous gesture, he even handed his bass over to Paul in an acknowledgment of proper succession, but as Paul pointed out, “he was only lending it to me, so he didn’t want me to change the strings around.”*
[IV]
The departure of Stuart Sutcliffe coincided with the end of Cynthia and Dot’s Hamburg vacation, unburdening the band of any external distractions. The girls’ brief stay vibrated with many good feelings. Dot, especially, was given an unexpected boost when Paul presented her with a gift—a gold band—as a keepsake from Hamburg. The seriousness of the present caught everyone off guard. Dot remembers staring at it, unable to grasp its significance. A wedding band! She was speechless. Finally, Paul suggested smoothly that she try it on. “Turns out, it was an engagement ring,” Dot recalls. “He told me that in Germany you buy a ring that looks like a wedding band and, for the engagement [period], you put it on your left hand. When you get married you just change it to your right.”
Married: this was the first that she’d heard as much from Paul. All this time, she “felt [she] was never good enough for him,” and here he was in love with her. “I was thrilled,” Dot says. Paul had everything she secretly desired. He was charming, talented, as good-looking as any movie star, and from a solid, loving family. Dot made no secret of her happiness when she returned to Liverpool in May, moving out of her parents’ house and into a flat, in anticipation of Paul’s return.
Behind their pronouncements and gestures of love, the Beatles’ front men had more practical matters on their minds. Music remained the top priority. Now that their stage shows were sharp, next on the agenda was making a record.
The route to the recording studio in the early sixties was mazy and exclusive. Unlike the opportunities in America, where A&R scouts practically herded singing groups off the street corners and into the studio, European openings were scarce. A scant four labels operated in all of England, each with one meager recording facility to its name. There were only a handful of independents on the order of Sun, J&M, Chess, Radio Recorders, or Atlantic, and none as exquisitely appointed or technically proficient. Although any yabbo with £5 could cut a disc at the HMV store in London, conditions there were less than primitive and not unlike the Quarry Men’s experience at Percy Phillips’s studio. Bands weren’t simply discovered and recorded in England; they underwent a long, involved process that meandered through interviews, courtships, showcases, auditions, rehearsals, teas, and finally the rare, exalted session. The Beatles were well aware of that; moreover, they knew that the inside track was clubby and that most opportunities fell to London bands or twinky acts like Cliff Richard, who’d showcased at Two I’s. Provincial rock ’n roll bands were regarded “like lepers.”
It was only a matter of time, however, before word of their talent spread past the ghetto of St. Pauli and into the stiff-necked musical establishment. Tommy Kent, a German rock ’n roll star on the magnitude of Billy Fury, was the first local celebrity to “discover” the Beatles. “He said we were the best group he’d ever heard,” Paul wrote to a friend in Liverpool, quoting the highlight of a backstage visit. It sounded, to be sure, like extravagant praise, but Kent’s enthusiasm was apparently sincere. Following a repeat visit to the Top Ten, he alerted Bert Kaempfert, a popular German bandleader whose company had struck a recent production deal with Polydor Records, a subsidiary label of mighty Deutsche Grammophon. Kaempfert was no ordinary kappellmeister. A handsome, charismatic composer and popular recording artist, he spent the postwar years stringing together an impressive array of instrumental hits, including “Wonderland by Night” and “Strangers in the Night,” and as an icon-turned-entrepreneur, he began building a small but accomplished pop talent roster.
Tommy Kent urged Kaempfert to go see the Beatles after his visit to the Top Ten. Kaempfert’s response was polite but noncommittal. He was more focused on Tony Sheridan, whose talent he recognized the minute he saw it. A performer such as Sheridan would add panache to his roster; the energy he put out would create its own demand. He offered Sheridan a recording contract, which included the Beatles as his backing band. The Beatles were stunned and overjoyed by the offer. Unable to restrain themselves, they scrawled their signatures on an undated contract written completely in German whose only copy was given to Kaempfert. The terms were simple: they’d be paid a total of DM 300 per person—comparable to a week’s wages at the Top Ten—which precluded them from a share of future royalties; moreover, the contract would be in effect from July 1961 until July 1962, with an option—Kaempfert’s—for a year’s extension.
It was a sticky piece of business, a kind of take-it-or-leave-it offer in the spirit of deals signed by doo-wop groups in the early fifties. Even among London musicians it was rare to receive anything more than a standard flat fee for studio work. It remains doubtful that they had legal counsel or that the terms were even explained to them. Not that it would have mattered. To their grand satisfaction, the boys felt: “What the hell, we’re recording!” A dream had come true: the Beatles were finally making records.
But they were records in name only—and not even in their name. As a concession to German slang, in which the word peedles skewed as “tiny dicks,” the band appeared as the Beat Brothers, the collective name used for all of Sheridan’s backing groups between 1961 and 1965. Otherwise, they performed a lineup of songs similar to the one played on the Top Ten stage six times a night, seven nights a week.
Kaempfert must have planned on a set that strove to rock out without offending his loyal mainstream audience. Why else would it have been weighted with souped-up standards like “My Bonnie” and “[When] The Saints [Go Marching In]?” Even the Beatles’ showcase—“Ain’t She Sweet”—was a retread of the old music hall number.* As novices, the Beatles were too impressionable and excited to stage a protest, but Tony Sheridan, arguably no greenhorn, merely followed orders. Although it seems thoroughly out of character, it is reasonable to assume he viewed the session as a comeback opportunity and chose not to make waves. Kaempfert and his staff worked briskly and diligently, seldom requiring more than two takes on any song. Each track rolled out with Germanic precision, and along with George’s instrumental debut on the self-penned “Cry for a Shadow,” the whole session went down without so much as a hiccup. For a single release, “My Bonnie” sounded like the obvious choice, but it would be up to the suits at Polydor to make that decision. Convinced that the sound “represented something new” and unusual, the engineers and technicians left the session feeling upbeat about their work.
No one felt the flush more acutely than the Beatles. Not even guarded restraint from an experienced hand like Kaempfert put a damper on their sanguine outlook. However naively, they regarded the session as their big break, the break that would lead to inevitable stardom. It didn’t matter that the release was still a ways off or that the spotlight, if it shone, would fall on Tony Sheridan.
In fact, the Beatles wouldn’t even be around to partake in the launch.
Less than a week after the session, their engagement at the Top Ten concluded and, like it or not, they were on their way back to Liverpool.
Chapter 14 Mr. X
[I]
On a hazy Saturday evening in September 1961, Bob Wooler climbed aboard the 500 Limited bus bound for Liverpool center and spied a familiar face. George Harrison was seated about halfway back, steadying a cardboard envelope on his knees. As Wooler settled in next to him, George slipped a record sleeve from the package in one neat motion. “Look at this. I’ve just received it today,” he gushed, fingering it as one might a precious heirloom. Wooler examined the single: a near-mint copy of “My Bonnie” by Tony Sheridan and the Beat Brothers.* So, it was finally released, Wooler mused. The band had jabbered about nothing else since returning from Hamburg, to the point that Wooler actually dreaded its arrival. Nevertheless, he was impressed, seeing it in the flesh. “Up until then, none of the Merseyside bands had made a record,” he recalls, “so it was quite an achievement.”
Determined to make an event of it, he begged George for the record. “Let me play it tonight,” he cajoled, but George squirmed reluctantly. The copy had just arrived from Hamburg,* and the other Beatles had yet to see it. With uncharacteristic aggressiveness, Wooler dismissed the argument with a wave. “They’ll have plenty of time for that,” he said. “Anyway, we’re all [appearing] at Hambleton Hall tomorrow night, at which time I’ll return it.” He also schemed to borrow it for lunchtime sessions at the Cavern, which the Beatles now headlined almost exclusively.
Like others on the scene, Wooler sensed a breakthrough in the making and wanted to capitalize on it. “The local pop scene,” as he saw it, “was ready for a star.” Rock ’n roll was no longer simply a weekend dessert in Liverpool; it had become part of the essential daily diet, with lunchtime and evening shows a staple of everyday life. You could almost set your watch by it, a rhythm to the musical intervals that dovetailed with meals, commuting, work, and sleep. No one looked to the States or even to London for the latest hot sound. Why bother? Liverpool had everything they needed.
And it was the Beatles who defined the scene—maybe too much for its own good, Wooler thought. “The Beatles were difficult,” he recalls, “and so unprofessional onstage—smoking, swearing, eating, talking with one another. They considered themselves lords unto themselves.” One day, the Beatles played the Cavern wearing jeans. Jeans spelled trouble; anyone wearing them was turned away at the door. In no time, the band had attracted the attention of Ray McFall, who demanded that Wooler discipline the Beatles. During a break Wooler reluctantly delivered Ray’s message in the bandroom. “Go and tell him to get fucking well stuffed!” John snapped. From opposite angles, Paul and George converged, launching similar tirades. Wooler backed out of the room to symphonic abuse. Lords unto themselves.
The scene had somehow bought into the Beatles’ cheek. Their whole renegade attitude had caught on, and not only with fellow musicians. With rock ’n roll, as with nothing else in their lives, the fans cared as much about the attitude as the music. They were looking for a mind-set, a way of looking at things that pressed past the music itself into issues of identity—personality, looks, character, and originality. While stars such as Elvis and Buddy Holly had given them the music and the look, attitude remained uncultivated. Teddy boys had come the closest to defining a cultural outlook, but they proved too extreme. The Beatles, on the other hand, managed to push the envelope without hurting anyone. Violence wasn’t part of their agenda. Their music was loud, in-your-face loud, their stage presence disorderly and impolite. Anyone who disapproved could “get fucking well stuffed,” but that was the extent of their defiance. They were rebels, not anarchists.
And yet Wooler was determined to hasten their stardom, no matter how rudely they treated him. He plugged their record relentlessly—at dozens of dance halls on the weekends, numerous times a day at the crowded Cavern, to anyone, in fact, who would listen—even though it wasn’t available anywhere in the United Kingdom. “Buy the record, folks,” he’d implore. “Make sure you ask for it at your favorite record shop. If they don’t have it, insist that they order it, and make sure that they get it for you.” But local retailers, who concentrated on sturdy sellers like Anthony Newley, Perry Como, Nat King Cole, and instrumentalists, had no interest. According to Wooler, “There was only one record store that took any interest in it and that was… [the NEMS] shop in Whitechapel.” North End Music Stores had a record department that was unmatched for its eclectic selection of music, thanks largely to the exuberance of its demanding manager, a tightly strung aesthete named Brian Epstein. The wellborn son of retail magnates from the upper crust of Liverpool’s Jewish community, Brian had little in common with the teenage riffraff who infested his store like crows. Although only six years older than John Lennon, Brian comported himself in a way that bespoke a man in his contented forties. And not out of some sort of pretense: he belonged to that segment of his generation which subscribed to refinement and discipline and maintained its manners during the periodic upheavals of rebellion. Raised as a gentleman, he wore immaculately tailored suits, spoke the King’s English with a crisp, polished clip, and led conversations with his chin raised to convey the superiority he keenly felt among commoners.*
Indulging an alliance of passions, his adolescent heart beat furiously for all things musical, except rock ’n roll, which he abhorred. He was a connoisseur of serious music, spanning theater, opera, and symphony—an erudite, cultured, and opinionated enthusiast who “lived for Beethoven, Mozart, Haydn, and Sibelius.” Although as a child Brian apparently showed little interest in playing an instrument, he had a box at the Liverpool Philharmonic from the age of twelve, and soon after acquired a collection of the Brandenburg Concertos, whose score he knew by heart.
Rock ’n roll had begun to ring up substantial sales for NEMS, making it a genre he could no longer afford to ignore. But as a listener, he wouldn’t give it the time of day. “The closest Brian ever got to rock ’n roll was ‘Volare,’ ” recalls Peter Brown, a friend and protégé who oversaw the NEMS shop on Great Charlotte Street.
He was born on September 19, 1934, during the denouement of a crisp Yom Kippur afternoon while his father and uncle davened, as ploddingly as they polished furniture, in the crowded sanctuary of the Green Park Drive Synagogue, not too far from their homes. The Epsteins were lions of Liverpool’s resurgent Jewish community: merchants, philanthropists, pillars of society, a long way up the ladder from their hardscrabble beginnings. In fact, Brian’s paternal grandfather, a furniture maker named Isaac, an émigré from the village of Hodan, Lithuania, arrived in England in the wave of immigration of the 1890s at the age of eighteen, with nothing except for the provisions of his trade and the forbearance of his wife, Diana. From the beginning, Isaac proved extremely talented, and there was plenty of work to keep him busy. Isaac offered customers a selection of his own handcrafted staples along with varied consignment pieces, and after a decade of struggle and sacrifice, he succeeded in opening a modest furniture shop that offered easy credit to families, and thus rather quickly attracted a solid clientele.
Isaac’s third child, Harry, an equally enterprising but very affable man, had hardly finished school before joining his father’s business on Walton Road, in the north end of the city. Renamed I. Epstein & Sons, it featured showrooms of well-crafted goods ranging from bassinets to bedroom suites and served families of all social and economic strata. Harry and his brother, Leslie, watched their father with curious, admiring eyes. Restlessly, they expanded into an adjacent shop (North End Music Stores) and then another and another, the unfolding empire consolidated under the catchy NEMS logo. More than anyone, Harry recognized the opportunity for growth, diversifying the company with home furnishings and appliances.
It took a momentous marriage to solidify NEMS’ primacy. Queenie Hyman (the nickname was given to her as a child, being that Malka, her given name, was the Hebrew word for queen),* although eleven years Harry’s juni
or, was his partner in every respect—a capricious but capable wife born of aristocratic self-possession, whose family owned the highly esteemed Sheffield Veneering Company in the heart of the Midlands. A slim, dark-haired beauty, Queenie was educated at a Catholic boarding school, to which she applied herself with ungrudging tenacity; she had no intention of letting down in front of non-Jews. Among her firmest convictions, along with her fierce Jewish faith, was the treachery of Gentiles, most of whom she viewed as closet anti-Semites. It was a prejudice, however irrational, that remained with Queenie throughout her life—and that was subsequently passed down to Brian—despite the unshakable power of Liverpool’s Jewish community, the oldest, most unified, and prosperous of its kind outside of London.
Unquestionably, Queenie filled the empty spaces in Harry’s life. She ran an orderly and immaculate house, cultivated a social circle from among Liverpool’s most prominent Jewish families, and was an instinctive hostess who entertained with grand style and élan. “She knew what it meant to be a lady,” says a longtime friend of the family. What’s more, Queenie loved culture. She filled the living room with beautifully bound books and china figurines. A profusion of tasteful if innocuous art landscaped the walls. And she nurtured a passion for fine music, becoming an influential theater and symphony patron, amassing a library of records that was even more voluminous and diverse than that of her own parents. To accommodate her grandiose designs, the Epsteins built their dream house in 1934, the year following their marriage. It was a comfortable eleven-room stone residence, with a vaulted entrance, five high-ceilinged bedrooms, and a magnificent alcoved parlor in back, well situated on a lovely wooded property in Childwall, one of the suburbs undergoing rapid upscaling.