by Bob Spitz
Nothing personal!
That did it, that was the last straw, according to Paul. “From my point of view, I was getting done in,” he recalled. “All the decisions were now three against one.” Instead of complying, however, instead of following the idea of “majority rules,” he dug in his heels. He would not agree, insisting that Apple hold to the original plan.
The other Beatles tried to ameliorate the situation in a series of frantic phone calls, but it was hopeless. “I had an understanding,” Paul insisted, refusing to budge off the mark. He even called Joe Lockwood at EMI to complain that he was being sabotaged. On every side, it seemed, they had reached an impasse. Klein convinced the others that Paul’s solo album would confuse the public and dilute the impact of Let It Be, and perhaps he was right. Either way, they weren’t about to let that happen. Finally, as the release date loomed, Paul offered an alternative way out of the mess. He called George, in his capacity as an officer of the company, and said, “I want to get off the label.” Replied George: “You’ll stay on the fucking label. Hare Krishna.” And he hung up.
Still, it didn’t end there. With the release date now only weeks away, the others decided they had to confront Paul directly in an effort to change his mind. One of them was recruited to go ring his doorbell and reach a compromise. “Unfortunately, it was Ringo,” Paul recalled. The gentlest of the Beatles, the only one who never uttered a bad word about his bandmates, who genuinely loved the others and wanted only their love in return, Ringo appeared at Cavendish Avenue with a letter from the group. “We want you to put your release date back, it’s for the good of the group,” he told Paul, who went blind with rage. Paul finally snapped and in an interview a week later said, “I called him everything under the sun.” He gave poor Ringo a royal tongue-lashing, backing him helplessly against a wall and shaking a finger in his face as all the bitterness and frustration came hurling out. Paul has said in subsequent interviews that it almost came to blows—“it was near enough,” he admitted—but just before things reached that point, he came to his senses and simply threw Ringo out.
An alternative offer, although generous, put Paul in an untenable position: in order to release his solo album first, the Beatles insisted he sign the management contract. He flat-out refused. Finally, Ringo threw up his hands in surrender. George Harrison, perhaps out of frustration, also relented. He persuaded the others to let Paul have his way. But overall, George stuck to his belief that Paul “was just trying to grab a bit of the momentum,” much as he’d always done. He was just being Paul, an egomaniac, out for himself.
By the end of April 1970, everyone knew it was all over. The only unresolved issue was: Who would spill the beans? Who would go public first? John, more than anyone, had already distanced himself from the Beatles, and he’d told friends that he’d left the group for good. As far as he cared, “there was no common goal anymore,” nothing to keep him tied to the past. But for whatever reason, he chose not to announce it to the press.
Paul, however, couldn’t resist. Peter Brown was pressing Paul to do some selective interviews for the launch of his new solo album, to no avail. Paul was bitter, despondent. He wasn’t in any mood to put a good face on the Beatles’ breakup and he didn’t want to face the press with anything but his best. He couldn’t bear to answer the same nagging question: Are you happy? Even hearing it, he admitted, “almost made me cry.” In lieu of interviews, Brown suggested an old Brian Epstein tactic: a homemade questionnaire. He’d pose a series of mundane questions that Paul could answer, with some forethought and at his leisure.
Of course, Paul went him one better: they would include it along with the album’s liner notes, as an insert, perhaps, in copies that were sent out for review. Little did Brown suspect what Paul was really up to.
Q: Do you foresee a time when Lennon-McCartney becomes an active songwriting partnership again?
A: No.
Q: Have you plans for live appearances with the Beatles?
A: No.
Q: Is your break with the Beatles temporary or permanent, due to personal differences or musical ones?
A: Personal differences, business differences, but most of all because I have a better time with my family. Temporary or permanent? I don’t know.
Q: Are you planning a new album or single with the Beatles?
A: No.
Q: Do you miss the Beatles and George Martin? Was there a moment, e.g. when you thought, “Wish Ringo was here for this break?”
A: No.
The Daily Mirror headline shot around the world: PAUL LEAVES THE BEATLES. Newspapers everywhere quickly picked up the story. “Beatle Paul McCartney confirmed today that he has broken with the Beatles—but ‘did not know’ if it was temporary or permanent.’… He said he was not in contact with manager Alan [sic] Klein ‘and he does not represent me in any way.’ ” The rest of the article used everything Paul provided in his “questions and answers” survey to defend the breakup.
What did John have to say about this? Connolly rang him for comment about three the next afternoon, when he finally awoke, and filled him in on the events. “He was cross about it,” Connolly remembers. He had no idea Paul was going public and was furious that he had been scooped. “Oh, Christ,” John swore, “he gets all the credit for it!”
For an instant, Paul’s announcement brought everything to a standstill. A lucid stillness filled the void. The music fell silent. All the tension melted away, the demands of unimaginable superstardom ceased. For the moment, the world as they knew it stopped spinning, seemed perfectly at peace. As the Beatles, they had been to the toppermost of the poppermost. They had encountered the crowds, heard the screams, felt the love. Saw the light. In a brief and shining interval, they had lived a dream that no Liverpool lad could imagine—a magical, fabulous dream, like out of a fairy tale. An unforgettable dream. “It was wonderful and it’s over,” John affirmed to all those waiting for a sign. “And so, dear friends, you’ll just have to carry on. The Dream Is Over.”
But the legend of the Beatles had only just begun.
Endnote
There would be the release of Let It Be, in all its suffocated Phil Spector production, and then one after another Beatles re-release—red albums, blue albums, rock albums, movie albums, number ones and studio tapes, all massive sellers, all exposing not just old fans but new ones to the magic and the myth. There would be solo careers with hits and misses, crass duets (Paul) and graying all-star supergroups (Ringo and George). There would be huge stadiums of fans cheering Wings, Paul’s post-Beatles group, and strollers in Manhattan’s Central Park who would smile as John and Yoko passed them by, as if the most normal thing in the world was one of the Beatles at ease. There would be a December night in 1980 when a man walked up to John and shot him in the chest, ending his life. There would be the night, nineteen years later, when an intruder broke into George’s home and stabbed him, then the Tuesday in November 2001, when George succumbed to cancer, the cigarettes catching up to him before the jelly babies. Ringo’s ex, Maureen, died of cancer in 1996; Paul’s “Lovely Linda” would die of cancer, too, in 1998. But not all was ashen. There would be babies born to Beatles, to Beatles fans, millions of people who lived their lives to a soundtrack crafted by four Scouse boys who had either grown up or passed along. And the story changed as the players aged. Paul was no longer Paul—he was Sir Paul, knighted by the Queen in 1997. John was no longer John—he was Saint John, an archetype to angry young rock ’n rollers everywhere. George was no longer a third wheel—he was George Harrison, an artist in his own right and a humanitarian who organized benefit concerts to feed the poor and change the world, something and then some. And Ringo—well, he was still Ringo. Always would be. Sure, he had married a former Bond girl, and his son had become the drummer he feared he would, but otherwise, life remained full of simple pleasures. The sickly boy who had almost died so many times had outlived two of his bandmates and so many others in this story. Lives begun together ended apart, as ha
ppens everywhere, even in pop songs. But the Beatles were no longer just boys who had played rock ’n roll. They had been mere babes when it all happened; when the band split, McCartney was all of twenty-nine years old; John and Ringo, thirty; and George, twenty-seven. But on reflection, on the radio, on vinyl and cassette and CD, they became not kids, not a band, not anything like anything else. The Beatles. A vastness of talent, of charm, of genius, incomprehensible, an ocean like the one four boys once looked out upon, peering west from the hills of Liverpool. And from them, a flood of song and love and pain and beauty, a flood that cascaded out of the Cavern and Hamburg and London town, into the world, a flow that pushed aside what had come before, that cleansed and battered and in the end nourished. Water.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No one suspected that the two years set aside to research and write this book would ultimately stretch into seven. Throughout the often rugged, always solitary process, I was the beneficiary of the kindness of many people whose assistance and encouragement are responsible for the outcome, and they deserve to share the credit—though none of the criticism—for its content.
The book grew out of a profile commissioned by the New York Times Magazine (and eventually published in the newspaper’s Arts and Leisure section), which has always been the preeminent showcase for a journalist’s work, or as the Beatles might put it: the toppermost of the poppermost. In addition, the paper’s morgue and files served as an essential resource, as well as the blueprint for an accurate chronology. And yet, none of it compared with the enormous reference bonanza provided by the Times’ longtime columnist and resident Beatles expert, Allan Kozinn, whose archives could endow a small museum. His unassuming expertise, to say nothing of his extreme generosity, proved invaluable throughout the writing of this book. All of this was reinforced by various libraries, museums, and their staffs, including the British Library Newspaper Library, the Picton Library in Liverpool, the Business Information Library (U.K.), British Information Services (New York), the Birmingham Chamber of Commerce and Industry (U.K., Rachel Neale), the Liverpool Record Office (Bob Jones), the Liverpool Echo, Liverpool Library & Information Services, the Press Association Library (U.K., John Davey), the Victoria and Albert Museum (London), and Wilton Library in Connecticut.
I am indebted to the British Tourist Authority, British Rail (Pat Titley), British Airways, and United Airlines (particularly Cathy Ladd Rodgers) for their kind assistance. I also wish to thank Maria Jefferies for providing access to the Melody Maker and NME files, Helena Farrington at Pentagram Design (London), Sarah Lazin, Mark Lewisohn, Hans Olof Gottfridsson (author of a prodigious volume on the Beatles in Hamburg), David Jones of the Daily Mail, Spencer Leigh, the late Sarah Calkins, Denny Somac, Trevor Cajio of Now Dig This, Annie Bowman at Hello!, Barry Rillera, Terry O’Neill, Karen Durbin, the staff at EMI Studios/Abbey Road, Helter Skelter (London), and especially Eddie Sutton and Jeff Gmelch, who have always set aside a few millimeters of the Strand’s “eight miles of books” to aid my research.
I am grateful to everyone in Liverpool and London who opened their doors—and hearts—to share extraordinary recollections. Those who agreed to be interviewed for the book are cited in the notes; however, a few deserve special mention. They include historian J. Quentin Hughes, who guided me through four hundred years of local history, in addition to the details of his intimate, albeit embattled, friendship with Arthur Ballard; Joan Murray, for her thorough research of Everton; Mark Julius, the City of Liverpool’s director of Housing and Consumer Services, for patiently answering endless questions about Allerton, Speke, Woolton, Childwall, and the Dingle; W. J. Newton of the Liverpool Cotton Association, Ltd.; Shelagh Johnson of the Beatles Museum; Richard Corbett, MEP, Liverpool; Tony and Mary Kenny for their vivid recollection of Litherland; Fred O’Brien of Northern Design; Cavern City Tours; the wild and woolly Adelphi Hotel; and the guys behind the counter at the Beatles Shop.
Archives are a biographer’s most invaluable resource, and I was granted access to several exceptional collections. I wish to thank Scotty Meade for sharing the interviews conducted for his lovely Abbey Road documentary; Jere Herzenberg and Jane Krupp, the executors of Albert Goldman’s estate, for providing dozens of taped interviews assembled for his book The Lives of John Lennon; Bill Harry, whose attic full of Beatles memorabilia rivaled the almost fifty hours of personal stories he shared (but not quite), not to mention his expert guided tour of Liverpool; Larry Kane, for making the large collection of his interviews with the Beatles—as well as himself—available; the creative staff of the BBC’s wonderful series Arena—most notably Anthony Wall, Diana Mansfield, Debby Geller, and Alison Willett—who assisted my research consistently over the years and provided hundreds of pages of transcripts from their masterful “Brian Epstein” documentary; and especially the irrepressible Jonathon Green, author of two stellar works on the sixties culture—Days in the Life and All Dressed Up—for permitting me to examine and quote from his interviews, raid his fabulous book collection, crash at his flat, badger him incessantly for definitions of British slang, and revel in his enduring friendship. For that, I am gobsmacked and dead chuffed.
In fact, friendships were tested time and again over the years, especially those beset by the excuse “Sorry, can’t—I’m writing.” Throughout the seemingly endless ordeal, I was enriched by the kindness of devoted friends whose patience, understanding, and support kept the essential elements in balance. My deepest gratitude goes to my dearest friends Angie and Sandy D’Amato, who have shared so many laughs as well as their lives with me, and to Laura Schneider, Robert Spector, Lindsay Maracotta, Yak Lubowsky, Sue and Stanley Schneider, Rob Harris, Everett Potter, Phyllis and Craig Hauenstein, Steve Manz, and Mark Bittman, all of whom checked in often and never questioned the depths to which I had sunk. The same goes for David and Maria Feld, who kept me well fed and in stitches. I’d also like to thank my parents for their loving support; my beautiful daughter, Lily, throughout whose young life she has only known “Dad and his Beatles biography”; as well as Janet and Ken Kretchmer.
Among the many people to whom I am indebted, I must thank Tally Gentry, whose research was of great assistance; Neal Gabler, for exchanging war stories; Jim and Michelle Ford, in whose good hands Lily often resided so that I could work through weekends; and my great friends at Pace: Nancy Oakley, Mickey McLean, Brian Cook, and especially Duncan Christy, whose friendship and generous support will never be taken for granted. Meanwhile, no words can express my appreciation for Sloan Harris, my friend and agent, whose indispensable advice, candor, and encouragement steered me through treacherous terrain and whose faith in me never wavered. The folks at Little, Brown went to extraordinary lengths to support this book, even when it seemed prudent to do otherwise. Michael Pietsch always believed in the Beatles’ story—always! And when the grinding pressures as publisher prevented him from editing the manuscript, he left me in the very capable hands of Geoff Shandler. Geoff’s keen and laborious edit gave the book shape, sharpened its focus, refined my voice, and endeavored to salvage the yeah, yeah, yeah. For the endless hours he devoted to this book, I shall be forever grateful. I also appreciate the invaluable editorial assistance of Junie Dahn. My sincere thanks to Mario Pulice for a lovely book cover—make that two lovely covers—and to Steve Lamont for meticulous—actually, heroic—copyediting.
Special thanks also go to Barbara Witt, whose 1964 school notebook provided the lovely endpapers.
Lastly, I would like to pay tribute to the remarkable individuals I met throughout the course of my research, and to those who are no longer with us. I shall especially miss George Harrison (won’t we all!), Derek Taylor, Bob Wooler, Alistair Taylor, Johnny “Guitar” Byrne, Colin Manley, Lionel Bart, Eric Griffiths, Henry Henroid, Walter Shenson, and my dear friend and role model, Timothy White, who encouraged me to write, gave me my first assignment, and reminded me time and again, through his writing and example, how easy it was to bring honor and dignity to rock ’n roll.
Bob Spitz, 2005
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bob Spitz has represented the careers of Bruce Springsteen and Elton John. He is also the author of the books The Making of Superstars, Barefoot in Babylon, Dylan: A Biography, and Shoot Out the Lights, as well as of the screenplay Silent Victim. His articles appear regularly in the New York Times Magazine, GQ, Condé Nast Traveler, Men’s Journal, In Style, Esquire, Sky, and the Washington Post. He lives in Connecticut and can be reached at [email protected].
Applause for Bob Spitz’s
THE BEATLES
“Irresistible…. The Beatles amplifies and corrects some of what is known about the band’s formative years. It shapes a particularly vivid picture of the young, surly John Lennon….It powerfully evokes both the excitement and the price of such a sudden rise…. A captivating picture that hasn’t been seen before.”
—Janet Maslin, New York Times
“Masterly…. A deep, serious, and accomplished account worthy of the most important band in the world…. A book that, although exceptionally lengthy, is actually the perfect size…. Spitz expertly captures the sense of time and place to frame his story.”