When They Were Boys

by Larry Kane

  He loved the boys, and not just for business, constantly displaying an uninhibited appreciation for their qualities of grit and determination. It was an irony that in the years before and after his death, the boys gave him the credit due, but rarely with the same passion, the enthralled sense of excitement that he exhibited about them. Later in his life, though, Paul McCartney dubbed him the real “fifth Beatle.”

  His presence in those formative final months of the race to greatness was unquestioned. His flaws, never seen in public, were outmatched by his personal touch. Each night, on the chartered Electra during the American tours, he would carefully walk the aisles and, beneath the din of the engine, he would just talk. I will always remember his words as silky-soft whispers in the dark. He would gracefully lean over, at times on one knee in the aisle, and whisper.

  “Is everything working all right, Larry?” he would ask. “Is there anything you need?”

  “Thanks for asking, Brian.”

  “Were the boys just fantastic tonight?” he would ask.

  He would negotiate the narrow aisle of the airplane and stop at the seat of Motown star Brenda Holloway, who opened for the Beatles in 1965. “Brenda,” he would whisper to the energetic and unforgettable vocalist, “is there anything at all that you need, sweetheart?” She would smile back at him.

  Cilla Black, former Cavern hostess, big-time rock star in the sixties and seventies, and TV host in her later years, would tell her friends over the years that if it was not for the boss and his gracious efforts to give her the chance to perform, she would never have had that career. In addition to his gracious manner with talent, Epstein had an ability to inspire performers he believed in. The four boys he began managing became his greatest leap of faith. Artists often practice their art in the quiet of their own insular world. Whether it is at a neighborhood drinking hole or a big venue, performers need constant feedback. Fans often find this hard to believe. After all, they may not view stars as “needy.” But Epstein had an uncanny knowledge of the emotional tightrope that talented and sometimes already successful people can tread on.

  Maybe he understood those needs from his own rough start in the professional world. Epstein traveled a shaky road in his early twenties. There were many disappointments, the kind of setbacks that would stop most mortals, all the while seeking a place at the table of the great artists of his nation. And then, in a flush of luck, and through unselfish intuition, he became a king-maker. He was, in the words of many who came after him, a careless deal-maker. But in one area of expertise, marketing and skillful promotion, he had no equal.

  Personality overwhelmed his shortcomings, and according to an early and close friend, his pedigree played well in the chambers of power.

  “It was perfect, the situation was,” says childhood friend and confidante Joe Flannery. “Yes, it was. He was Jewish and he was gay and that played perfectly with the London musical powers at the time. So, even though he was naive in some of the ways of promotion and business, he came to the table with some empathetic vibes.”

  He discovered his homosexuality at an early age. Joe Flannery, whose parents worked for the Epsteins, talks carefully about their mutual affections, emphasizing that we “both found early on that we were attracted more to boys than to girls.”

  He was, more than a manager, in love with the Beatles, not in the romantic sense, although other self-styled experts will try to convince you that he had an intimate relationship with John Lennon. That story is one of the Beatle myths so carefully crafted by the fanciers of fantasy. But one thing is clear: his relationship with John was much more intimate and complex than with the other boys.

  “There is no doubt that he was a father or even ‘older brother’ figure, especially in the early days, for John,” explains Flannery.

  But to Yoko Ono, who was married to John for twelve years and shared countless intimate conversations with him, there was no question that John felt that Epstein wanted more. A lot more.

  Yoko, sharing an exotic health drink with me in the kitchen of her home at New York’s Dakota building, remains sentimental yet pensive as she remembers their bedside conversations, saying that John knew “Brian was in love with him.” But, she adds, “John was always straight, never gay, although he loved, in his performances, to act somewhat gay on stage to show his support for gays.”

  As for Epstein, Yoko says, “Brian showed his real love for John by respecting him. John understood Brian’s ‘crush’ on him, but from 1962 on, John was impressed with Brian’s professional manner. He liked the fact that Brian was so good. John [and the boys] felt so lucky that Brian had picked them up. But there was never any sexual connection to Brian.”

  Not everyone associated with Epstein in the early years agrees with that assessment, especially “the Enforcer.” Horst Fascher, the German boxer, rocker, and nightclub legend who helped steer John and the boys through the sexual and sometimes drug-induced maze of Hamburg, has a different take. John had deep respect for Epstein, but he also “fathered” Epstein when the young business genius allowed himself to go to extremes, which was usually in secret, but not always. As Fascher remembers,

  HE WENT FOR SOME DRINKS AND THEN HE WENT TO A BAR THAT THEY CALLED ZASCHA AND THERE HE STARTS GETTING TIRED AND SLEEPING WITH THE HEAD ON THE BAR. SO I GOT A PHONE CALL FROM THE BARTENDER. HE SAID, “HORST, THIS IS ONE OF YOUR ENGLISH MUSICIANS LAYING DRUNK WITH HIS HEAD ON THE BAR AND SLEEPING. CAN YOU COME AND PICK THAT GUY UP?” I SAID, “HOLD ON, I’M COMING OVER.” SO I CAME OVER AND THERE WAS EPSTEIN SLEEPING. SO I SAID, “LET ME GET A MUSICIAN FROM HIS BAND, BECAUSE HE’S THE MANAGER OF THE BEATLES.” SO I WENT BACK AND I SAID TO ONE OF THE BEATLES, “EPSTEIN IS LYING THERE DRUNK; HE’S SLEEPING ON THE BAR. CAN YOU COME AND HELP ME?” JOHN SAID, “YES, I’M COMING.” THEN WE WENT THERE AND EPSTEIN WAS LAYING [HIS HEAD ON THE BAR] AND IN FRONT OF HIM WAS A BIG GLASS OF BEER THAT WAS ALREADY OLD. I SAID, “JOHN, WHAT DO WE DO?” AND JOHN SAID, “HOLD ON,” AND HE TOOK THAT GLASS OF BEER OVER EPSTEIN’S SHIRT, DRESS, AND SHHH . . . THE FULL GLASS OF BEER DOWN HIS NECK. EPSTEIN WOKE UP. I SAID TO JOHN, “JOHN, HOW CAN YOU DO IT, MAN? THAT’S YOUR MANAGER.” THIS RESPECT . . . WAS NOT THERE. LENNON SAID, “HORST, DON’T WORRY, MAN, I ALREADY KNOW HOW TO DEAL WITH HIM. WE ARE MATES.”

  Horst believes they were more than “mates,” but that theory has already been investigated, and scoured, and investigated again, as if it really has anything to do with the Beatles’ rise.

  Whether Brian was ever physically involved with John, as scintillating a story as it appears to be, is secondary to the genuineness of their friendship, and to the synergy that was created over time—a coupling that was absolutely essential to the group’s success. The suspected physical bond will always be debated. Brian Epstein developed a close personal relationship with John Lennon. There were benefits to that relationship—open lines of communication, and total unrestricted candor—but in the view of a former press secretary, there was also a downside. A lifelong journalist, Tony Barrow, who traveled more miles with the boys than anyone except Epstein, remembers vividly how the manager’s closeness with John inspired many a confrontational experience.

  “It was always John who did the heavy lifting when it came to the boys’ issues with Brian. It was John who was elected to talk to Brian. Brian had enormous respect for John’s intellect. As time progressed, the mentor, Brian, needed John’s guidance as he maneuvered the minefields of negotiating and protecting the boys’ interests. They were close. They understood each other. Those early conflicts were benchmarks for the successful days ahead.”

  So Lennon respected Brian, and Brian respected John. That revered and symbiotic pairing, essential to the critical first years, was also noted from the grave.

  Yoko, with great pride, notes that in his last will and testament, Epstein left two very valuable paintings of British artist Laurence Stephen Lowry to John. (Lowry achieved fame and fortune for his paintings of grim urban landscapes, and their impact on modern life.) John, she say
s, was honored that Epstein had thought so much of him, remembering him in that way. Considering that Epstein had no inkling that he would die young, it is therefore an extraordinary act of respect and love for John that he would bequeath some of his most prized possessions to him at such an early point.

  His impact on John, challenged by John’s insurmountable excesses of early success, and the parallel world of forced marriage and fatherhood, was impressive. Sensing the potential for collapse of his bright young star, Epstein provided a home for the newlywed John and Cynthia, a house on Gambia Street.

  Four months before his demise, a letter arrived at my door. The language and style were typical of Epstein, formal with a touch of kindness. The letter was dated April 9, 1967. It was a response to a note I had sent him with my change of address.

  Dear Larry,

  Thanks for the letter. The reason for such a delayed reply is the fact that I was in the States up to a week ago. As it happens, I had heard that you had moved to Philadelphia. Thanks for letting me know, and I hope it won’t be too long before we are associated again.

  With all best wishes,

  Brian

  I folded the letter, put it away. I would never see him again. On August 27, 1967, I opened the letter again. That was the day the coroner reported that Brian Samuel Epstein had died accidentally from a drug overdose, although self-styled experts called it a suicide, as if they really knew what only he would know.

  “He was hanging with a rough crowd in London,” says Barrow. “There were abuses of him, total confusion, and a constant identity crisis.”

  In 1968, before I made a trip to see the Beatles in London, I chatted on the phone with writer Derek Taylor about the loss.

  “What someone does in private is their business, but the boys, and the people around them, were starting to see him a bit more erratic than he usually was,” Taylor said. “The public never saw that. I had a bit of separation from him when I helped manage the Byrds. But we stayed in touch. There’s no question, Larry, that in the spring of 1967, Brian was troubled.”

  The letter that I received in 1967 offered no clue to any depression. His writing was crisp, formal, and majestic, much like the articles he wrote for Mersey Beat.

  Taylor, who became a lifelong devotee to the boys, and ghostwriter of Epstein’s colorful early autobiography, A Cellarful of Noise, stood in awe of Epstein’s miracle act. The journalist, who was my main conduit to the boys on their first American tour, and remained a friend through the decades, was respectful if not sometimes resentful of Epstein, who was four years younger.

  “Larry, let me tell you, Brian can be difficult and painful to be with, but how can anyone take away from him the fact that he signed a contract with the boys on January 24, 1962, [and] within nineteen months, they owned the world. They were simply the best, and Brian knew it. While their music will outlive Brian and all of us, his contribution, his understanding of the nuances of getting publicity, and staging, and all that, was a wonder, an amazing intuitive sense.”

  Part of that intuition was a rarely understood fact that Epstein, in most of 1963, limited the boys’ appearances to small venues, where there was never a chance for an empty seat. Although the Beatles were climbing the charts and building a rabid fan base, Epstein, with only a few months of entrepreneurial expertise, refused to risk playing them at bigger venues. In that critical beginning, Brian sought and received the press imagery he wanted: packed houses, dynamic and intimate performances, and the priceless photos of screaming fans in hysterical poses, tears streaming down their faces. Taylor, Barrow, and others engineered the visuals.

  Epstein, it turns out, had plenty of help, including the powerful words of Taylor, whose reviews of the Beatles in Manchester catapulted the boys to stardom there. There was prim and proper Tony Barrow, whose reporting in the Liverpool Echo, and later, crisp and businesslike management of the boys on tour, was invaluable. And there was that teenage journalist Bill Harry, who along with a special love interest named Virginia Sowry literally invented the world of rock journalism, with an accent on the bands of Liverpool, and especially on the boys. They are all players in this story. But in truth, the most powerful player in the story is the one no longer around to tell it, which is a dreadful irony.

  What Derek and many of his confidantes didn’t know at the time of the deal made with the future “Fabs” is that Epstein never signed the contract with the boys, a show of faith and confidence. In reality, that gave John, Paul, George, and Pete the chance to opt out of their association with him at any time. It also, in a selfish sense, gave Epstein his own out. The boys never dreamed of opting out, nor did he. But the events of August 27, 1967, would, tragically, end their association and perhaps—who’s to say?—be the beginning of the end for the boys.

  The cause of his death has long been debated, but it’s very clear to friends and family that Brian Epstein would never have taken his own life. Boyhood friend Joe Flannery says there is no doubt that his mix of pharmaceuticals was deadly, but it was not intentional.

  “Brian had just lost his father,” Flannery explains. “There was no one closer to him than his mother, Queenie, and there is no way in hell that he would have taken his life, knowing that he would have left her with the mountains of paper that took so long to clear up his estate. I had helped the family sort out all the transactions. I know what an ordeal that would have been.”

  He adds, “I knew Brian inside and out. He never would have inflicted that kind of punishment [his own suicide] on his family. Never ever, even though his life was filled with conflicts. He loved his mother so much.”

  Freda Kelly, the former personal secretary, aide, and fan club coordinator, says, “Brian was a lot of things. There is no Beatles without Eppy. He was a tough boss. He wanted perfection. He was a man who could be self-destructive, but he was not a man who would ultimately self-destruct. His love for his mother was so intense that he would never have committed suicide.”

  Brian’s earlier life was a series of frustrations. He experimented with different jobs, in the mid-fifties, with limited results. Family lawyer Russ Makin watched the awkward transition from teenager to young adult, and although troubled by Brian’s anxiety, found his emerging personality to be refreshing.

  “He certainly wasn’t conventional . . . and wasn’t usual. It was as if he was trying to break out of himself and take an uplift. He had enthusiasm and sudden bursts of flights of fancy, but he really wasn’t very stable . . . rather like a butterfly. Butterflies are very colorful, as well as floating, and don’t settle for very long at any one object.”

  Makin’s description magnifies the years of searching, longing for direction. After a stint in the army as a draftee, Epstein attended three terms at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London. His classmates included Peter O’Toole, Albert Finney, and Susannah York. Although he was enamored of theaters, acting would not suit him, although his sense of drama played out very well in his negotiations for the boys’ early record contracts.

  Returning to Liverpool from London, and impacted by the broadcasts of rock ’n’ roll on Radio Luxembourg, Epstein became a director of the family business NEMS (North End Music Stores). He was an active seller of records, and although a fan of classical music, he became more and more interested in the pop-music scene. There are conflicting stories of what led to his meeting with the Beatles. The most common is the visit by a young man, Raymond Jones, on October 28, 1961, asking for a copy of “My Bonnie,” a song the Beatles recorded with Tony Sheridan in Hamburg. That visit, it is said, caused Epstein to inquire about the Beatles.

  But the truth is simple: Epstein had been selling young Bill Harry’s Mersey Beat in the NEMS store, a publication that had lionized the Beatles. The contradiction between his sudden “discovery” and the much earlier notice of them remains today. Harry, Mersey Beat’s publisher, is convinced that Epstein had to know about the band when the fever was spreading.

  “I mean,” Harry insists, “I mean,
he was selling records and there was absolutely no way he could not have heard of the Beatles.”

  Harry’s truth is confirmed by real events. When he came around to Brian’s record store, Harry convinced Epstein to buy a dozen copies of Mersey Beat. That was issue number one, July 6, 1961. By issue number two, Epstein ordered twelve dozen. In a few weeks, Brian Epstein began working, freelance of course, as a record reviewer at Mersey Beat. It was great for business.

  “He was aware of every group in town,” Harry says.

  The sequence of knowledge is undisputed. And Mersey Beat, which owned the collective minds of the fans and hundreds of would-be stars, holds the real story.

  In the famous issue number two, a photo of the Beatles was featured on the entire front cover. Epstein did indeed purchase 144 copies of the publication to sell in his store. Issue number three featured deejay Bob Wooler’s dramatic eyewitness account of the Beatles, plus an advertisement for NEMS, Epstein’s business, on the same page.

  By August 1961, Epstein, an avid reader of Mersey Beat, would have had a difficult time ignoring the decisive column written in those early days.

  Bob Wooler, the deejay at the Cavern, waxed poetic about the young, raw Beatles. He reported, “I don’t think that anything like this will ever happen again.”

  In the 1970s, John Lennon set the record straight. He told me, “It is rubbish that Brian didn’t know who we were. We were in Mersey Beat. People were talking. The first Hamburg stories were all around. He knew us. But he had yet to see us.”