by Peter Brown
Clive and Queenie were infuriated by the implication of the note. Clive shot back a letter which said in part, “Before any meeting takes place, please be good enough to let me know precisely what you mean by the phrase, ‘The propriety of the negotiations surrounding the nine-year agreement between EMI and the Beatles and NEMS.’ ”
At this point John Eastman’s father decided he’d better fly to London and have a meeting with Klein and the four Beatles. Lee Eastman, distinguished and unflappable, intended to put Klein straight. The meeting took place in my office. Neil Aspinall and Yoko came along, too. The proceedings got off to a roaring start. Klein had done some research on Lee Eastman and had turned up the information that his name had allegedly been changed a long time before from—of all things—Epstein. Klein had also armed John with this intelligence, and throughout the meeting the two of them referred to Eastman as “Epstein.” If Lee Eastman managed to remain calm in the face of that affront, he was unable to contain himself when Klein began interrupting everything he said with a string of the most disgusting four-letter words he could tick off his tongue. Finally Lee Eastman leaped out of his chair and got into a childish screaming match with Klein. He lost the battle at that moment. He and Paul stormed out of the office. After that, Paul stopped attending most meetings and sent in his stead a lawyer named Charles German who had been hired to represent his interests by the Eastmans.
Three days after receiving John Eastman’s letter questioning the nine years left on the Nemperor contracts, Clive Epstein quickly and quietly sold Nemperor Holdings and its 25 percent share of the Beatles’ earnings to Leonard Richenberg at Triumph Trust before the tax year ended. According to the terms of the deal, Triumph became a 90 percent holder of Nemperor. Clive Epstein, relieved, packed his belongings and went back to Liverpool to raise his children in a house near Queenie’s. He lives there still, a successful and contented businessman.
The Beatles were stunned that they had lost Nemperor, and a finger-pointing, name-calling match ensued. Klein, the three Beatles, even Leonard Richenberg put the blame on John Eastman for being too young and too soft. Klein told them not to worry, though, he would get Nemperor back for them—for free. On February 25 Klein arrived at Leonard Richenberg’s office in the City, dressed in a wrinkled plaid sports jacket and one of his turtleneck sweaters. Richenberg thought that at first Klein might have been mistaken for a “nasty little gangster.”
“You’re very smart to have jumped in first and bought NEMS, but what you don’t know was that the Epsteins owed the Beatles huge sums of money from road shows,” Klein told him. Klein then proceeded to make all kinds of dark threats about lawsuits that would destroy both Triumph and “Rikenboiger,” as he liked to call him. Richenberg, however, was unfazed, and again Klein was shown to the door.
Klein then went back to the Beatles, including Paul, and got them to sign a letter to EMI which said, in part, “We hereby irrevocably instruct you to pay Henry Ansbacher and Co. all royalties payable by you directly or indirectly to Beatles and Co. or Apple Corp.” A letter to Richenberg at Triumph followed, informing him that Nemperor no longer acted on behalf of the Beatles.
At EMI Sir Joe had his hands full. First, Allen Klein’s timing was perfect; there were £1.3 million in royalties due to be paid shortly to Nemperor. Secondly, Sir Joe knew that Klein intended to renegotiate the Beatles’ recording contracts for a higher royalty and didn’t want to make an enemy of him just now. Trying to be fair, and perhaps a little “chicken” as Richenberg called him, Sir Joe decided not to do anything; he “sat” on the money at EMI.
Richenberg did not wait a day to take the case to court. Once again, the Beatles found themselves the unwitting subject of inch-high newspaper headlines. In a packed courtroom, Mr. Jeremiah Harmon, counsel for Triumph Trust, told Justice Buckley that Apple appeared to have recently fallen “under the influence of a Mr. Allen Klein. He seemed to have a somewhat dubious record.” It was believed that if EMI paid the royalties to the Beatles, they might turn the money over to Klein, who might abscond with it. Klein’s threatening meeting with Richenberg was cited in court, as were other legal proceedings against him in America and England. Harmon ended up saying, “If some manipulator arrives on the scene and causes trouble between the Beatles and Nemperor, we are justifiably apprehensive.”
Sydney Templeman, counsel for EMI, protested that “such allegations were irrelevant and unfair to someone [Klein] who was not a party to the proceedings.” EMI made clear their position that after March 5, 1969, they would pay the royalties to no one. The judge, in turn, saw no reason not to freeze the funds.
Now Richenberg was really angry. If Klein’s forum was street fighting, then a street fight he would get. Richenberg secretly paid to have a Bishops report done on Klein. Bishops was a detective service that ran financial and legal checks on individuals for the big banking firms of the City. They didn’t have to dig deep to find a lot of information about Klein. Richenberg had a report on his desk within the week, and after reading it he happily turned it over to reporters at the Sunday Times. On April 13,1969, an article written by John Fielding appeared in the investigative column called “Insight.” “The Toughest Wheeler-Dealer In The Pop Jungle” was the headline. It began by saying that Klein’s operations were “a startling blend of bluff, sheer determination, and financial agility, together with an instinct for publicity and the ability to lie like a trooper. He is a veteran of some forty lawsuits, and dealings in one of his shares was halted by the American Stock Exchange. In one of his better known achievements he himself took over one of his own companies and saw the value of the stock go up by $15 million.” The article alleged that Allen Klein and Co. had bought 297,000 shares of a near-bankrupt company called Cameo-Parkway for only $1.75 each. Rumors began that Klein would take over the giant Chapell Music corporation, and the Cameo-Parkway shares rose to $72. It soon became apparent that Cameo had no resources to make such a bid. In the end the only acquisition made was of Allen Klein and Co. in a reverse takeover. At one point the Cameo shares were suspended, but the ban was later lifted. Klein had been sued for over $5 million over the Cameo deal, but the suit had been dismissed.
The story of Klein’s relationship with the Rolling Stones didn’t sound very pretty either. Klein took over the Stones in the summer of 1965 and got them a $1.4 million advance against royalties, but the Stones weren’t to see any of it very soon. The Stones expected the money to be deposited into their business account, Nanker Phelge Music Ltd. The money was deposited into such an account all right but to a company called Nanker Phelge Music Inc., which Klein had formed in the United States. It was later disclosed that all the money had been invested in General Motors stock, which although it produced a high income did not make its way into the Stones’ pockets. Klein pointed out that his contractual agreement with them only obligated him to pay the $1.4 million over a period of twenty years. The article closed by noting many other pending or dismissed lawsuits against Klein, and that Klein somehow continued to own a piece of the singer Donovan. A share of all Donovan’s publishing and recording royalties was paid directly to Klein’s company, “a situation in a certain way like the Beatles’, which Klein finds so deplorable.”
Klein sued the Sunday Times, but it was too late; he was already smeared.35 But he wasn’t vanquished. Now more respectful of Richenberg, he agreed to a quick compromise with him. The Beatles bought back Triumph’s 90 percent of Nemperor stock for £800,000 cash plus a quarter of the frozen assets of £1.3 million, along with £50,000 additional for Nemperor’s share of Suba Films, the Beatles’ film company. On top of this they had to pay Triumph 5 percent of their gross royalties from 1972 to 1976. Richenberg outdid himself, however, when he convinced the Beatles to trade the 10 percent of the stock they already owned in Nemperor for nearly a million dollars of Triumph stock, neatly making the Beatles shareholders in Triumph.
Klein triumphantly took credit for the event, claiming that his masterful dealing had won their 2
5 percent back for them, but John Eastman was quick to point out the reality of the negotiations. “Before memories become too short,” he wrote each of the Beatles, “I want to remind everybody that we could have settled the NEMS affair for very little. Klein killed my deal, claiming all sorts of improper acts of NEMS which his investigations would disclose and promising to get NEMS for you for nothing. We all know that no improper acts were found by Klein, if, in fact, Klein made an investigation at all.
“We do know, however, the NEMS tied up £1,400,000 of Beatles phonograph recording royalties which Klein has been unable to free.... These are the facts. I shall be more than pleased to give you chapter and verse if you desire....”
But that was only the beginning.
3
Events suddenly began to accelerate.
On the morning of March 12, 1969, I witnessed Linda Eastman and Paul McCartney’s marriage. Sometime the month before Linda had learned she was pregnant, and just like two other Beatles before him, Paul agreed to do the northern thing and make the girl his wife. They arrived at the Marylebone Registry a little before ten in the morning in a black Daimler. There was a cold drizzle that day, but that didn’t stop scores of weeping, breast-beating young women who had turned up to protest this great loss, the last available Beatle. Aside from Paul’s brother Michael, who was best man, and Mal Evans and me, none of Paul’s dear friends attended.
John and Yoko said they couldn’t come because they were putting the finishing touches on an album called Unfinished Music No 2: Life with the Lions, which they had recorded at an avant-garde jazz concert at Lady Mitchell Hall at Cambridge University. Ringo and Maureen were occupied at home, and George Harrison mumbled something about attending to work at 3 Savile Row.
On that same morning Pattie Harrison drove to London to pick up a new dress to wear to a “Pisces” party that artist Rory McEwen was throwing in Chelsea that night. Princess Margaret and Lord Snowden were expected to attend, and Pattie had picked out a special dress at designer Ozzie Clark’s showroom. Pattie parked her car on the street down the block from Clark’s salon and went inside to pick up the dress. When she emerged a short time later, she found that someone had put a pack of Rothman’s cigarettes on the dashboard while she was gone. Inside the cigarette pack was a phone number and a man’s name with the message, “Phone me.” There was also a gift: a tiny piece of hashish. Pattie put the cigarette pack in her pocketbook and returned to Kinfauns, their home in Esher, to have a bath. She was just drying off when the doorbell rang. She looked out the window and saw three or four cars pulling up the drive. “That’s strange,” she thought, “I wonder who’s here?” and went to open the door.
Detective Sergeant Norman Pilcher was waiting for her, along with eight policemen and a drug-sniffing canine named Yogi. Sergeant Pilcher said, “We’re looking for dangerous drugs.”
Pattie said politely, “I’m terribly sorry but we don’t have any.”
They searched the house thoroughly nevertheless, almost making a beeline for the chip of hashish in the Rothman’s cigarette pack. It dawned on Pattie that perhaps she had been set up, and she patiently explained to them how she got it. Then she went to the phone and called my office. I was still out with Paul and Linda, so they put her through to George. “Guess what?” she said gaily. “It’s a bust.”
“No, stop it,” George said. “Don’t joke.”
“I’m serious. Who would you like to speak to?” She handed the phone to Sergeant Pilcher, who told George it was no joke. George said he would leave for Esher immediately, but with traffic it took him over two hours to get there.
In the interim Pattie asked Sergeant Pilcher why he was doing this. “To save you from the perils of heroin,” he told her. Before George arrived, one policeman came up with a small brick of hashish that Pattie had never seen before. It weighed 570 grams. Sergeant Pilcher claimed that Yogi the dog had found it in the bedroom closet in one of George’s shoes.
“You’re lying,” Pattie told him sweetly. “If we had that much hash we certainly wouldn’t hide it in one of George’s shoes. And if you’re looking for grass, we keep it in the sitting room on a table in a cigarette box.”
When George himself arrived the policemen began elbowing each other out of the way to get near to him and have a closer look. George and Pattie were surprised they didn’t ask for autographs.
They were hauled off to jail for arraignment, and Martin Polden, the lawyer who had handled John and Yoko’s case, got them out. That didn’t stop them from rushing back to Esher to bathe and change and go off to the Pisces party as planned. When they arrived at the party, Princess Margaret and Lord Snowden were already there. George and Pattie went directly over to their little circle and said hello. “Hey, you can’t believe what happened,” George said. “We got busted. Pilcher planted hash in my shoe.”
“Oh my, what a shame,” Princess Margaret said politely.
“Can you help us?” George asked her. “Can you sort of use your influence to eliminate the bad news?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said the Princess, appropriately horrified at the suggestion.
Just at that moment Pattie’s youngest sister, Paula, joined the group. Much to everyone’s wide-eyed embarrassment, she produced a joint from her pocketbook and lit it. When Paula realized everyone was glaring at her, she thought she was being discourteous by not passing the joint. She extended it to Princess Margaret and said, “Here, do you want this?”
Princess Margaret turned and fled the party with Lord Snowden following her.
Pattie and George were fined £500 for possession of drugs on March 31. Mr. Michael West, the prosecutor, noted to the judge that Pattie and George were of impeccable character. On the steps of the courthouse, Martin Polden told reporters, “The police might now accept that this is a closed season for the Beatles.”
But John and Yoko were about to give them even bigger targets.
4
On March 20, only eight days after Paul and Linda were married, John and Yoko took the plunge themselves. Yoko’s divorce from Tony Cox had become final on February 2, and she was free to do as she pleased. John opted for a private small ceremony at a place where he could get married quickly, without posting banns or alerting the press. He had seen what a media circus Paul’s wedding had turned into and wanted to avoid a similar scene. I was asked to find a location for the “secret” wedding to take place. John and Yoko were in Paris on vacation when I learned that as a British resident John could get married immediately in Gibraltar if he wished. I chartered a plane for them from Paris and met them at the Gibraltar airport with photographer David Nutter, who had no idea what kind of event he had been hired to photograph. I was honored to be John and Yoko’s best man.
John and Yoko arrived at the small Gibraltar airport dressed in wrinkled matching white outfits, Yoko with her skirt halfway up her thighs. The ceremony took less than ten minutes, after which we went directly to the airport. They were on the ground only a few hours.
As private and simple as they wanted their wedding to be, they had planned to turn their honeymoon into a public piece of buffoonery. Quite suddenly, it seemed, John took up the antiwar banner and became overnight one of the most vocal and relentless nonviolent peace advocates known to the media. This was most peculiar to those who knew him, for although the anti-Vietnam War movement had long been a just and fashionable cause, this sudden dedication to it could only be attributable to Yoko’s influence. It seemed a safe and admirable choice in any case, because there was hardly anything morally outrageous about peace, and perhaps being a peace advocate would keep John out of bigger, more serious trouble. We hoped that John’s pacifist stand would deflect some of the hostility that John and Yoko were experiencing from the press, but characteristically, John made peace a holy crusade and turned his honeymoon into a side show
John and Yoko flew to Amsterdam, where they checked into a one-hundred-pounds-a-day luxury suite at the unsuspecting Amsterdam Hilton Ho
tel and staged the first of their infamous “bed-ins.” Scores of journalists and photographers from newspapers all over the world were invited to see the two in bed. Many of them rushed to Amsterdam expecting to see some sort of sexual act take place à la Two Virgins, but they were gravely disappointed. A bed-in was simply John and Yoko sitting up in bed in clean pajamas, clutching flowers, espousing peace, and eating plentiful orders of the food served to them by white-jacketed emissaries from room service. John and Yoko allegedly left bed only to go to the bathroom. This in itself didn’t seem to be the grist for headline-making news, but the amused members of the world press helped turn it into one of the most widely reported stories of John and Yoko’s adventures to date. The newlyweds welcomed reporters and photographers into their suite practically any time of the day or night to give interviews and pose for pictures. At home in England the progress of the bed-in was reported to fans with snide benevolence. A favorite headline was “John And Yoko Are Forced Out Of Bed By Maria The Maid.”
John was lying in bed in Amsterdam one day, reading about his own adventures in the English papers, when he came across an article that said that Dick James, the Beatles’ longtime music publisher, was selling all of his 37 percent of Northern Songs stock to Sir Lew Grade at ATV. Grade presumably wanted to gain control of Northern Songs by buying up any remaining stock he could find. This was a remarkable testament to the longterm worth of the Beatles’ songs; ATV’s bid for undeclared Northern Songs stock came to a staggering £19.5 million.
John was shocked, as was Paul when he heard. How could Dick James, the Beatles’ sweet, cigar-smoking “uncle”—whom they’d helped make into a multimillionaire—sell out Northern Songs without first informing them, or at least asking them if they wanted to buy it themselves. To John and Paul, Northern wasn’t just a collection of 159 compositions, it was like a child, creative flesh and blood, and selling it to their business antagonist, Sir Lew Grade, was like putting that child into an orphanage.