Paul is normally as cool as a cucumber but he was hot under the collar when he failed to recognise the world’s most famous saxophone player. We were at Abbey Road for another late-night recording session when Paul suddenly decided that what was needed on one particular track was a bank of saxophones. George Martin agreed and Mal was deputed to ring round the musical fixers and call up some insomniac saxophonists. It took about an hour for the first of them to arrive and after that they came quite thick and fast. Paul and I were walking together out of the canteen when a familiar face loomed enquiringly in front of us.
‘Are you a sax player?’ asked Paul helpfully.
‘Well, some people say I am,’ smiled the stranger in reply and ambled on down the corridor.
Paul looked puzzled, so as a jazz fanatic I had to explain, ‘That was Ronnie Scott.’
‘Shit,’ said Paul, with feeling. ‘You’re joking. Oh, no,’ and he rushed back after the living legend and the pair proceeded to become close friends. Ronnie thought the incident was hilarious but it made Paul’s toes curl with embarrassment.
Paul never did think much of my dress sense. In the fashionable world of the swinging ’60s in London, I was always regarded as someone who was rather straight. Paul nicknamed me ‘The Man with the Shiny Shoes’ to highlight my conservative dress code. And when I had to play a tiny fleeting part in the Beatles massive world-wide All You Need Is Love link-up in 1967, he took special precautions.
I had to pick Jane up from Cavendish Avenue on the way to the big event, which was to be beamed to some 400 million people in 25 countries. I knew my plain old business suit would not be the right thing to wear at a psychedelic party like this, so I took a bright orange shirt especially for the occasion. I tried not to look in the mirror when I put it on, hoping that it wouldn’t be the most horrible piece of clothing on view to the world. But when I arrived to collect the delectable Jane, she said, ‘Paul’s left a shirt for you, Alistair.’
I was indignant. ‘I’m wearing one. I’ve even left my tie at home.’
‘Oh that is not good enough,’ said Jane sweetly. ‘He said that he knew you would dress in straight clothes and you wouldn’t want to be in psychedelic gear, so he has bought a shirt for you to wear tonight,’ and she produced a beautifully-made silk shirt with a trendily multi-coloured pattern and I meekly accepted defeat.
The event in the huge EMI studio at Abbey Road was fabulous. There were so many famous faces in the room I think I was the only person I didn’t recognise. I was ordered to put on a sandwich board with ‘All You Need Is Love’ in Russian written on it and I hope I got the message across. The party afterwards was so good that I really didn’t care.
I realise I’m hopelessly biased but I believe that Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band is the greatest record ever made. The Beatles were at their peak and they concentrated every aspect of that amazing ability on making that album the very best. I think that maybe they knew they would never be that tight again. It took them an age to record and I never saw them pour more effort into anything.
Critics hammered them for filling the lyrics with drug symbolism and reckoned the Beatles must have been spaced out the whole time. Well, the Beatles were no strangers to strange substances but the truth is that when they were working at their very hardest, very few drugs were used. The words on the album were a great deal more innocent than a lot of people believe. ‘Four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire’ is not a testimony to heroin addiction in the north-west. John had just read a newspaper article which said that Blackburn Council had sent out a guy to survey the local roads and he had counted 4,000 holes which needed filling in! So John added the bit about the Albert Hall and put the 4,000 holes into ‘Day in the Life’.
And the same goes for the even more famous ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’ which so many people were keen to point out were the initials of a widely-used hallucinogenic drug. Well, one of my personal claims to fame is that I was at Kenwood when Julian arrived home from school and I heard first-hand the origin of the famous song title. The lad brought home a picture he had drawn at school, and when John asked him what he had drawn, Julian replied, ‘That’s my girlfriend Lucy, in the sky.’ And John asked him, ‘What are all those things around her?’
‘Those are diamonds,’ said Julian. That’s what happened and never for a second did I imagine that such an innocent phrase would ever be the subject of such massive controversy.
The album cover for Sergeant Pepper had its own problems when the Beatles decide to feature scores of famous faces. The boys just looned around and drew up a fantastic list of names of people they wanted on the cover. The boys were there themselves, of course, along with wax models of their younger selves from Madame Tussaud’s, Marilyn Monroe, Diana Dors, Fred Astaire, Bob Dylan, Marlon Brando and Laurel and Hardy to name but a few. Everyone recognises them. And you might even pick out Shirley Temple, Max Miller and Karl Marx. But would you know the singer Issy Bonn, or Albert Stubbins? Albert was a Liverpool footballer whose main claim to fame was the record transfer fee he cost. And the Beatles couldn’t use any of those people’s faces until we had found them or the executors of their wills and paid them a halfpenny each for the privilege. You can imagine what a nightmare that was for Wendy Hanson but she tracked them all down in the end.
Brian Epstein was the most charming man I’ve ever met, but there was definitely another side to him. I encountered the other Brian when he flew into a rage with me at Heathrow Airport on a very sad Sunday morning. Brian had despatched me there at 6.00am to meet two American musicians he had arranged to bring over. Only, when I arrived there was no sign of them. Eventually I heard a call over the tannoy asking for the NEMS representative to go to Immigration. These two jokers had spent all the money Brian had advanced them and turned up without any of the right entry papers. The Immigration official wasn’t remotely impressed by my appeal to his better nature, or natural fairness, or the music business. He didn’t even want any tickets to a Beatles concert. He wasn’t going to budge. These two were about to be sent back out of the country any minute, so I did the only thing I could think of. I rang Brian.
By then it was around mid-morning and Brian arrived, immaculate as usual, even though I’m pretty sure he was still on his way home from his Saturday night out. He took a look at my unshaven scruffy state, sniffed, and told me he would deal with me later. He swept into Immigration and whatever he said to the officials certainly worked. The musicians were in and were sent off to their hotel.
Brian returned to me with steam coming out of both ears. He had that look of tightly controlled anger that I hadn’t seen since I had double-booked the Beatles back in 1962. ‘Just look at you,’ he snorted. ‘You’re a disgrace to the business, coming to an airport like that. You’re not even shaved.’
This time I was so furious at this unjust reprimand I answered back. ‘There was nobody here to notice my appearance at six o’clock this morning, Brian. You led me to think it would take five minutes to put them in a taxi so I didn’t dress up. Do you realise I have spent five hours trying to get them into the country?’
‘I don’t care what time it was,’ said Brian. ‘When you represent me and the Beatles, you dress properly. We must maintain the highest standards at all times. Don’t you remember the lecture I gave the Beatles when they signed the contract? The same applies to you. As for this ridiculous business, why can’t anybody be trusted to carry out a simple task? Nobody in this country can do anything at all. It’s time to set it right.’
I realised Brian was seething at whoever had made a mess of the musicians’ visas. He asked me, ‘Do you have any sixpences?’ I gave him some and he strode over to a row of pay phones. I watched, transfixed as he dialled a number. He just said, ‘Good morning. This is Brian speaking. Just to let you know you are fired.’ He put the receiver down and went through the same process over and again until he had sacked the entire board of directors of NEMS, with the solitary exception of his broth
er Clive. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. He was cutting NEMS to shreds all because of a mix-up over two guitarists who looked like a waste of space anyway.
Then he turned to me and said that I was fired, too. I was furious now. I said, ‘Good. Because I don’t want to stay to be treated like this. I have been up since the small hours of the morning working for you and if you think you can find someone who can do the job better then that is fine. I’ve had enough. You can stick your job. I’ll be in tomorrow morning to clear my desk.’ I started to walk away and I could hear Brian shouting behind me, ‘Alistair, come back. Let’s talk.’ But I was so angry I couldn’t have talked and I was on my way out. He rang me a couple of times at home that afternoon trying to make peace but I was still fuming. It wasn’t until the next day when I went in to get my things that we talked. I had got the contents of my desk in my briefcase when Brian came into my office very crestfallen. ‘Please come back, Alistair. No one can fix things for the Beatles like you.’
Naturally, I gave in on the spot. I always was a sucker for flattery, and I think I understood that Brian was at least partly entitled to blow his top the day before. But I had to ask him what he was going to do with all the directors he had sacked yesterday. I left him going through a list of apologies.
The invention of the Beatles always amazed me. George Martin was terrific here. He used his great musical ability to interpret what they wanted. He would always be careful not to put them down. He said to me once when I asked him how it worked, ‘They have a gift. I have to help them give it to the world.’ Sometimes they would come up with some pretty strange requests. John once wanted a certain sound and he was finding it impossible to describe. It wasn’t a musical noise but he just couldn’t quite pin it down. He kept disappearing from the studio and wandering round the offices. At last he came rushing back in shouting, ‘I’ve got it.’ He was carrying a short-wave radio that he had found in one of the offices and he wanted the crackling sound the radio made to be fed into the board. George didn’t raise so much as an eyebrow. He just arranged for the radio to be recorded. I can’t think of many producers who would do that!
Just because most Beatles songs are credited to John and Paul as composers, it is wrong to think that George and Ringo did not contribute. I was amazed sitting silently in the studio that, although John or Paul were usually clearly the driving force Ringo and George were not simply sleeping partners. They certainly would not just sit there and do as they were told. Ringo might make suggestions about the beat and George would chip in about a particular guitar riff. The whole business of recording was a partnership between the four of them and George Martin. And I reckon that George Harrison would be a major composer in his own right if he hadn’t landed himself in a group with two of the finest and most prolific song-writers the world has ever seen. I always used to wish George would assert himself more, but he did not tend to push himself forward.
John and Paul never did actually sit down and write together that much. Generally, one would start something off and then get the other one to chip in later when the idea was more fully formed. But when the pressure was on they could certainly churn it out. Once, EMI were really breathing down their necks for another track and were waving the recording contract at us. John just went round to Paul’s house in Cavendish Avenue and sat down with Paul to write a single in cold blood, but that was very unusual. The boys always wanted to give the fans value for money. They tried to produce albums with new songs on them, not just singles and their flipsides.
It was a tough job but someone had to do it. It was 1967 and I was searching the Aegean for a get-away-from-it-all island for the Beatles with the Beatles’ technical wizard Alexis Mardas. Magic Alex was one of the many extraordinary characters the Beatles attracted in their heyday. He was a particular friend of John’s and very nearly as peculiar. But he was good company and he was Greek. We had a great time doing this recce. Eventually, we found a beautiful island of about 80 acres with four superb beaches. So the Beatles could have one each if they wanted. And it even had four smaller islands circled around it.
The Greek island was priced to sell at £90,000 and it looked like just what the Beatles ordered. But this was at a time of currency restrictions so nothing was as easy as it seemed. The Beatles wanted to take a look for themselves and have a holiday into the bargain and I sprang into action to organise it. Alex went off to Greece to prepare his father’s house in Athens for us and to hire a large enough yacht to accommodate Paul and Jane, John, Cynthia and Julian, George and Patti, Ringo and Maureen, Big Mal Evans and his wife, Neil Aspinall and me.
On the way I had a huge row with John who was angry that my wife Lesley was not with us. It was as we changed planes in Paris that he realised she was missing from the party and he gave me a real earbashing. John might have had the reputation of the wild man of rock, but he could be surprisingly sensitive at times. He felt it was wrong that Lesley should be left at home and he ordered me to ring and arrange to have her come out and join us. But Lesley hates flying and she doesn’t like feeling like a hanger-on. There were always plenty of those. She knew I was working as well as enjoying the sunshine so there was no way I could persuade her to come. I quietly let the matter drop. We arrived to find Alex with a face full of taramasalata announcing that the motor yacht had been caught up and damaged in a fierce storm around Crete and would not be ready for a few days. So some Athens sight-seeing was swiftly arranged. Only someone kindly told the Greek tourist board of our movements and everywhere we went there were hordes of fans.
We all trooped into a music shop and John darted in and went straight past all the gleaming guitars to buy a bouzouki. The shopkeeper couldn’t believe that he had the world’s most famous group in his shop, or that all they wanted was this humble Greek instrument. Then Ringo went missing. Neil, Mal and I started to panic but he was in the shoe shop next door trying on a pair of sandals and not being recognised by a soul. Ringo had this relaxed way of going round that seemed to escape notice. His face is distinctive enough yet Ringo could wander casually around and people would not bother him at all. If the others tried it they would cause a riot.
The boat was eventually ready and it really was the last word in luxury. But that first night on board, the weather was stifling. I couldn’t sleep in my stuffy cabin so I thought I’d stretch out on deck where it would be cooler. I climbed the stairs in the darkness, anxious not to wake anyone up and suddenly fell on to something lumpy and human.
‘Who the hell’s that? Get off. What are you doing? Christ, it’s hot!’
I’d fallen right on top of Paul and Jane.
‘Sorry,’ I gulped. ‘It’s me, Alistair. I didn’t realise you were up here.’ I tried to get up without standing on anything too embarrassing but there was a little squeal from Jane when I steadied myself with a hand. She said, ‘Ouch, keep your hands to yourself, Al.’
As I floundered around, Paul’s voice said dryly, ‘You should have brought Lesley if you wanted a woman to grope in the dark, Al. Find a spare space and go to sleep.’
I realised then that far from being the first person to come up with the brilliant idea of sleeping out under the stars for a bit of cool axir, I was the last. But at least I did have the sense to get myself out of the early morning sun. I copied everyone else, who had hung their towels over the boat’s rails to protect them from the sun. Poor old Mal must have missed that trick. He didn’t put up his towel and slept on into the morning and got his face fried bright red like a large angry lobster.
It was one of the most enjoyable holidays I’ve ever had, even if it was supposed to be work. The Beatles and their womenfolk were the most fun people to be around I have ever known. The joking and banter never stopped. The four boys were like four brothers. They might tease and wind up each other something rotten, but they were as tight a group of people as I’ve ever seen. To be admitted, even briefly, into their company was to experience a constant good time. They laughed and messed around like
kids on their first school trip.
We had a crew who looked after us like royalty. On the second day, the captain anchored in a beautiful little bay for us to go swimming. We plunged into the warm sea for a glorious session of splashing around. As we climbed back into the boat, a steward was present to hand us each a fluffy white towel. I found myself lying next to a quick-drying and extremely relaxed John Lennon. He said, ‘Do you know, I always remember when I was a kid and I used to go swimming at the baths, afterwards I always came home and had some porridge. I don’t know why, but ever since then I always think of porridge when I’m drying off after a swim!’
It was only about 15 minutes later when a beaming steward came out to where we were all sprawling in the sunshine. He was holding a large saucepan and following him was another steward with a tray of bowls and spoons, looking just as pleased with himself. You’ve guessed it – the stewards were bringing us some steaming hot porridge! Who knows where they had found porridge oats in the middle of the Aegean but they certainly came up with the genuine article. Everyone roared with laughter, especially John, who scoffed his bowlful with relish. Even in the 90° heat it tasted delicious. We even scraped out the pan.
Later, Alex was sent ashore in a motor boat to buy as many pads of paper and coloured pencils as he could find in the little harbour town. Paul decided we would have a doodling competition to find out who could design the most beautiful doodles! Everyone joined in and there was total silence for a while.
With the Beatles Page 14