When They Were Boys

by Larry Kane

  Treachery, honesty, desire, respect or lack of it, wealth, native talent and talent acquired, lucky breaks, winning by design, love found and lost, leaving your mentors in a fog of mediocrity, respecting your contemporaries, frailty, power, revising your history, living in the truth, peace, violence—all of our lives’ histories are padded with pieces of all of the above, including the four boys who would become the best-known music stars of all time.

  These factors of life combine to make our histories, but as time moves on, and people vanish to a different world, legends remain that often are not true.

  One of the legends is the “rags to riches” story that emerged from Liverpool after the success of the Beatles, who in this book will often be referred to as the “boys,” as they were in their day. When they were boys, and with only one exception, they really didn’t all rise from the depths of poverty.

  Scholar Mike Brocken of Liverpool Hope University has studied the reality for decades:

  THE BEATLES, INCLUDING PETE BEST, WERE FROM SOUTH LIVERPOOL, A LEAFY SUBURBAN AREA AND COMPLETELY DIFFERENT THAN WHAT WAS PORTRAYED—WORKING-CLASS, LOWER-MIDDLE-CLASS, IMPOVERISHED BACKGROUNDS. OF COURSE, THIS DID NOT INCLUDE RINGO, WHO CAME FROM A MORE UNDERPRIVILEGED AREA OF LIVERPOOL. THE REALITY OF THE CLASS BACKGROUND IS COMPLETELY DIFFERENT THAN WHAT HAS BEEN PORTRAYED HISTORICALLY, QUITE DIVERGENT FROM DEPICTED NARRATIVE, REALLY. THE BEST FAMILY WAS A PROMINENT FAMILY WITH A GRANDFATHER WHO WAS THE LIVERPOOL BOXING STADIUM PROMOTER. HIS MOM WAS A POWERFUL AND FORCEFUL WOMAN IN HER OWN RIGHT. THEY RAN AN UPSCALE CLUB. THOSE AREAS AND IDEAS OF RACE, WEALTH AND INFLUENCE, DEMOGRAPHICS REALLY NEED TO BE TAKEN INTO ACCOUNT IN THOSE EARLY YEARS IN PARTICULAR. THEN YOU CAN START TO UNDERSTAND THE NARRATIVE THAT DOESN’T REPEAT THE SAME OLD MATERIAL OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

  THESE LADS, WITH THE EXCEPTION OF RINGO, CAME FROM A RELATIVELY COMFORTABLE AND A RELATIVELY AFFLUENT PART OF LIVERPOOL, ALTHOUGH IN THEIR EARLY DAYS, THE FAMILIES OF GEORGE AND PAUL WERE FINANCIALLY STRESSED. THE PERCEPTIONS ABOUT THE DISTRICTS OF LIVERPOOL NEED TO BE ADDED INTO THE EQUATION. EVENTUALLY, THEIR FAMILIES COULD AFFORD TO PROVIDE THEM WITH GUITARS, AMPLIFIERS, AND SOMEONE TO RIDE THEM AROUND IN A VAN.

  So, to begin, it was more like threads.

  Threads. There are enough of them in the story to stretch a quilt from Liverpool to London. The boys were, like all boys, discovering new threads to their future at every moment. Theirs was a world, like that of all children of exploration, with some odd places. As little more than toddlers, little Paul McCartney and skinny George Harrison would play with friends in the Speke neighborhood, sometimes dangerously toying with German bombs that were, depending on whom you talk to, unexploded or harmless, probably the latter. Speke was a neighborhood of 25,000 people, many World War II veterans and their spouses, bringing up children in the British version of the postwar baby boom. It was busy with pedestrians and bicycles, this area near the airport. That airport doesn’t exist today, but the new one, John Lennon International Airport, is sparkling and not far away.

  In 1943, William Howard Ashton was born in the Bootle section of Liverpool. He says,

  IT WAS A REALLY TOUGH NEIGHBORHOOD, VERY BLUE COLLAR. YOU GREW UP EARLY WITH A PLAN . . . MINE WAS TO TRAIN FOR THE RAILROAD AS ENGINEER. I DID THAT, BUT IN THE END, MUSIC WON OUT. LIKE ALL THE FAMILIES IN BOOTLE, MY PARENTS INSISTED THAT I HAVE A PLAN. WHO KNEW WHAT WOULD HAPPEN? YOU DID YOUR BEST, PRAYED A BIT, AND HOPED SOMETHING WOULD HAPPEN. THE HARDER YOU WORKED, YOU HOPED THE BETTER CHANCE YOU WOULD HAVE, BUT LUCK AND CIRCUMSTANCES WOULD PLAY A PART. I WASN’T A BEATLE, BUT I HAPPILY RODE THE WAVE.

  Inspired by the boys playing at Speke and that “Lennon guy,” William became Billy J. Kramer, the strikingly handsome leader of the group Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas. He would get close to the famous ones and receive a great gift someday: the words and music of their songs to record himself.

  “Liverpool may have been seen as a tough place,” Kramer says, “but my growing up was filled with memories of playing in the streets of Bootle, finding fun in the streets and love at home.”

  For John Winston Lennon, the middle name in honor of the great prime minister, life at home was a bit more complicated, as, it turned out, his own life would become. He had a birth mother and father, and he had a surrogate mother and father, and while he was well cared for in his younger days, he was strained by confusion, and with it, an angry side developed that would make him both popular and controversial, even in boyhood. His birth mother purchased an acoustic guitar, and while her sister Mimi, John’s surrogate mother, generally disdained popular music, mother Julia was happy to dance and sing with him. These were moments in time he would never forget in the years after his mother passed on.

  The drummers had contrasting childhood lives. Pete Best was born in India, and by the time he came to Liverpool, his mother, Mona, was separated from her husband. Mona, it turned out, was energized and ambitious, and would protect her sons at any cost.

  Richie Starkey grew up in a poverty-stricken neighborhood, raised mostly alone by his divorced mother, Elsie, who was loving, and always worried. When he turned six, she had reason to worry herself sick. Her little boy slipped into a coma. When he emerged after two months, his recovery from a serious illness was arduous, but eased by his first musical experiences banging on a tin drum.

  James McCartney, to become known to the world as Paul, was smart enough to get into the prestigious Liverpool Institute High School for Boys at age eleven. Paul often shared bus rides with George Harrison. The two, sharing interests of music and guitars, would get together and play, and talk, and play some more. George, a year younger and a grade apart from Paul at the Institute, told me that “I think Paul thought he was a bit better than me. You know what eighteen months’ difference is when you’re young.” Paul would admit later in many conversations that he acted superior to George. The bus driver’s son, too, blamed it on youth, although he admitted that after an undistinguished education at Dovedale Primary School, he was fortunate, by way of passing his eleventh plus exam, to gain entrance to the Institute.

  While Paul benefited from his father’s early work in jazz, a career cut short by the financial reality of the times, George was mentored and encouraged by his mother, Louise. He became, courtesy of his thoughtful parents, the proud owner of a very used acoustic guitar. Paul did a trade-in, sacking his father’s old trumpet for a similar guitar, which with some difficulty and a change in the strings he learned to play his natural way, left-handed. He loved the guitar and especially appreciated the tips he got from George. He seemed to intensify his interest in music and learning after his life was turned upside down by tragedy on October 31, 1956. Like his future bandmate John, Paul lost one half of his loving support team.

  John had left his first school, the same Dovedale Primary School where George attended, a few years behind him, to join Quarry Bank School, where he made friends and decided to form his first band. John never met George at the school, nor would he until Paul McCartney introduced the guitar man to him in 1958.

  Richie, like George, disdained school, but George managed to do well. Richie did not do well, though he aspired to a better life with his interest in music. But from the ages of six to thirteen, he became a truant, and once again faced serious illness. Despite the illness and serious drug and alcohol issues, Richie managed to hold on. Music kept him going, even though, unlike the others, he had little musical inspiration from family.

  Pete was a superior student, and even as a young boy, he was being touted as a future teacher until his mother decided to open a nightclub. It was there, at the Casbah, that his pulsating love for the drums began. Pete benefited from a stable family, as did Stuart Sutcliffe.

  Thin. Handsome. Eclectic. Stuart had all the family love that John wanted as a child. Stu and John were really a case of man-to-man friendship, an intimacy that few achieve in a lifetime. Theirs was a story that only death could stop.

  For John, James, Richie, George, Stu, and Pete, the musical legacy of Liverpoo
l was being passed on. The city was rich in its history of music, and music, the love of it, was what tied their interests together. The stirrings of the early fifties brought them together in unusual ways. It all began with the original leader—his self-taught talents of wit and words, the questioning of his own beginnings, and a tremendous level of guts and raw courage.

  But as you’ll learn along the roadway of dreams, there were accidents and near-misses from the early fifties until 1963. Fate is not often in our hands. Nor is fortune. Talent and ability are not always rewarded. Circumstances sometimes override even the most ambitious efforts of mere mortals.

  In truth, when they were boys, the sometimes-dangerous sequence of events could have produced a different ending, one the world might never have noticed.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE MILKMAN

  “When he acted like that, sometimes I wanted to give him a smack.”

  —Colin Hanton, Quarrymen drummer

  “He was just a little boy . . . who was saddened that his mom was not around and his dad was not around.”

  —Yoko Ono

  “He tried to hide his pain, but he had a lot of it, especially after what happened to our mother.”

  —Julia Baird, John Lennon’s sister

  THE MILKMAN WAS A DREAMER. Without his dreams, the band might have never been.

  The sun’s rays, on a lucky day, are making their way through the rooftops of Liverpool. The solitary figure moves quietly over the sidewalks, dropping off the fresh milk at his appointed rounds. He is hungry and, as always in the morning hours, filled with anxiety, a smidge of anger, and a touch of daydreaming—the kind of fantastic dreams that fill us with hope as teenagers. Chances are that he is thinking about music and creating a reasonable amount of mayhem during the day ahead. In young John Lennon’s mind, the milk delivery is a necessary means to an end, a few extra pounds, a purchase here or there of American records, a chance to chart his future, undaunted and barely affected by the doubts of the adults in his life. Above and beyond everything he was—friend, lover, son, nephew, brother, student, milkman—he was an incessant dreamer and devilish manipulator. His small, piercing eyes—whether as an infant in diapers, a late teen in a black leather jacket, a young star on tour from 1964 through 1966, or a worldwide icon—always told you the story. Even on the bandstands with his washboard and banjo friends—the Quarrymen—the eyeballs, and the muscles surrounding them, spoke volumes. When he giggled, which few witnessed, or when he was making a point with humor, he stared at you directly, his eyelids rarely blinking, and at times, not at all. During the moments when he was intense or quite serious, the eyes turned into a frightening stare. No wonder some of his teachers thought he was a menace. The eyes could look cold. As they say, “If looks could kill.”

  During his shows, when he played to the crowd, his eyes stared straight out, as if he were rocking the joint for an audience of millions. One on one, in intimate moments of emotion and eloquent conversation, he would give a wistful look, as if to show sincerity. I was always stunned at his eye contact with the audiences. His flashes of humor, that ability to jump ahead of the thought, respond in a second or two to a statement or a question, were amazing, if not superhuman. The boy, making his deliveries, and the man, later offering his words to the world, never stopped thinking his special thoughts, or about what he would say next. His personality and his imagination were something special, a package of excitement, sometimes so special and rudely honest that it became excess baggage on the travels of his life, but always, in the end of the remarks, refreshing the world with courage and conviction.

  The milkman takes a deep drag on a cigarette as he circles back to the small home. As he comes through the door, the cigarette is gone. It wouldn’t be accepted in this house. He knows he has just a few minutes to gather up some tea, maybe toast with jam, a short conversation, if any at all, and it will be time to head off to school. It will be a long day, but music from the radio the night before is still filling his mind—Buddy Holly, Gene Vincent, the Everly Brothers, good old Lonnie Donegan. Lately he has been obsessed with George Formby Jr., the man who grew up in Lancashire, the tart comedian who also sang. The milkman has searched in great wonder for information on George, a banjo-ukulele man who eased out of Merseyside to reach the world of comedy and movies. After all, John thinks, how many infants could lose their sight and regain it after a violent sneeze? How many children at the age of seven could have a short career as a jockey? How could Formby, whose voice alone could make you laugh so hard, create separate stage and recording careers that brought so much joy to people during the Depression and war? And could John become, like Formby, a man who created comedy and song with rich double meanings, like Formby’s risqué tune “With My Little Stick of Blackpool Rock”?

  It was not lost on John that “My Little Stick,” a trademark song for Formby, king of comedy from 1934 to 1945, was banned by the BBC. John would take it as a badge of honor that years later, his relatively harmless song “Imagine” was banned on hundreds of American radio stations because it simply stated that there could be a better world without wars and the divisions of religion. John was amazed by Formby. Along with Donegan, Vincent, and the Yanks (an expression he learned from his mother, referring to American musicians), there was enough inspiration to incite the most curious of teenagers. Sadly, by the time he was seventeen, the mother was gone, and now he relied on his music boys, quiet Uncle George, an unsung hero in his life, and his formidable aunt, Mimi, who raced to the hospital during the bombing blitz to see little newborn John Winston, “the one” she had been waiting for.

  He was at times both angry and hopeful, and always resented the establishment around him—the teachers, the pompous, and anybody with a hint of bullshit. In his world, there was no room for that. He was also glowing or prickly, and there was very little in between. This mood swing, nonchalant to sensitive, would continue for all of his life.

  Most of all, the milkman was an incessant dreamer. Dreaming was his first real profession. He did it all the time. During an argument we had on the 1966 North American tour, we debated the Vietnam War. He told me, “I dream of rescuing Americans before they go off and get killed.” Then, realizing that I was going into military service that summer, he offered me a job in the Beatles organization. “You could become an expatriate,” he said. I replied, “You’ve got to be kidding.” He said, “Not at all.”

  Did he dream of becoming famous? Yoko Ono’s favorite time with her husband was late at night, before bed, when the pillow talk about both of their younger lives came to the forefront.

  “John told me that at Mendips [John’s childhood home] he wasn’t dreaming of becoming a big thing like the Beatles. He was thinking of music, but he, his early years, he was a little boy who was saddened that his mom was not around and his dad was not around. He always wanted to find out about his dad, but through it all he dreamed of excellence.”

  Transferring those dreams from daydreams to reality has always been the supreme challenge for human beings, especially young people. But in this case, the life was fiercely complicated by a family conflict that could rip into one’s insides. Rising above such a situation—a part-time mother, a vanished father—and dealing with a surrogate family could be so difficult. Such obstructions were a challenge for John Lennon as a preteen, as a teen, and even as a Beatle. But John had his own weapons, his own emotional shields to blunt the sadness, the vulnerability.

  There is no doubt that the left-handed guitarist, Paul McCartney, was, is, and always will be a workaholic. Friends like Bill Harry and Tony Bramwell will tell you so.

  Quarrymen banjo player Rod Davis, who was closer to John and really didn’t know Paul, says that John Lennon was also a hard worker, but an unremitting dream machine.

  “He was, in my day, a cocky kind of guy, a young guy with a pointed nose who liked to start trouble, but yes, a dreamer. . . . He was also cynical,” Davis says. “Would I ever see him as a peace activist with a be
ard and long hair? Never in those days, mind you. But then again, he was unpredictable. That’s what made him so exciting.”

  Quarrymen bassist Len Garry (now vocalist for the modern-day version of the band) says John was a good listener, but it’s what he didn’t listen to that took him where he thought he wanted to go. John had encouragement, but an enormous amount of negative energy around him.

  “That guitar; that’s what it was all about,” Garry remembers. “Aunt Mimi told him, ‘That guitar, John, you’ll never make a living out of that.’ Did John listen? No. He didn’t listen to anyone who disagreed with his hopes. He followed his talent. Lots of people will tell others, ‘You can’t do that,’ and that affects people. But John wouldn’t be denied. There was a drive that was both admirable and overwhelming.”

  Quarrymen drummer Colin Hanton recalls, “John could be impossible sometimes. He was driven to extremes. He could be almost near violent. When he acted like that, sometimes I wanted to give him a smack. But he was always determined to be something, to stand above.”

  Davis, a current world traveler and surfing enthusiast, will always remember John as tough and sensitive, two traits hard to reconcile as a teenager:

  FIGHTING BACK, AND HARD, WAS A LENNON TRADEMARK. . . . I NEVER KNEW HE WAS A SENSITIVE HUMAN BEING, ALTHOUGH OF COURSE HE DID WRITE POETRY; HE DID WRITE THINGS FOR THE SCHOOL MAGAZINE. BUT HE WASN’T FLOWERS AND BIRDS AND CLOUDS AND STUFF. I MEAN, HE WROTE A POEM CALLED “THE TALE OF HERMAN FRED,” WHICH WAS PUBLISHED IN THE SCHOOL MAGAZINE, AND WAS QUITE AMUSING. SO HE HAD THIS ABILITY TO EXERCISE TOUGHNESS, BUT HE DID NOT VIEW HIMSELF AS UNMANLY BECAUSE HE ENJOYED WRITING. HE COULD BE CHAOTIC IN THE CLASSROOM, THOUGH.