Chapter 1
The Beatles were such profoundly artistic people that they gave themselves massive licence to be their own artistic selves. That was how it was possible to sustain the group, because they could say or do harsh things to each other. They could reject things in songs that were corny, and come out with this most superb finished work. They had this way of dealing with each other's weaknesses so that only the strengths came through.
Apple press officer Derek Taylor
As early as 1963 journalist Stanley Reynolds suggested that the Beatles were 'about to fade away from the charts, to the Helen Shapiro hinterland of the 12-months wonders . . . it was a good exciting sound while it lasted'. And it did last, despite persistent murmurs in the same vein, provoked when a record failed to reach No. 1 or empty seats were spotted in the arenas that the Beatles had once filled with ease.
The nine-month hiatus after their final live show in August 1966 disguised a transformation in the Beatles' lives. In the late spring of 1967 they completed work on an album widely acclaimed as a landmark in twentieth-century music. Almost simultaneously, they embarked on a business scheme that began as an exercise in tax avoidance, and became a sketch for utopia. The Beatles had conceived a daring fantasy: the idea that four pop musicians might be able to reshape the capitalist system. They dreamed of a world in which creativity would flourish without the shackles of commerce; in which art and business could be joined in joyous union; in which society could be transformed not by the bullet or the ballot box, but by the Beatles, and the cosmic power of their name. Instead, they built a corporate prison which would sap their vitality and their willingness to survive, and prove to be inescapable long after the utopian fantasies had been forgotten.
In the summer of 1967, the Beatles were the princes of pop culture. Sgt Pepper, released in June, presented the era in miniature: gaudy, extrava gant, decadent, playful, solipsistic, alive. Only the closing minutes of 'A Day in the Life', with its threatening orchestral crescendo and atmosphere of surreal paranoia, greyed the technicolour pages of their dream. It was in just such innocent gaiety that the denizens of the counterculture lived that summer, in London, San Francisco and wherever the hippie trail might lead. It was possible, so misty-eyed veterans assure us, to wander up and down the Haight or the Kings Road, and hear nothing but the familiar melodies of Pepper, blasting joyously out of sync from every window.
If the young and privileged took comfort in their oneness, there was always the threat of pregnancy, a drugs bust, even (for young Americans) the arrival of a draft card. The flower-power uniform of bells, beads and body paint was a collective mask, the emblem of a conscious decision (in the most enduring cliché of the age) to 'Tune in, turn on, drop out.' The hope was that, in congregating together, young people might create and preserve the fantasy of their choice, banishing forever the straight world of obligations and employment, marriage and maturity, their parents' crushing inheritance.
The Beatles, so pop commentator Tony Palmer declared, were 'the crystallisation of the dreams, hopes, energies, disappointments of a countless host of others who would have been Beatles if they could'. There was no resentment of their wealth or fame: their apparently effortless journey from proletarian drabness to aristocratic gaiety promised a similar transfiguration for their admirers. Where the Beatles led, millions were content to follow. Moustaches, kaftans, military tunics, cannabis, Indian ragas, flowers, universal peace and love: none of these was invented by the Beatles, but the group were the conduit by which the symbols of the age reached the outside world.
No longer available on the concert stage, the Beatles now existed in image alone, via the
promotional films that accompanied their single 'Penny Lane' and 'Strawberry Fields Forever', the peacock-rich cover of Sgt Pepper, the worldwide television premiere of 'All You Need Is Love' and the newsreel footage that captured them arriving at their recording studio, jetting to Greece or setting out for enlightenment with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi in Bangor. Yet there were less exclusive opportunities to glimpse one of these fabled creatures in the flesh.
Paul McCartney was the only Beatle not to have bought a mansion in the 'stockbroker belt' of gated villages and secluded estates southwest of London. His relationship with actress Jane Asher had provided an entrée into upper-middle-class London society, where he learned to mix with minor royals, businessmen and the theatrical elite. Besides his training in etiquette, the Asher family – in the shape of Jane's pop-singer brother Peter – introduced him to London's burgeoning world of alternative arts. He had gained a taste for modern drama and poetry at school, and relished the opportunity to patronise exotic galleries and theatres. Soon he was encountering beat writers such as Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs, attending concerts of atonal and electronic music, quietly financing underground papers and events, and assisting the Indica Bookshop, run by Peter Asher's friend Barry Miles.
As McCartney soon discovered, celebrity status allowed him access to all areas of metropolitan life. He utilised the power of his name to meet prominent figures who would otherwise have ignored the ephemeral world of pop. 'Paul would do that a lot,' Barry Miles said. 'He'd call people up and say, "This is Paul McCartney, would you like to have dinner?" Most people said yes.' Among those he sought out was the philosopher and veteran peace campaigner Bertrand Russell. 'He saw Russell because he realised that he wouldn't get the truth about the Vietnam War from the London press,' Miles explained. 'The thing to do was to go to the top, and as far as Paul was concerned, that was Russell.'
The polarising conflict in Vietnam was only one of the political currents preoccupying those who were prepared to engage with the outside world. There was the struggle for civil rights in America, global liberation movements seeking to overthrow colonial regimes, and apartheid in South Africa and its near-neighbour Rhodesia. Closer to home, the Beatles shared the common distaste among the young for censorship and the widespread contempt for the drug laws on the British statute books.
Their views were echoed by Brian Epstein, who had been managing the group since 1961 via his Liverpool company NEMS. But he was wary of letting political controversy endanger their appeal to the public. As their press officer Tony Barrow explained, 'Epstein asked the Beatles not to discuss their love lives, their sexual preferences, politics or religion with the media. But behind the scenes, the Beatles – particularly John and George – talked current affairs in general and topics such as Vietnam in particular. They were very much against war, having seen the results of bombing in Liverpool as kids. Talking about Vietnam at a press conference, as they started to do in 1966, was also a way of demonstrating to Epstein that they were beginning to resent being told what to do.'
Even McCartney realised the limits of the Beatles' power, however: 'What could we do? Well, I suppose that, at a Royal Command Performance, we could announce a number and then tell people exactly what we thought about Vietnam. But then we'd be thought to be lunatics.' Or they might, as John Lennon discovered, become the subject of virulent fundamentalist hatred after expressing perfectly intelligent views about the relative popularity of religion and music. When the Beatles arrived in Chicago on their final tour on 11 August 1966, Lennon was forced to defend his comments that the group were 'more popular than Jesus'. So heated was the debate that nobody thought to ask the group about the political crisis uppermost in the minds of Chicago's citizens: the campaign against segregated housing led by the Reverend Martin Luther King. Interpreting their silence as indifference, radical black activist LeRoi Jones complained that the Beatles were the epitome of 'exclusive white . . . isolated from the rest of humanity'. He added, 'The Beatles can sing "We all live in a yellow submarine" because that is literally where they, and all their people (would like to) live.'
As if to prove Jones right, the Beatles embarked the following year on an expedition that symbolised their isolation from the real world. 'We were all going to live together now, in a huge estate,' their past and future press agen
t Derek Taylor recalled. They initially set their sights on the windswept landscape of East Anglia, then a more attractive idea emerged: they would buy an island in Greece. Brian Epstein's long-time assistant Alistair Taylor was sent to the Mediterranean like a colonial governor seeking a winter retreat for a monarch. He returned to London with photographs of Leslo, a suitably idyllic setting for escapist millionaires, not least because it was surrounded by four smaller islands, one for each Beatle.
Three months earlier the democratic Greek government had been overthrown in a military coup, ostensibly to prevent any Marxist influences from corrupting the nation. The new regime tortured and executed its opponents with the minimum of judicial process. Nor did it overlook the young: the army colonels banned long hair, rock music and all criticism of their policies. Left-wing activists in Britain launched a campaign to dissuade tourists from holidaying in Greece. The regime unconsciously aided their efforts by deporting visitors who failed to achieve military standards of appearance and discipline. It was not, perhaps, the most promising of cultural climates for a group of young millionaires who lived by their own law. Yet the Beatles did not allow petty politics to impede their vision of nirvana. 'I'm not worried about the political situation in Greece, as long as it doesn't affect us,' Lennon declared. 'I don't care if the government is all fascist or communist.' Their more socially aware friends, such as Barry Miles, were shocked by their indifference. 'I was horrified,' he recalled. 'As I remember it, Paul was faintly embarrassed by it all, but John wasn't concerned.' Paul McCartney's political misgivings were, in any case, outweighed by more selfish concerns: 'I suppose the main motivation would probably be [that] no one could stop you smoking. Drugs was probably the main reason for getting some island.'
A few weeks earlier McCartney had confirmed that he had experimented with the psychedelic drug LSD, or acid. 'It seemed strange to me,' George Harrison recalled, 'because we'd been trying to get him to take LSD for about eighteen months – and then one day he's on the television talking about it.' Harrison complained, 'I thought Paul should have been quiet about it – I wish he hadn't said anything, because it made everything messy,' not least by raising the question of the Beatles' roles as moral exemplars for their fans. McCartney dismissed the problem by telling the interviewer that if he was so concerned about the welfare of the young, then he shouldn't broadcast comments. In the time-honoured tradition of the British media, sensation won out over common sense.
The latter quality was in short supply at Kenwood, Lennon's mansion, where the musician filled the Beatles' more relaxed schedule by escaping from the barrenness of his everyday life into a maelstrom of psychedelic chemistry. If Lennon's acid intake was an attempt to find unreality, Harrison was more specific, greeting acid as 'a blessing, because it saved me many years of indifference'. Though more cautious about his intake than his colleagues, McCartney recognised that LSD could focus and enhance his creativity if used in moderation. While Lennon sought to dissolve his ego and Harrison to transcend it, McCartney strolled through the mid-1960s as the captain of his soul, powered by self-belief and artistic certainty.
Sexual intercourse was so freely available to the Beatles that it hardly counted as a motivating force. Neither did wealth: virtually no luxury or experience was beyond their financial reach. Even the most insecure personality would have been satisfied by the overwhelming fame shared by these four young men. If anything, their celebrity was now a curse, keeping them from the uncomplicated pleasures of ordinary life. So what remained to keep the Beatles hungry for experience and achievement?
Richard Starkey's outlook was the least complex of the four. He had experienced poverty, isolation and prolonged illness as a child, and he still took simple pleasure in the freedom that stardom had brought him. He developed a talent for photography, though his pictures were rarely seen outside the family. He channelled some of his vast income into a short-lived building company, but took its failure in good heart; he still had his wife, his growing family, his pool table and the lavishly stocked bar that he installed in his den. Life had already provided more than he could ever have dreamed of; even acid did little to expand his horizons.
LSD had a far more profound effect on George Harrison, providing 'the awakening and the realisation that the important thing in life is to ask, "Who am I?" "Where am I going?" and "Where have I come from?" All the rest is, as John said, "just a little rock 'n' roll band". It wasn't that important.' This was said with the hindsight of almost thirty years, but as early as 1966, when pop's possibilities appeared limitless, Harrison reckoned that it seemed 'somehow dead'. He was also restricted by the persona that had been created for him by the media. 'They called him "the quiet Beatle",' recalled his sister Louise, 'but that was because the first time they went to America, he had a really bad strep [sore] throat, and so he didn't say much at press conferences, and that image just stuck. It's interesting, though, because our mum and dad never allowed us to go out and play with the other kids; we went everywhere with them instead.' A sense of isolation, and self-reliance, was built into Harrison's psyche from his early childhood, allowing plenty of space for his imagination to roam.
A chance encounter with Indian musicians on the set of the Beatles' movie Help! fired that imagination in a way formal education had never achieved. As a teenager, he had rejected
academia in favour of the guitar. He lacked McCartney's intuitive musicality but substituted effort for natural ability. In 1965 he bought his first sitar, and was widely responsible for introducing the languorous hum of Indian instrumentation to the pop audience. Eager to experiment further, he took sitar lessons from the maestro Ravi Shankar, who became a lifelong friend and guru. Perhaps more importantly, Shankar's brother Ravu gave Harrison a book in which he found the philosophy that would dominate his subsequent life: Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda. This account of spiritual devotion, of miracles and meditation, of gurus and disciples, left an almost visceral mark. As Harrison described his reaction, 'Wow! Fantastic! At last I've found somebody who makes some sense.' With naive enthusiasm, he read every Indian spiritual text he could find 'by various holy men and swamis and mystics, and went around and looked for them and tried to meet some'.
His sister Louise recalled, 'As kids, we were always encouraged to find out for ourselves what we believed in, and what was right and wrong. Our family were Catholics, but we always had a global outlook. We were spiritual, not religious as such. George didn't change as a person after he went to India; he was the same as he'd always been. But he became a passionate apostle for what he had found there, and was very keen to spread the word.' Harrison's passion for all things Indian was revealed on the Beatles' albums, which now routinely included at least one excursion into ethnicity. Brian Epstein was relieved that the youngest member of the group – whose early efforts at songwriting had been ridiculed by Lennon, McCartney and producer George Martin – had finally found his métier. Unknown to Epstein or the wider world, however, Harrison was now comparing life as a Beatle with the way of the mystic, and finding his fame wanting. 'After what had happened [in India],' he recalled, 'everything else seemed like hard work. It was a job, doing something I didn't really want to do, and I was losing interest in being "fab" at that point.' He returned from India to work on the SgtPepper album, but remembered, 'It was difficult for me to come back into the sessions. In a way, it felt like going backwards.'
While Harrison was in India, McCartney basked in life as a man about town. In his well-cut jackets and colourful neckerchiefs, he paraded through society like a benevolent dandy, bestowing his bounty – a smile here, a few hundred pounds there – on every deserving soul who crossed his path. He had been raised to be kind, generous, polite and friendly, and that was precisely the impression he left upon those who enjoyed fleeting encounters with him at film premieres or in Chelsea salons.
McCartney was prepared to dabble in Eastern philosophy, as he was in musique concrète or experimental cinema. Acclaim from his pe
ers and from the public at large fuelled his creativity; his exposure to the avant-garde refined his vision. During the final months of 1966 he composed a traditionally melodic score for a movie, prepared electronic collages for his own amusement and schooled himself in the extremes of contemporary classical music. He was the golden boy of the British counterculture, limited only by the boundaries of his imagination. When Pepper took shape, it was in his image.
The apparent richness of McCartney's life contrasted sharply with the emptiness that haunted John Lennon. During the mid-1960s 'I went through a terrible depression, I was going through murder,' Lennon revealed in 1969. His friend journalist Maureen Cleave penned a vivid portrait of his 'large, heavily panelled, heavily carpeted, mock Tudor house' filled with 'tape recorders, the five television sets, the cars, the telephones of which he knows not a single number'. She noted, 'He can sleep almost indefinitely, is probably the laziest person in England.' And she found him curiously dissatisfied: 'You see, there's something else I'm going to do, something I must do – only I don't know what it is. All I know is, this isn't it for me.' A few months later he said, 'I feel I want to be them all – painter, writer, actor, singer, player, musician.' McCartney shared his curiosity, and carried it into his working life. For the moment Lennon's aspirations and activities remained painfully out of register. He would listlessly attempt to compete with McCartney's experiments in sound and vision, without ever quite believing in what he was doing. Occasionally, his labours would bear fruit: over several arduous weeks he channelled his confusion into 'Strawberry Fields Forever', while another burst of creativity produced the skeleton of 'A Day in the Life'. But his other contributions to the Beatles for the next six months were sporadic and forced. In the depths of his depression at Kenwood he had to recognise that the balance of power had shifted in McCartney's direction.
You Never Give Me Your Money: The Battle for the Soul of the Beatles Page 3