Tune In

by Mark Lewisohn

  The Beatles’ sole focus was Britain, and the important thing was progression … which “Love Me Do” provided. People who heard the record—on Radio Luxembourg, on jukeboxes and in ballrooms—were snagged by something in the sound. There would soon come a temptation to exaggerate, for people to say they “knew right away” the Beatles were special, but many did find “Love Me Do” interesting in 1962. Even if they didn’t buy it, the recording stuck in the ears of listeners: it was engaging, appealing, unusual, audibly different from everything else around.

  With all the nerves and tightness of their studio struggle on September 4, it’s easy to understand why (as George said) they did “Love Me Do” better on stage than on the record.16 They played it and “PS I Love You” in every show, never failing to mention it was their new release and that people could go and buy it. At the same time, as usual, the Beatles made sure their set had other fresh appeal. The basement Popular Department at Nems, Whitechapel, was selling the Beatles’ 45 in high numbers but still they used the place as customers, the four of them crammed into browseries after a lunchtime session, keeping up with the newest American sounds—records that, for the first time now, in a funny way, were the opposition.

  It was here that they heard a black teenage girl-group from Michigan and their sweetly bewitching “Devil in His Heart.” The Donays made only this one record before breaking up, and it wasn’t a hit in America or Britain, but the Beatles heard it, loved it, sang it and did something they didn’t always do: switched the gender. It became “Devil in Her Heart,” a two-against-one vocal number—George sang of the reasons his girl was wonderful, John and Paul urged sense from the sidelines (“She’s got the devil in her heart / She’s gonna tear your heart apart”).

  A second new song was “A Taste of Honey,” a mellifluously melodic number that met with less than unanimous approval within the Beatles. Paul heard the record (by Lenny Welch), fancied he’d like to sing it, bought it, learned it, and wanted it in the set … but there was resistance, most vociferously from John, that it was soft, not the sort of thing they should be doing. It would become a sustained point of contention between them, but they decided to put it to the test, to play it to audiences and watch the reaction. Ringo used brushes instead of sticks, Paul slightly varied the chorus words and also, just as he did in “Till There Was You,” introduced a strange vocal affectation, singing “sweeter than wine” as “schweeter than wine.”

  One of the first times the Beatles played it was at the Rialto Ballroom on October 11; the Mersey Beats were on the same bill and were with them again five nights later at a Nems Enterprises Showdance in Runcorn. John and Paul were still arguing about “A Taste of Honey,” so Paul went off in search of a second opinion and nabbed the Mersey Beats’ bassman and singer Billy Kinsley:

  Paul came up to me and said, “What did you think of that song we did the other night, A Taste Of Honey?” and I said, “I was knocked out by it. Superb.” Paul grabbed hold of me and said, “Go and tell the others that.” He took me into their dressing-room and John said, “Go on then, what do you think?” I was fifteen and very nervous because there was Big John Lennon asking me what I thought of a song he didn’t like. Paul said, “Come on, just tell the truth.” I told him I thought A Taste Of Honey was great. Paul said, “Ha-ha, there you go!”17

  There was also one other new song, one they didn’t play, a Lennon-McCartney number written (mainly or entirely) by John in the Falkner Street flat. The spark was a precious infancy recollection of his mother serenading him with “I’m Wishing,” from Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. “Want to know a secret? / Promise not to tell? / We are standing by a wishing well.”

  “Do You Want to Know a Secret” was the first-born of John and Paul’s parallel calling, the songwriting agreement with Brian (which itself may have been a secret from George and Ringo). Rarely lacking motivation anyway, the agreement was spurring Lennon and McCartney to step it up as composers, to generate songs the Beatles could use in the studio. If a surplus developed, Brian, as manager, would offer them to record company A&R men in the hope of making hits for other artists.

  John gave his creation a slow, easy introduction that didn’t recur (“You’ll never know how much I really love you …”), which was a staple feature in so many of his favorite 1930s and ’40s numbers and also a device used by Goffin-King. Then, soon after he’d written it, John realized it suited George’s vocal range more than his, and handed it over.18 It couldn’t yet have been clear how this would work out—the Beatles purposely kept the song under wraps for a long time (not playing it on stage this year), so there were no opportunities for George to sing it. Perhaps they thought it might make the B-side of their next Parlophone record, but there’s nothing to confirm it was ever a contender. The song was simply set aside for some future use—becoming the first of a stockpile.

  With God-given timing, a golden idol dropped into the Beatles’ world at the moment of their transition from local stars to first-step national. In May they’d spent mad Hamburg hours with Gene Vincent, in September they had a fresh boost of Buddy in their tank, and now a huge hero was on hand to top up their rock treasury. The Beatles twice shared Merseyside backstages with Little Richard in October, and in November they’d be spending close on two weeks together in Hamburg.

  Everything was larger-than-life about little Richard Penniman. Audiences on his British tour never quite knew if they’d be getting the great old songs they’d paid to hear, or what to these young secular minds was religious claptrap. Since renouncing rock in 1957 to become a preacher and evangelist, Richard had sung only gospel numbers, having no hits after 1959. Judging by the musical accompanist he brought with him, Britain was going to get God’s word. Billy Preston was a 16-year-old organist from Los Angeles, a child prodigy steeped in the Church and gospel music. For the duration of their European visit—England then Hamburg—Richard was Preston’s legal guardian.

  Don Arden promoted the tour on the agreement that the star sing ROCK. As Richard would relate it, he’d said yes only after explaining that God was going to punish Arden for putting temptation his way: “I’ve always believed it’s somebody evil that’s gonna bring me back.”19 Arden—who’d recorded religious records himself until the mid-1950s, in Hebrew—would be called much worse, and he was also no fool: he had the sense to bring over a strong supporting star, soul singer Sam Cooke, and to set the tour’s first night at the Gaumont, Doncaster. Off-off Broadway.

  Richard opened with a gospel number, the second was gospel, and the third, and then he did a quick rock hits medley. All hell must have gone on in the dressing-room between shows, because in the second house the preacher gave his disciples what they really wanted. It wasn’t wholly rock and it wasn’t wholly holy, but there were exhilarating full versions of the old greats—“Long Tall Sally,” “Lucille,” “Rip It Up,” “The Girl Can’t Help It,” “Tutti Frutti” and others—and that’s the way it stayed. Billy Preston was shell-shocked. His only previous tours had been with Mahalia Jackson and the Reverend James Cleveland, and now he was on stage (along with Richard’s British backing group Sounds Incorporated) watching goggle-eyed at the screaming rebirth of the preministry Penniman, an eruption of action in a baggy white suit, a life-loving lunatic yowling the devil’s music in women’s makeup, jiving on a grand piano and scaring audiences with a faux fatal collapse … before shrieking “Good Golly Miss Molly” into the fretful silence and leaping up like a defibrillated demon. Little Richard was off the wagon and out of his tree and the NME’s reviewer conceded defeat in his opening paragraph, saying, “How do you describe the most fantastically exciting and shatteringly dynamic stage offering you have ever seen?”20

  The night Brian Epstein brought Little Richard to Merseyside was the exact fifth anniversary of Richard’s rock renunciation, when he flung four showy diamond rings into Sydney’s Hunter River, declaring, “If you want to live for the Lord you can’t rock ’n’ roll too.” Was the Good Lord looki
ng down on New Brighton the night of Friday, October 12, 1962, on the great coastal ballroom by the Ferris wheel, ferryboats and football stadium, the helter-skelter, chippies and palmistry booth? God’s Little Acre it wasn’t. Little Richard took the risk and tore the place apart, splattering sweat over his brethren. “Man, I electrified them!” he announced afterward to Mersey Beat’s Alan Smith.21

  Little Richard at the Tower was a five-and-a-half-hour, eleven-band rave. The star went on seventh, after which the crowds began to drift away for last transport home. Brian staged the show and Bob Wooler ran it, and they put the Beatles on sixth, one before the peak, so Little Richard would have to top their response. He watched them through a gap in the curtain, and the Beatles and Brian were hotfoot to know what he thought. Brian so blushed at the idea of asking that he got Billy Kramer’s amiable manager Ted Knibbs to make the inquiry, and was able to use the quote “Excellent, quite excellent” in publicity; but Alan Smith got the real scoop, scribbling in his notebook Little Richard’s unqualified praise: “Man, those Beatles are fabulous! If I hadn’t seen them I’d never have dreamed they were white. They have a real authentic Negro sound.”22

  When Richard was doing his whole thing on stage—backed by Billy Preston and Sounds Incorporated—each Beatle in turn tried to pose by the curtain on the far side, so that Mike McCartney could get an action shot with a Beatle in the distance. He never managed it. As it was, Richard kept turning around to smile at Ringo. It was an “I fancy you” smile, says Mike. It came as a tremendous shock to the Liverpool musicians (and a crushing disappointment for some) that their great rock idol was not-as-most-men. So much was he queening around backstage, making lewd, lascivious remarks about boys and scribbling in his giant Bible (which he let no one see), he was obviously one of them.23

  All sorts of other fun was going on backstage, where fifty rock lads mingled. John, Paul, George and Ringo were the kings, the professionals with a record in the chart, and here’s where they had their first face-to-face with Pete Best since his sacking in August. They were going on stage as Lee Curtis and the All Stars were coming off, and Pete says no word or look passed between them. Bob Wooler was also wandering around offering bets that the Beatles would be bigger than the Shadows within six months, and Paul was bothering Les Chadwick to get a proper picture of them with Little Richard. The photographer went along to the star’s dressing-room and asked if he minded; Richard answered, “Why sure!”—he’d loved the Beatles and was only too happy to oblige.24

  It’s an important shot—a kneeling John clasps Richard’s left hand, George, Ringo and Paul have his right, and everyone grins. They’ve not known him long, but they do now know him—and will soon become much better acquainted in Hamburg. It’s the last photo in which the Beatles are second feature, grouping themselves around the star as the world would forever group around them; and though John would later reflect, “All the performers I ever saw from Little Richard … I was always disappointed; I preferred the record,” he still showed himself the complete fan by getting Richard to autograph the souvenir program. As was his way, the great American also added his home address—something he did for girls as well as boys, because in Little Richard World everyone was welcome to drop by: For John, May God bless You always, Little Richard. 1710 Virginia Rd, Los Angeles, Calif.25

  It was a huge night for Brian, his showpiece promotion of the year, organized with an exemplary degree of detail. The event’s main purpose—what it could do for the Beatles—took priority over profit, which was just as well since it didn’t make one. The ballroom was packed and noisy but not full. Little Richard’s £500 fee, plus fees for the ten support acts, the hall hire, heavy advertising and the design and printing of two thousand souvenir programs, forced Brian to charge 10s 6d for tickets compared to six shillings for his Joe Brown promotion, and the extra expense was always likely to keep some people away.

  Would he make any money sixteen nights later, when he did it all again at the great Empire Theatre? First advertised the day after the Tower event, this promotion had no place for the lesser Liverpool groups: Brian folded the Beatles and Little Richard into a lineup of other chart names, including Craig Douglas, Jet Harris and Kenny Lynch. His priority once again was that the Beatles gained maximum prestige and experience from what would be their first major theater show. With its twice-nightly houses and hierarchical bill, this kind of venue and setup had to be their future.

  The week of “Love Me Do” ’s release, Frank Ifield topped the bill at the Empire and Brian went along to see how such shows were managed, and to ask for tips about the touring circuit. Ifield advised him to contact Arthur Howes, who promoted most of the major package tours and had an exclusive arrangement with several top artists, Ifield included. Soon afterward, as Howes would always enjoy relating, he received a phone call at his home in Peterborough from Brian Epstein, asking if he had space in a show for the Beatles. “As soon as I heard the name Beatles I thought ‘Oh Gawd!’ ” he’d remember.26 But on the basis of “Love Me Do” ’s chart entry, he was prepared to put them into a Frank Ifield concert in Peterborough; it would be two houses the evening of Sunday, December 2, no fee but expenses, and Brian accepted.

  Through it all, Brian’s planning for the Beatles was maintaining a cyclical structure—an intense participation in the present; an evolving mid-term strategy toward distant, greater goals; and the constant need to overcome niggling problems.

  It isn’t clear how much the Beatles knew, back in July, of the two contracts Brian made for them with the Star-Club, one for the first fortnight in November, the other for the last two weeks of the year. Probably they were told of them, but the dates seemed so far away. Now they were close—and the Beatles said they weren’t going. “Love Me Do” was on the chart and sure to fall without their hands-on push. Besides which, they’d done the Star-Club, didn’t like repeating themselves, and would achieve nothing by going there again. Paul had balked at playing a February booking for Liverpool University, which caused Brian much embarrassment; this time it was group revolt, led by John and George: they simply didn’t want to play the Hamburg clubs anymore. So strong was the feeling, John could still tap into it nine years later: “If we’d had our way, we’d have just copped out on the engagement. We didn’t feel we owed them fuck all.”27

  They didn’t have their own way. Brian must have understood, but he also had to be strong. If they broke the contracts, they’d damage their reputation now and potentially long-term. It might have taken most of October for him to change their mind, but he did. They said they’d go, grumping about it of course, but also clear and united on the need to honor agreements. The Beatles could be royally obstinate but were always realistic. Would all four of them make the trip, though? Further worrying Brian was the possibility that Paul might not be able to go to Hamburg anyway—that John, George and Ringo would have to pick up a “dep” bass player, a temporary, for both the coming Star-Club seasons.

  The fallout from the Bambi Kino prank was still plaguing Paul two years on. Post-deportation, his two applications for German re-entry had been tough to swing, and so it was proving again now. Brian collected four sets of visa and work permit forms from the German consulate in Liverpool and submitted them typed and tidy, but while the office stamped the passports of John, George and Ringo, Paul’s was refused. This was on October 9, and it was only after Brian pressed the consulate for an explanation that he learned Manfred Weissleder would have to make a special case for Herr McCartney at the Bundeskriminalamt in Hamburg. Brian explained the “very urgent” situation in a letter flown to St. Pauli on October 17, just two weeks before the Beatles were due in the Star-Club … and the matter would stay unresolved most of that time before, finally, Paul achieved approval.

  Management was never an easy ride. Brian was finding the Big Three more trouble than their worth—they continued to defy his instructions and he was also forced into apologizing for their behavior—but he was able to stir record company interest in them
.28 At Christmas, after returning from another Hamburg season, they’d be seen by Decca. Gerry and the Pacemakers were also in line for a Decca audition after their return from Hamburg, and Brian was working toward having all three of his groups signed to record labels by early 1963.

  He remained reluctant to take on further talent for the time being, but kept a close eye on the strongest candidates. The main one was singer Billy Kramer, nicknamed Golden Boy on account of his all-gold stage suit. Another was Thomas Quigley, who sang under the stage name Tommy Quickly. In both cases, Brian made his long-term managerial intentions clear, and monitored progress. He encouraged Bob Wooler to book them for the Cavern and added them to Nems Enterprises promotions in the last months of 1962. There were no contracts, no commissions, but Brian was ensuring their experience, prospects and income rose a few degrees.

  All this activity was taking place in a city that still made the national news for only wrong reasons. A Home Office report singled out Liverpool as England’s worst for drunkenness, with arrests in 1962 up by a third on 1961; the number of young unemployed was greater here than anywhere outside London, and higher than at any time since 1940; and it was estimated that two hundred thousand—almost a third of the population—would quit Liverpool during the next twenty years in search of a better life. The great city was in tragic, open decay, its cries for capital investment ignored. Poverty was endemic, fifty thousand houses had no bathroom or inside toilet, everywhere was soot-black, and so voluminous was Liverpool’s derelict land—its unimproved bomb sites and slum clearances—that the city’s greatest champion, the MP Bessie Braddock, stood up in the House of Commons and begged the Minister of Housing to pay a visit, “because there are no words to describe the state of the central area in Liverpool.” The university’s student paper Guild Gazette summed up a perennial fact of life: “Whatever the cause of her slums and distress, Liverpool deserves better than what she has to contend with at present. For she does have her virtues. The trouble is that only those who are, or have been, emotionally involved with her, can see them.”29