This was an extreme but not isolated incident of marital discord. 'After we'd done the One To One concert film,' recalled Steve Gebhardt, 'I remember John saying to me that the days of everything being Johnandyoko – one word – were over. I was shocked.' Ono completed her record, Approximately Infinite Universe, which was greeted more positively than her previous releases. Lennon did his best to publicise it, writing a personal note to the Capitol Records boss asking him to throw the company's weight behind it. But in mid-January 1973 Lennon and Ono
quarrelled publicly at another party. 'I wish I was back with Paul,' Lennon reportedly said. His young assistant May Pang insisted that the idea of a Lennon/McCartney reunion was 'ridiculous'. New York newspapers began to speculate that the Lennons were separating. To dispel the stories, the couple bought each other Valentine's Day cards in the Village, rightly confident that their gesture would make the gossip columns.
In March the couple flew to Los Angeles for an urgent meeting on Apple business. The company had been renewing Allen Klein's management contract regularly, but when the end-of-February deadline arrived, they asked for the notice period to be reduced to two weeks. Klein's office had compiled two double albums of the Beatles' greatest hits in preparation for Neil Aspinall's unfinished documentary film. News of the project had filtered out, and a manufacturer of bootleg records was preparing to distribute an illegal Beatles compilation to steal Apple's thunder. Also in America were George Harrison, who was collaborating with Ravi Shankar, and Richard Starkey, who was preparing to make his first album of pop material since the Beatles' break-up. The two men met amicably with Klein in New York, and then flew on to California 'We're all friends, even if we had split up,' Starkey recalled, 'so I said "Have you got any songs, boys?" and John said, "Yeah, I've got a song," so I said, "Well, come and play."'
Lennon arrived with 'I'm the Greatest', which he'd begun to write after watching A Hard Day's Night more than two years earlier. Then, it had sounded sullen and bitter. Retooled for Starkey, it emerged as a sardonic tribute to the Beatles. There was a reference to 'Billy Shears', the role Starkey had played on the Sgt Pepper album, and producer Richard Perry added sound effects of a similar vintage. 'Ringo, John, Klaus [Voormann] and myself grouped around a piano in the studio to put the finishing touches on that song,' Perry recalled.
Then someone called me out of the studio to say that George was on the phone. 'I hear there's some recording going on,' George said. 'Can I come down?' So I said to John, 'George is on the phone and wants to come down to record with us. Is it OK?' 'Hell, yes,' John said. 'Tell him to get down here right away and help me finish this bridge.' George arrived, and without saying a word he joined in on the same wavelength we were on. He played guitar and John played piano, and they complemented each other perfectly. There was the Beatles' magic unfolding right before my eyes!
Perry's excitement was forgivable: he was watching the revamped Beatles line-up that never coalesced in 1970. For Lennon, though, Voormann was clearly not a substitute for McCartney: 'The three of us were there,' he said, 'and Paul would most probably have joined in if he was around, but he wasn't.' Even without McCartney, 'I'm the Greatest' sounded like a lost gem from the Abbey Road sessions. 'Everyone in the room was gleaming,' Perry purred. 'It's such a universal gleam with the Beatles.' Lennon complained later that Harrison had suggested the Beatles should make that gleam a permanent feature; and one major obstacle to a reunion, desired or otherwise, was about to be removed.
Chapter 7
I love him, you know. I mean, he really has made me secure enough. I do have money for the first time ever, really . . . He's a great guy, highly sensitive, highly intelligent.
John Lennon on Allen Klein, June 1971
He's a naughty boy, and he's too greedy, and he didn't do what he said he'd do, which was manage our affairs, which are in a worse state than when . . . well, according to the accountants, anyway.
John Lennon on Allen Klein, November 1973
On 2 April 1973 Allen Klein issued a statement from his office on Broadway: 'It is not now felt in the best interests of ABKCO to put forward a proposal for its continued management of Apple Corps and Messrs Harrison, Lennon and Starkey. Under these circumstances, ABKCO has terminated its efforts with respect to its possible acquisition of Apple Corps. We wish Harrison, Lennon and Starkey continued success.' With those carefully phrased sentences Klein acknowledged that his quest for control of the Beatles was over. Divorce was inevitable, but it could be achieved with dignity.
Klein had seized the initiative, suggesting that the decision was entirely his own. His former clients disagreed. That morning John Lennon and Yoko Ono called a press conference to announce the formation of Nutopia, an imaginary country with no borders. As the self-appointed Nutopian ambassadors to the United Nations, they were claiming asylum in New York. It marked a last despairing effort to outwit US immigration officials and a symbolic farewell to their roles as political activists. It was significant that the official emblem of Nutopia was the white flag of surrender.
Lennon was asked whether it was true that Allen Klein was no longer his manager. 'We separated ourselves from him,' he confirmed. Why? 'Why do you think?' he snapped. 'We will go into that next time.' Later, Lennon was slightly more forthcoming:
There are many reasons why we finally gave him the push, although I don't want to go into the details of it. Let's say possibly Paul's suspicions were right, and the time was right . . . Although I haven't been particularly happy personally for quite a long time with the situation, I didn't want to make any quick moves, and I wanted to see if maybe something would work out.
This vague comment masked the truth: for several months Lennon, Harrison and Starkey had been taking legal advice about severing their ties with Klein. He had certainly caught the scent of betrayal in the wind, as he had already asked his accountants to prepare detailed profit-and-loss figures for the Beatles' companies during his reign. In late February he pleaded his case with
Richard Starkey and George Harrison in New York. He warned them that the Beatles were in danger of failing to fulfil their obligations to EMI/Capitol, and so he had asked Allan Steckler, head of Apple's US division, to assemble two compilations of the Beatles' best-loved songs. Klein also reminded Starkey that the three Beatles and Apple still owed ABKCO a considerable sum in managerial commissions. Could he guarantee that ABKCO would get paid? Starkey unhesitatingly agreed that they would always live up to the terms of their agreement. But as he already knew, the agreement was doomed. Apple renewed the management contract for two more weeks, and then another two, before Klein's reign as manager of the Beatles Group of Companies ended on 31 March 1973.
Of the three Beatles who had signed the contract, Starkey had least reason to reject Klein. 'No matter what everyone says, he's fair,' he had said of the American in 1971. 'He doesn't wanna shit on anyone, really.' Klein had recognised Starkey's precarious position after the demise of the Beatles and encouraged him to pursue his acting career, even financing the Western Blindman, in which the drummer had a leading part. *31 Starkey was promised $150,000 for his role, placing him among Hollywood's higher earners. But in any division of loyalties Starkey would always favour the Beatles over an outsider, and so it proved with Klein.
As Allan Steckler recalled, Klein's tragic flaw with the Beatles was not his financial ability but his handling of tiny details:
Things would happen that seemed unimportant to Klein, but much more important to the artist. I remember having a phone conversation with Klein when Ringo came in the room. I hung up, and Ringo said, 'I wanted to talk to him, can you get him back?' So someone in the office made the call for Ringo, and was told that Klein wasn't in. Klein didn't realise that Ringo had already heard me talking to him! That kind of thing made him really pissed.
Despite the judge's damning portrayal of Klein's actions during the 1971 court case, Lennon, Harrison and Starkey had chosen to keep faith with their manager. 'He made them feel financi
ally and artistically secure,' Steckler reckoned. So why did they decide that Klein had to go? Steckler believed he knew the answer. 'George called me and said, "We're not re-signing with Klein,"' he recalled. 'I asked him why, and he said, "The only way the Beatles can get together again is if Allen isn't there. I'm ready to do it, so is Ringo, and I think we can persuade John to go along with it. But if we're going to work with Paul, we need to get rid of Klein."'
McCartney certainly felt that Klein's departure had opened a vital channel of communication. 'The only thing that has prevented us from getting together again has been Allen Klein's contractual hold over the Beatles' name,' he commented, ignoring the personality clashes that predated Klein's arrival. Three of the four Beatles were now prepared to consider a reunion. But the fourth member quickly dampened their enthusiasm. 'The chances are practically nil,' Lennon declared. 'And imagine if they did get together' – the choice of personal pronoun was telling – 'what kind of scrutiny would they be under? Nothing could fit the dream people had of them. So forget it, you know, it's ludicrous!'
The dream that scared Lennon was about to reveal its financial power. Early in 1973 US national magazines such as Penthouse and American radio and TV stations in the ABC network ran advertisements for The Story of the Beatles, a multi-record set that offered a rich sampling of the Beatles' 1960s catalogue alongside the pick of their solo singles. This was not an officially sanctioned replay of the past, however, but a strictly black-market affair, prompting Allen Klein to shut it down. George Harrison, Apple and Capitol Records duly filed a joint lawsuit against the distributors of the record, alleging 'illegal pirating' of the Beatles' music. One of Klein's final acts as Apple manager was to authorise two official collections of the group's greatest hits, 1962– 1966 and 1967–1970. They appeared in matching jackets, the first using the photograph from the Beatles' first album, the second opting for the near-facsimile taken in 1969 and originally intended for their Get Back album. The public appetite was voracious, and soon the two sets were jockeying for chart supremacy around the world.
Klein had originally intended the albums to accompany Neil Aspinall's documentary history of the Beatles and had consulted all four members about the track listing. McCartney refused to cooperate, however, while Lennon offered little of value. 'George controlled the choice of material on those albums more than any of us,' he admitted. 'They sent me lists and asked for my opinion, but I was busy at the time.' McCartney demonstrated even less interest: 'I still haven't heard them,' he said several months later. EMI/Capitol, who released the albums for Apple, were anxious to rush the records into the stores, but a series of mysterious delays meant that they didn't appear until early April, after Klein's contract had expired, removing the obligation to pay him a percentage of the profits.
Lennon and Harrison had been less careful about their dealings with Klein. They retained the same naivety about business affairs that they had displayed during the launch of Apple, imagining that they operated in some magical dimension where their actions had no consequences. It was what allowed them to maintain their friendship with Klein and simultaneously work for his overthrow – a talent for duplicity that might have brought them success in Caesar's Rome. But they were dealing with a man who enjoyed nothing more than the forensic examination of music business accounts.
As late as March 1973 Harrison was still treating ABKCO like a bank. While he was in New York the journalist Al Aronowitz came to him with a hard-luck story and an empty wallet. Harrison agreed to lend him $20,000, ostensibly from the funds of his US publishing company, although the cash actually came straight from Klein. The Aronowitz loan was merely the most recent example of the Beatles' generosity with Klein's money. By Klein's calculations, he had lent Harrison approximately $270,000 over the previous two years. Lennon's debts to his manager were equally profound. Klein claimed that Lennon had borrowed almost £50,000 since 1971. In addition, Klein had funded Lennon and Ono's fruitless quest to obtain custody of Kyoko Cox, which had involved travel between several countries. Those costs came to $34,000, alongside further loans to the Lennons' company Bag Productions totalling $48,000. Between them, Harrison and Lennon had borrowed almost $500,000, all of which was now due for repayment.
Four years after Klein was deputed to save the Beatles from bankruptcy, their corporate affairs were in chaos. The facade was impressive: the two retrospective packages were selling in vast quantities, providing a platform for imminent albums by McCartney and Harrison. But who was managing the store? Although Apple's headquarters was still ostensibly in London, Klein had been handling its affairs from New York, where ABKCO held many crucial contracts and files. Meanwhile, the four founders of Apple were still locked in an enervating legal battle about the precise status of their joint partnership, and Apple's business affairs were under the supervision of the UK official receiver. He granted the four Beatles an increase in their monthly allowance from the partnership funds in May 1973, to protect them against the rampant inflation affecting the British economy. They were now being paid a 'salary' of £3,000 apiece every month, three times more than before. But John Lennon, in particular, was in trouble, struggling to maintain a New York lifestyle while maintaining a mansion in England that he hadn't seen for nearly two years.
In late spring 1973 he and Ono negotiated the purchase of an apartment in the Dakota Building, a grandiose block on Manhattan's West Side overlooking Central Park. Their break with Klein had interrupted their cash flow, so they were forced to sell their house in Ascot, Tittenhurst Park, to Starkey and his wife. Starkey also took over the recording facility that Lennon had built but hardly ever used. Their English home wasn't their only sacrifice. For more than a year they had been paying each of the members of Elephant's Memory $200 a month. Now Lennon told the band, 'It's costing too much bread to keep you on a retainer – and I/we have no plans to tour or anything money making.' But these savings didn't balance Lennon's books: with Klein's money now unavailable, he had to look elsewhere for personal loans.
One person retained the trust of all four Beatles. In 1967 Neil Aspinall had been asked to rescue the group from the disarray left by Brian Epstein's death. During Klein's reign he had remained on salary, keeping a discreet eye on the London office while leaving Klein's supremacy unchallenged. Now his moment had come, and all four Beatles were happy to reinstall him as Apple manager, under the supervision of the official receiver. Aspinall couldn't repair the Lennon/ McCartney relationship, but he could ensure that both men were equally informed. His position was only tenable if he didn't take sides: he might once have been closer to Lennon, but now he had to maintain a diplomatic show of neutrality. And so he slipped into a routine of constant attention to the Beatles' demands which required him to be on call throughout the 16hour transatlantic working day. It was a role that won him their undying trust and a handsome salary but took a fearful toll on his health. And trust did not always equal respect. 'You have to remember that Neil started out as their roadie,' one insider said. 'Even when he was running the company, they still regarded him as the guy who carried their amplifiers and got them sandwiches.' There could be no complaints about his commitment, however. 'He worked very hard to preserve the Beatles' legacy,' said publisher Sean O'Mahony, who often negotiated with Aspinall. 'He could be a difficult bugger, but that was his job.'
As early as mid-April 1973 lawyers and accountants began to meet regularly in New York to discuss the consequences of Klein's departure. McCartney's interests were protected by the Eastmans, but the other Beatles now needed personal representation. There would no longer be any collective management; each man picked his own adviser. Lennon chose US lawyer Harold
Seider, who had previously worked for Klein and had an intimate knowledge of the contractual web. Starkey opted for Hilary Gerrard, a 40-year-old Londoner who became his personal manager and ultimately his representative on the Apple board. Harrison, meanwhile, had been introduced to Denis O'Brien, an American lawyer and banker who had previously h
andled Peter Sellers' affairs. In early July 1973 Harrison asked O'Brien to become his business manager. In a hint of the contractual complications to come, Harrison signed the deal on a personal basis with O'Brien, who then officially commissioned his own company, Euroatlantic Ltd, to do the work. Meanwhile, O'Brien was not paid by Harrison, but by his publishing company, Harrisongs Ltd. This arrangement depersonalised the contract between the two men and ensured that lawyers would struggle to understand its full ramifications.
Unbeknown to the Beatles, the British government was taking a keen interest in their financial affairs. The Inland Revenue was pursuing Harrison for tax from the Bangladesh film and album; as he had been warned, the proceeds from both projects were treated as his personal income, even though he donated all the money to charity. He eventually fed the government's uncharitable greed with a personal cheque for one million pounds – bitter reward for his generosity. Under the circumstances it seemed somewhat churlish that Harrison and Lennon were also under investigation by the Bank of England. There were precise rules limiting the money that British citizens could carry in and out of the country, and the bank had unearthed the loans from ABKCO, which appeared to breach UK law. For several months officials were employed to delve into the details of these loans, before deciding that although the transfers were technically illegal the sums involved were too trifling to repay any further effort.
No amount of money was too small, however, to escape the attention of those who were squabbling over the Beatles' fortunes. The four now inhabited two mutually antagonistic worlds, as pawns of the legal profession, and as flourishing artists and entertainers. Their music produced the money that paid for the businessmen, while Lennon, McCartney, Harrison and Starkey tried to pretend that none of the problems touched them or their work. Their fans had no inkling that their lives were now dominated by business and legal disputes. In retrospect, it is amazing that any of them managed to function under this pressure, let alone that two of the group were able to create their most enduring solo work.
You Never Give Me Your Money: The Battle for the Soul of the Beatles Page 25