Tune In

by Mark Lewisohn

  Horst Fascher was in charge of getting the groups on and off stage on time, the man who put the punch in punctuality. He tells the tale of drinking with John and Brian very late the first night. Brian grew tired and after a few drinks dozed off at the table. John, who’d gulped several more Prellies than anyone else and wasn’t only awake but wired, poured a half-liter glass of beer over Brian’s head and neck. Brian woke up in distress, he and John had a shouting match, and then Brian retired to his hotel, defeated, while John roared on for several more hours, gabbling hysterically. This was something else Brian didn’t mention in his report for the fan club.

  From its launch night, the Star-Club was Hamburg’s number one rock venue. The Top Ten stayed open and staged interesting bands for many years to come, but the Star-Club always stole the headlines and headliners. It wasn’t a bar or a dancing club with live music, it was a rock hall—or, in its 1962 vernacular, Rock ’n’ Twist (in Hamburg, as in so many parts of the world, any music with a beat was “Twist” even when it wasn’t). There hadn’t been a venue like this before, so the Star-Club—dominated by rock groups from Liverpool, England—planted an acorn for change in West Germany’s youth culture. It wouldn’t have happened without the Kaiserkeller, Indra and Top Ten making it possible, and everything could be traced back two years to Allan Williams turning up in Bruno Koschmider’s bar with a tape that wouldn’t play. Also, as far as the Beatles were concerned, those earlier venues were more crucial to their development … but the ultimate recipient of all the Hamburg honors in the Sixties, and when the period was viewed from history, would be the Star-Club.

  Diagonally opposite here was the Kaiserkeller, scene of the Beatles’ great 1960 punk fest, and this was at the end of the block that housed the musicians’ accommodation, one floor above a strip club at Grosse Freiheit 30. The Beatles had the use of a room with two bunk beds—Paul and John in one (Paul on top), George and Pete in the other—and though they had a bathroom in Hamburg for the first time, eliminating the need to use Astrid’s house or public baths to clean themselves, the room soon became rank.

  The Beatles were the highest-paid act in the club’s first weeks, top of the bill. Once a week they went to sign for their pay, each pocketing 425 marks in cash, about £38. This was even better than their Liverpool fees, plus their travel had been paid for and the accommodation was free. They all sent money home, and for themselves had only to buy sustenance. Though much of their drinking was done for free in the club, meals were pricey. Star-Club owner Manfred Weissleder deducted Brian Epstein’s 15 percent commission at source (the Beatles’ DM425 originally being 500), so Brian too, while he was with them here in Hamburg, signed and received payslips, four lots of DM75 totaling 300 a week. When he wasn’t around, the amount accumulated until it was paid as a lump sum.

  Weissleder employees enjoyed a level of protection rare in St. Pauli. This was invaluable for the British musicians, who—being young, far from home, with mates and heavily partaking of drink, sex and pills—often got into scrapes. Anyone threatening violence toward them faced retribution from the Fascher brothers, Horst, Uwe and Fredi. Horst prided himself on being able to knock people out, and Fredi loved head-butting. He was only small and had to stand on tiptoe, but his aim was true. Victims (who may have done little more than query an inflated bar bill) would be sent reeling in a bloodied mess. Yet the three brothers were all good boys who loved their mother, and they say Mama Fascher washed the Beatles’ underwear and shirts by boiling them up in a big pot.4

  It was the Faschers who had to cope with pressure situations created by John Lennon, whether it was Fredi calming customers who didn’t appreciate being called fucking Nazis or Horst having to pay John’s way out of a police cell. “Scarcely a day went by without something strange happening,” Horst says, “more than in all the previous years put together.”5 Some of the stories would be embellished and “romanticized” with time, but John did teeter alarmingly close to sanity’s edge here. George was second only to John in the swallowing of Prellies and knew better than most the sum effect of taking too many for too long, how the combination of pills plus booze plus several sleepless days caused hallucinations and extreme conduct. He’d describe one occasion when he, Paul and Pete were lying in their bunk beds, trying to sleep, only for John to barge into the room in a wild state. “One night John came in and some chick was in bed with Paul and he cut all her clothes up with a pair of scissors, and was stabbing the wardrobe. Everybody was lying in bed thinking, ‘Oh fuck, I hope he doesn’t kill me.’ [He was] a frothing mad person—he knew how to have ‘fun.’ ”6

  Handling John was something his friends were well used to doing. If he didn’t murder them in their beds there was no greater buddy. They might fear for their lives but they loved him still. No way would they walk out and join another group. John was just John, and Paul and George’s hero-worship stayed fully intact.

  Any calming influence Cynthia might have had was out of reach (although she too was mostly at a loss to control such excesses). Girlfriends weren’t invited to join the Beatles in Hamburg this year. Twelve months back, three couples had climbed the great green tower at Hauptkirche St. Michaelis and carved their names into the wooden handrail, John + Cyn, Paul + Dot, Stu + Astrid; now Stu was dead, Astrid was at his funeral, and Cyn and Dot weren’t welcome. However, there was good news coming. When John left Liverpool, Cyn was preparing for her final, fifth-year art school exams and actively looking for somewhere to live, probably a bedsit. She was leaving the easy security of her aunt’s house for what would be her first place of independence: John knew that when he returned at the start of June she’d be waiting for him in a room as snug as austere 1962 rented furnishings would allow. Wherever it was, no landlady was going to let them be together unmarried, so he’d remain with Mimi; all the same, the flat would elevate his and Cyn’s relationship to a new level after three years. Just a week into his Hamburg trip, she wrote to say she’d taken a room in a house on Garmoyle Road, off Smithdown Road, and that Dot might move in with her, for company and to share costs.

  All the Beatles wrote home, and they also all wrote to the girls who wrote to them. Within three or four days of arriving in Hamburg, they started to receive letters from some of their fans, the correspondence openly courted from the Cavern stage on Fan Club night. They’d brought to Hamburg a stack of that night’s throwaway photos and used them as postcards, writing around their printed names. They also brought writing paper and envelopes. Many of these epistles survive, conveying a vivid image of the Beatles—Paul especially—sitting down every day and patiently writing letters that would become treasured possessions for their excited recipients back in Liverpool. His were properly polite and funny notes that started with thanks to the writer for hers, moved on to give an expurgated snapshot of the Beatles’ Hamburg life (which never quite said as much as the first glance suggested), often included a cartoon or two, and ended something like Ta-Ta for now. Love, Paul xxx. From these letters—to Louey, Suzy, Lindy, Anne, Susan and others—comes extra flavor: “The club we’re playing in is good but not as good as Liverpool. The boss is good but we’ll still be glad to get back … The money’s the best bit … George is feeling fine now … I think we’ll be making some records soon, and we’ll get them released in Liverpool as soon as possible … I’m not getting married to any German girls, nor are the others.”

  Brian Epstein was in Hamburg for a week after the Star-Club opened. St. Pauli was his pleasure garden too, a chance to enjoy a European city for the first time since taking up the Beatles’ management. He’s likely to have taken in all the cultural highspots—the art galleries and classical concerts—as well as the low-down joints around the Reeperbahn.

  He also had Hamburg business to do. Though he wasn’t Gerry and the Pacemakers’ manager, Brian fixed them a Star-Club season from the middle of May, as a goodwill gesture, on a nominal commission of DM50 per week. And he met Bert Kaempfert to discuss the Beatles’ July 1961 recording agreement.
In March, Brian had served in writing the required three months’ notice of termination, and he’d asked Kaempfert to let them go early in case the German contract hindered the acquisition of one in England. Kaempfert accepted this, requesting only that they make some new recordings backing Tony Sheridan before leaving Hamburg at the start of June. However, there’s also proof that, once the two men got together here in Hamburg, they discussed the possibility of the Beatles making an entire album, on their own, without Sheridan.7

  A surviving document indicates a plan for them to record twelve tracks in a Hamburg studio on May 28/29, dates probably fixed at the end of April or beginning of May, after Brian left Hamburg. Kaempfert’s signature on the paper presumably indicates his involvement as producer: somebody had to do it, and he was an American star after all. The session’s cost was estimated as DM1,500 and, as the Kaempfert contract was expiring, it’s probable Brian intended to finance it himself and own the recordings, although this isn’t specified. The Beatles’ Hamburg correspondence confirms they knew a recording project was coming up and that Brian had told them he’d do whatever he could to get the tracks issued in Britain. Further details, like the songs they would do, weren’t reported.8

  George Martin’s world had shifted in spring 1962. He was out of his broken marriage and committed to Judy Lockhart Smith, his mistress of several years and secretary at Parlophone. There was, though, no prospect of stresses easing—Sheena Martin still wouldn’t grant him a divorce, he was heartbroken at leaving his two young children, and his EMI salary was stretched thin by maintaining his family and renting a London bachelor flat. George and Judy continued to keep their relationship absolutely secret from everyone and there seemed no question of them cohabiting before marriage because people didn’t do that. They saw each other every day in their fourth-floor office at EMI House and made the most of the few opportunities for closeness that came along.

  George had also reached a decisive moment in his work. His three-year EMI employment contract was about to expire, and perhaps enough was enough. Parlophone had been his playing field since 1950 and his responsibility since 1955, but he was constantly unhappy over the company’s refusal to consider even the tiniest of producer royalties. George had begun to branch out, boosting his income by composing theme tunes and other songs, and finally fulfilling a childhood ambition to work in film. But while these were interesting and engaging activities, they didn’t pay enough for him to jack in his job at EMI.

  In his recordings, George’s work brimmed with excellence and originality. All the “pops” on Parlophone—all the teenage fodder for the singles market—was handled by his assistant Ron Richards or by fellow A&R manager Norman Newell and his aide John Burgess; George no longer touched or considered it except as head of the label. He stayed focused on an exotically diverse range of recordings and was enjoying consistent success. His standout hit at the start of 1962 was “The Hole in the Ground,” by the revue and film actor Bernard Cribbins, which drilled its way through all the Twist and trad to crack the top ten.

  George poured weeks of work into “The Hole in the Ground,” and the result was a first-class production, loved by buyers and listeners of all generations: it was concise (1:50), catchy, clever and rhythmic, a modern-day music-hall number that tapped into the British love of class ridicule; a satire of the flat-capped working man putting one over a bowler-hatted official. EMI chairman Sir Joseph Lockwood was charmed: “The record is magnificent and everywhere I go I hear people talking about it, particularly in the City,” he declared in a March 21 memorandum to his Records division managing director, concluding, “We ought to make an L.P. of this artist.” But L. G. Wood’s desire to satisfy his master’s voice was stymied by Cribbins’ producer. A flurry of memos culminated with George Martin’s assertion that such an LP could not be hurried and “must be allowed to blossom of its own accord like a rare desert flower.” Producers putting artistry above commerciality was anathema in a business geared to making swift capital of success.9

  Though it would remain an ingrained myth that Parlophone was the impoverished laughingstock of the record business, the perennial last pick in the playground, it had long been (and by spring 1962 clearly was) the most eclectic, diverse and fascinating record label in Britain and the world. For artists of imagination and originality, Parlophone was the place to be, reflecting the man who assembled its artist roster and the kind of work he wanted to do—George Martin’s signings were dissidents, madcaps, fools, wizards, fine singers and talented musicians. He also made a record of his own, released under the pseudonym Ray Cathode. The A-side, “Time Beat,” married a Latin rhythm to the automated beat of a BBC-tv time signal created in the laboratories of the Radiophonic Workshop. Though most of the recording’s instruments were conventional, the NME’s news story about it was headlined ELECTRONIC SOUNDS and, to emphasize this futuristic angle, George posed for EMI publicity photos next to a computer. Keen to push his project, he told Disc, “Electronic or ‘concrete’ music is not new in itself, but it is on pop discs. It is concrete music reinforced by musicians—so we’re calling it reinforced concrete music.”10

  The Juke Box Jury panelists who voted “Time Beat” a Miss were right, which wasn’t always the case, but it became another staple of the BBC Light Programme, picking up almost as much radio play as “Double Scotch,” “The Niagara Theme” and the records of Cribbins, Drake, Bentine, Milligan and Sellers. The British public was finding the ideas and creativity of George Martin—as composer, producer and originator of sounds—very much to its liking.

  While all this was happening, George completed his first two film scores. Take Me Over was a quaintly arty, low-budget trifle that featured the music of the Temperance Seven; Crooks Anonymous was a sprightly British crime comedy with a good script and cast. Neither contract paid very well, £100 and £200, but they let George explore a new medium, composing incidental music and stings as well as title songs. All this was indicative of Judy’s increased influence—she not only gave George confidence, she also had contacts: the projects came to him through her father, Kenneth Lockhart Smith, who’d been in the British film industry since the late 1920s and was chairman of the Film Producers Guild.11

  Such projects were small-fry, however, compared to the extramural activities of Norrie Paramor. George took strongly against his EMI colleague for having fingers in so many pies and hiding behind no fewer than thirty-six fake identities for the songs he forced onto his artists’ B-sides. He felt it was morally unjust. George was also jealous of Paramor’s ability to reach number 1 with almost every record he issued, and envious of the way Paramor swanked his successes. The two men drew similar EMI salaries, but while George was just keeping his head above water, Norrie had a seaside summer-house in Sussex and a motorboat in the harbor, zipped around in a new E-Type Jaguar, employed his own publicity agent and bought a property in The Bishop’s Avenue, one of the most desirable and expensive residential streets in London, leading to Hampstead Heath.12

  In March, when George was contacted by a young TV researcher seeking background information about the workings of the record business, he didn’t hold back. David Frost was 22, fresh out of Cambridge and working on the London AR-TV current affairs program This Week—his latest assignment being to investigate a possible feature on LPs. George Martin was the one record producer known to all the sharp blades emerging from the universities, so Frost got his number, treated him to a modest £1 1s 6d lunch, and started asking questions. He learned a few things about LPs … but was more interested to hear how certain people, and one EMI producer in particular, inveigled themselves on to their artists’ records. The moment had come, George felt, to expose his colleague. This Week found no space for its LP item, but Frost scooped up the spilled beans for possible future use.13

  In spring 1962, George Martin sat down with L. G. Wood to discuss the renewal of his contract—or not. “I always felt we should have a royalty,” he says. “I was prepared to take a lower salary if I
could have a proportion of what we sold, like the salesmen did. I was very angry about it and nearly didn’t sign the contract renewal.”14

  George mostly respected his managing director, but they had a testing relationship. Len Wood was EMI’s headmaster, a shrewd stickler for the rules, a genial and decent man and good ex-soldier who played everything properly, couldn’t comprehend rebels and didn’t appreciate challenges to a system that evidently worked. He had on his desk a new three-year contract for 36-year-old George Henry Martin and, as far as he was concerned, certain elements were non-negotiable. The salary was close to £3,000, and during the course of its three years would surpass it. Though George fought to add a royalty, battling every inch, Wood held firm on the company’s behalf, doing his job. Giving in would be the thin end of the wedge—American record companies might pay “points” but no British firm wanted to open that Pandora’s box. Yield now and they’d only be pushed into conceding something else later.

  When George played his last card—“I’ll have to leave, then”—Len Wood coolly responded, as George would relate it, “If you feel like that, be our guest.”15

  George couldn’t leave. He needed every penny of his salary. He had obligations, and even a short period out of work would have been disastrous. “I re-signed with EMI for another three years,” he says, “which took my contract to 1965.”16

  Over the weekend of March 23–25, in the midst of all these events, George had an unusual booking in his diary: representing EMI at a “festival of live and recorded music,” at which audiences attended illustrated talks about records. It took place at Norbreck Hydro, a vast resort hotel on the cliffs above Blackpool. George had three hits in this week’s NME chart (Bernard Cribbins at 7, Matt Monro at 15 and “The Dr. Kildare Theme” by Johnnie Spence at 19), which was great except that Norrie Paramor had four, including the top two places.17 George stood at a lectern, with a “gramophone player” to hand, and delivered Humour on Record, outlining incidents from his projects with wits from Michael Bentine to Peter Ustinov. The speech gained George his first front-page coverage in Eminews, EMI’s staff journal, which said he also described how the Indian embassy helped him find a sitar player for Songs for Swingin’ Sellers. What the paper didn’t report was that this was one of those rare occasions when George felt he could legitimately bring along his secretary, when they could share a measure of closeness less easily achieved in London. Somehow or other, though, L. G. Wood got to hear about it, and he wasn’t happy. He was a churchgoer, a principled man of 51 who led an upright life; he wasn’t only upset that George and Judy were conducting an adulterous affair, he was offended it was happening under his nose. One of their A&R department colleagues recalls it as “a red-hot scandal.”18