You Never Give Me Your Money: The Battle for the Soul of the Beatles

by Peter Doggett

  Similar stories were being printed about Starkey: less than a year after his marriage, there were reports of explosive quarrels in Caribbean hotels and a relationship that 'could crash-land at any time'. Twelve months earlier the same exploitative newspapers had alleged that the McCartney marriage was on the verge of disintegration; only Harrison remained immune from this forced exposure.*37 Yet behind the walls of his Henley-on-Thames mansion the most secretive of the Beatles was confronting his own demons. 'George was always worried that somebody would try to kill him,' revealed Colin Harris, who had worked for Harrison since 1975. 'He kept himself hidden and was even afraid to go for a walk in the garden. There was a time – a few years after Lennon was shot – when he wouldn't go out. We didn't see him for three months. He brought in security men and they patrolled the grounds day and night. One went everywhere with George.' His sister Louise concurred: 'George was finding fame very intrusive. But that was a family trait, in a way; we all preferred it when it was peaceful.' So complete was Harrison's withdrawal that when he issued his 1982 album Gone Troppo he refused to publicise it, effectively sabotaging the agreeable but low-key record's commercial chances.

  McCartney was too conscientious a trouper to neglect the PR machine. In early 1982 he delicately tested the waters of self-publicity for Tug of War, an adult pop album that was his most successful venture since the height of Wings' popularity. Like a penitent, he submitted to public displays of his grief, weeping gently while listening to Lennon's 'Beautiful Boy' on the BBC's Desert Island Discs and appearing uncharacteristically numb during interviews. Earlier media encounters had barely grazed the surface, but now he seemed to welcome the pressure, as if it would assuage some obscure sense of guilt. 'I would've liked to have seen [Lennon] the day before [his death],' he admitted, 'and just straightened everything out. There was a lot left unsaid.' Compulsive truth-telling now replaced the spinning of myths: 'People like a loser, people like to feel there is something wrong with you. Now, with someone like me, I cover up what's wrong . . . I'd like to be a whole lot looser.' The tragedy seemed to have had only one cathartic result: 'A thing like that, it's very final – end of an era. It really wrapped up the Beatle thing for me.' He confirmed, 'One of the things we'd been consciously aware of with the Beatles was to leave them laughing, and we thought we'd done that, you know. We didn't want to come back as decrepit old rockers.'

  The commercial potency of the Beatles was illustrated once again in 1982. Anniversary festivals had once been the domain of the royal family, designed to celebrate the silver or golden jubilee of a monarch's reign. But now the baby-boomer generation had seized control of the media, it was determined that nobody should forget its tumultuous rise to power. The twentieth anniversary of the Beatles' emergence spawned a documentary film, copious press coverage and a comprehensive reissue campaign which carried 'Love Me Do' into the British Top 10.

  McCartney now embarked on a project that was intended to acknowledge his glorious past and to extend it. Cinema was a medium that he was desperate to conquer, not least because George Harrison's HandMade Films was emerging as a major player in the British film industry. As his abortive collaboration with Isaac Asimov had shown, McCartney was determined to mythologise his own stardom. Although he had been dubious about the merits of Willy Russell's dramatic representation of the Beatles, he asked the playwright to prepare a script in the late 1970s – the proviso being that it had to revolve around Wings' Band on the Run album. Once again McCartney was dissatisfied with the results, so he tried again, with the dramatist Tom Stoppard. But none of these collaborations produced the results that McCartney had anticipated, so he decided that he had no alternative but to write his own script.

  As a master of musical spontaneity and melodic invention, McCartney had every reason to trust his talent. Recognising his limitations had never been one of his strengths though, and accepting negative feedback from his peers was also a challenge. The result was Give My Regards to Broad Street, one of the most disastrous episodes in British film history. Written by and starring McCartney, it was the story of a much-loved superstar who finds himself under threat from a mysterious businessman when the tapes for his new album go missing. With dialogue so flat it wouldn't have disturbed a spirit level, and a plot built around the storyteller's creakiest cliché ('It was all a dream'), Broad Street was weighted against success. McCartney's wooden performance as a man of the people compounded the misery. Despite one academic's subsequent claim that the film was an unconscious re-enactment of his 'psychosexual matrimony' with John Lennon, the most benign interpretation was that McCartney was attempting to convey the trauma he had experienced during Allen Klein's reign at Apple. ('What I'd like to know is, how did we get involved with that Roth character?' the screen McCartney asks.) But the film's portrait of the music business was laughably unrealistic, robbing the narrative of any drama or purpose. Equally pointless was McCartney's decision to re-record several Beatles songs for the film's soundtrack. Richard Starkey, who played a cameo role in the movie, refused to participate in the remakes, apparently telling McCartney, 'I've already played on them once. Why would I want to do it again?'

  There were compensations from the project – the soundtrack included a worldwide hit single – but his devotion to the film apparently put a strain on his marriage, to the point where he was forced to deny that the relationship was 'on the rocks'. It was a frustrating period for McCartney: his Pipes of Peace album was markedly less successful than its predecessor, and he was said to have been furious when his joyless collaboration with Michael Jackson 'Say Say Say' failed to top the British charts. His staff were now required to sign pledges of secrecy, but even so tales emerged of his temper tantrums when his wishes weren't obeyed. Such behaviour merely proved that he was human, not a saint, but it didn't gel with the image of an ageless, happy-go-lucky charmer.

  McCartney could content himself perhaps with the announcement in late 1983 that he was now officially the richest entertainer in the world. Journalist Laurence Shames, the author of a 1980 Esquire article about Lennon's wealth that had apparently influenced Mark Chapman to murder his hero, noted pointedly, 'The mistake most people make is to still regard the Beatles as the young, boyish stars of fond memory. In fact, they are middle-aged men who have had lots of money for a long time, and have become conservative about it.'

  George Harrison used his money as a form of insulation against the madness of the world. Besides his mansion in Henley, the guitarist now owned a sizeable spread in a remote corner of Australia, plus a beach-front residence in Nhiki, on the Hawaiian island of Maui. But his pleasure in this last paradise was tainted by the discovery that right of way allowed ramblers access to the shoreline border of his property, within view of his house. In August 1983 he launched a court battle to restrict public access, claiming that he was 'being raped by these people' and that 'privacy is the single most important thing in my life'. Ironically, the case – which was only settled in 2001 – merely robbed Harrison of more privacy, as legal documents revealed that the property was actually owned not by the musician but by obscure corporations that could be traced back to Denis O'Brien's web of Euroatlantic companies. In the glorious tradition of Beatle-related litigation, Harrison's quest for secrecy spiralled into epic legal battles that seemed to envelop the entire population of Hawaii. By the time he had won the right to privacy in 2001, he was too ill to visit the island – the dictionary definition of a Pyrrhic victory.

  Harrison's prospering film business still allowed him the luxury of such protracted engagements with the legal profession. Richard Starkey had no such reliable source of earnings; nor did his sparse songwriting catalogue generate much income. By 1983 he was reduced to narrating a banal radio history of his own career, Ringo's Yellow Submarine. His most recent album, the unpretentious Old Wave, had been rejected by both UK and US record companies, and eventually surfaced only in Germany and Canada. His career mined new depths with his portrayal of a bisexual fashion designer in t
he TV movie Princess Daisy.

  Facing the ignominy of life as a professional nostalgist, living off the 'promotion fees' he was granted by Apple and the other Beatles, Starkey would have welcomed a lucrative Beatles project – for example, Neil Aspinall's documentary film The Long and Winding Road, which was once again under consideration. 'You'll never get them all to agree to anything,' noted Lee Eastman wryly, and he was right: at a summit meeting in July 1983 Harrison vetoed any further progress on the film.

  Five months later, on 1 December 1983, the surviving Beatles and Yoko Ono endured an eight-hour legal conference at the Dorchester Hotel in London. During the preparation of a lawsuit against EMI alleging underpayment of royalties, Starkey, Harrison and Ono had discovered the existence of the McCartney override, guaranteeing their colleague a higher return from the group's record sales than they were receiving. Harrison alleged – quite wrongly – that McCartney had deliberately prevented his colleagues from sharing this increase in revenues; he was reminded that McCartney had been negotiating his own solo contract, not a Beatles deal. But McCartney was prepared to offer a compromise: he would help the others achieve the same royalty rate he was receiving, if they each agreed to give him a substantial cash payment in recompense for his co-operation. Thus united, they would be in a more powerful position to extract money from EMI.

  Starkey, Harrison and Ono agreed, but the meeting soon descended into petty squabbles. Weary of hearing the same circular arguments and convinced that all their problems ultimately stemmed from the Allen Klein contracts that he had never authorised, McCartney's patience finally snapped. Either the group came to a collective arrangement, he threatened, or he would use his veto and effectively capsize Apple. 'What about the tax?' the others asked, aware that the British government would claim almost everything if Apple were liquidated. McCartney replied that he didn't care: he'd rather lose the money than go through any more meetings like this. 'I don't need this grief,' he told his colleagues. Starkey pleaded with McCartney not to take away the promotion fees on which his financial survival depended. Eventually, the three Beatles and Ono managed to negotiate a ceasefire, McCartney promised Starkey another year's worth of support, and the weary participants left the hotel. 'Are the Beatles getting back together?' a reporter shouted at Starkey. 'Don't be daft,' was his blunt reply.

  While the surviving Beatles battled over their legacy, John Lennon returned from the grave. A medium claimed to have conducted an interview with Lennon's spirit in which he revealed (in a bizarre approximation of a Scouse accent) that he was enjoying a series of unearthly affairs with dead film stars, was intending to 'materialise on television when the world is ready for it', and had just written a new song: 'You won't have a say, you won't lose your head/When at last it's your day, you're gonna be dead.' Cynics noted that death seemed to have had an adverse affect on Lennon's skills as a wordsmith.

  In the absence of a reunion, physical or ghostly, EMI Records – unaware that the Beatles had them under financial surveillance – were anxious to find novel ways of exploiting the group's catalogue. In July 1983 the company opened Abbey Road's Studio 2, where most of their records had been made, to the public. Fans were treated to an audiovisual presentation that featured tantalising extracts from the group's session tapes, in professional quality. The three ex-Beatles were invited to private screenings – Harrison preferring to go alone rather than join McCartney and Starkey – and professed themselves impressed by EMI's archive work.

  The company now hoped that the group might look more kindly on the release of a 'new' album of Beatles offcuts. Cassette tapes of a collection entitled Sessions were circulated among senior EMI executives, bearing the secretive label 'Abbey Road Project'. Release was scheduled for Christmas 1984, preceded by a single, 'Leave My Kitten Alone'. Unfortunately, this coincided with Apple's decision to sue EMI/Capitol. The group's chief US legal representative, Leonard Marks, explained, 'We have filed complaints which charge these record companies with, among other things, breach of contract and fraud, and have sought compensatory and punitive damages totalling on the order of $100 million.'

  The Beatles were expert at pretending that legal action did not concern them, but this case was too serious to allow any co-operation with EMI. McCartney and Harrison filed affidavits declaring that 'they felt the quality of the work on the Sessions material was not up to their standards, and that's why they didn't approve the release of it in the first place'. Unfortunately for both parties, at least one Abbey Road Project cassette fell into the wrong hands, and within months bootleg release of the Sessions album was available on the black market, followed by several volumes of Ultra-Rare Trax releases containing further gems from EMI's supposedly impregnable archive.

  No sooner were the Beatles united in one legal action than they were divided in another. The result was what one tabloid subeditor dubbed an AMAZING BEATLES BUST-UP. In February 1985 Harrison, Starkey and Ono filed a $8.6 million writ against McCartney in the New York Supreme Court, on the basis that he was 'earning a preferential royalty from Beatles records to the others, as an incentive for him to re-sign with Capitol as a solo artist'. EMI spokesman Bob O'Neill conceded that the allegation was correct, but that the money came from the company's share of the profits and didn't affect the sums earned by the other Beatles.

  The Beatles had now reverted to the three-against-one split of the early 1970s, and once again McCartney was exposed as the apparent culprit. He resisted the option of spilling the group's financial secrets in public, held his tongue, and instead abandoned the legal dispute between Apple and EMI, believing that it would cost more than it could possibly gain. His opponents reacted by raising the stakes, claiming not only financial compensation but demanding EMI give up any rights to the Beatles' recordings. That would have had catastrophic repercussions for the company, affecting its short-term share price and its profits for decades ahead, so it was not surprising that in March 1986 a compromise was agreed. Under the terms of the deal the Beatles would receive £2.8 million in lieu of underpaid royalties, plus the freedom to delve further into EMI's overseas accounts. The musicians were now hyper-sensitive to the company's every move, and further litigation was inevitable. As Linda McCartney quipped, 'All I know is, with all the advisers and lawyers and parasites, we're putting a lot of kids through prep school and buying a lot of swimming pools.'

  One kid who could afford his own pool was Julian Lennon. In late 1984 he issued an attractively crafted debut album, Valotte, which sold more than a million copies and spawned two Top 10 US singles. Record producer Phil Ramone, who handled the project, glimpsed the spirit of redemption at work: 'This freaky guy shoots your dad, and no matter which way you look at it, you can't recover him. But you can say, "Maybe there's a legacy here. Maybe there's something I'm supposed to do that I feel comfortable with." And use it – use it in the proper sense.' Press and public seized on the family resemblance between father and son, and before long there was speculation that the Beatles would re-form with Julian replacing John. Valiantly attempting to retain his individuality, Julian Lennon still felt compelled to end his live performances with a brace of songs from his father's repertoire, 'Stand By Me' and 'Day Tripper'. He must have wondered how much of the applause was being evoked by his name rather than his music.

  Speculation about a cross-generational reunion of the Beatles was revived in July 1985, when the Live Aid concerts were staged to raise funds for the starving people of Ethiopia. McCartney was named as the headline act for the British event at Wembley Stadium, and like Harrison fourteen years earlier he was prepared to consider a Beatles reunion for a worthy cause. He recalled later that Live Aid's organiser Bob Geldof had pleaded with Harrison and Starkey to take part, 'but they declined. I don't know why.' Harrison's memory was rather different.

  I was away at the time, and I got back to England the day before, or two days before, the concert. When I arrived at Heathrow airport, the press said, 'Are you doing the concert, George?' I said I didn't k
now anything about it. Then I read something in the papers saying, 'The Beatles are getting together.' There were a few phone calls. I think Bob Geldof phoned my office and asked if I would like to sing 'Let It Be' with Paul. But that was literally the day before the concert. And I don't know . . . well, I was jet-lagged for a start. I saw that they had everybody in the world in on this concert, and I didn't see that it would make that much difference if I wasn't.

  His explanation was strangely reminiscent of McCartney's in 1971. 'You know, I have a problem, I must admit, when people try to get the Beatles together. They're still suggesting it, even though John is dead. At the time of Live Aid I didn't particularly want to go back into some situation that looked like the past. I don't want to be set up, put in a situation where I'm tricked into being in the Beatles again. If I'm going to be in them, I'd like to know up front.' So the Beatles were represented at Live Aid by McCartney (with malfunctioning microphone) and Elvis Costello, whose set consisted of 'an old Liverpool folk song' called 'All You Need Is Love'.

  A similar situation arose three months later, when Carl Perkins invited all three Beatles to participate in a London TV special. Harrison and Starkey eagerly accepted, but McCartney prevaricated and then declined. He offered to make amends by filming an insert for the special, but as Perkins told him, 'Paul, it will look like it was put in there.' Officially, he was on vacation during the filming, but backstage there was speculation that he did not feel comfortable about sharing a stage with his two ex-colleagues when they were still in legal dispute. He missed out on a night of nostalgia and genuine affection for one of the creators of rock 'n' roll, who had succeeded in enticing Harrison into his first live appearance for more than a decade. Wearing a suit and a haircut that might have been teleported from the mid-1950s, Harrison reeled off favourites from the Perkins catalogue with a swagger that suggested he had spent months preparing in front of his bathroom mirror. The TV special captured the essence of the show, although it didn't reflect Starkey's increasingly disruptive behaviour as his nightly ration of alcohol took hold.