Читать книгу With the Beatles - Alistair Taylor - Страница 9

The story of how Brian Epstein became the Beatles’ manager has now passed into Beatles legend, which sadly often means that the facts of the matter go straight out of the window. My memory is as fallible as the next man’s, but I was there when it happened and, in spite of what you might have read or heard to the contrary in the avalanche of Beatles books and articles, this is the truth.

I got so fed up with people asking if we had a record of ‘My Bonnie’ by the Beatles and having to say No that I put through an order for it myself under a name I simply dreamed up. Brian refused to order records unless there was a firm order. Once there was an order, Brian’s claim was that if the record existed, anywhere in the world, we could get it.

The famous story is that a guy called Raymond Jones came into the shop and asked for a record by the Beatles. I know that I invented the name and put it into the order book. But now Liverpool people claim to know ‘the real’ Raymond Jones and a chap with that name can miraculously recall placing the order. Rubbish. It was a name I picked at random because I wanted to get this bloody Beatles record that people kept asking about. But it wasn’t by the Beatles.

I researched for weeks and found out that ‘My Bonnie’ was not by the Beatles. It was by Tony Sheridan and the backing group was called the Beat Brothers.

It turned out that the Beat Brothers were the Beatles. But we had to order it from Polydor in Germany. The minimum was 25 copies, which I ordered and had them shipped over. I bought one myself and Brian stuck his own handwritten notice up in the window saying ‘Beatles Records for Sale’. And they were gone inside a couple of hours.

We played it and Brian and I both thought it was garbage, but the reaction it inspired among Liverpool record-buyers was exciting and impossible to ignore. It was a great, noisy, wonderful record. I ordered another box of 25 and they went just as quickly. We sold thousands of them and we rang Polydor and tried to tell them that something remarkable was happening here but they couldn’t have been less interested. They didn’t want to know about a bizarre sales flurry in an obscure provincial record shop.

But that was what kindled Brian’s interest in the Beatles. Several weeks later, Brian walked into the shop and asked, ‘Do you remember that record we sold by those people the Beatles? Well, they are playing over here at The Cavern. Do you know where The Cavern is?’

It was only 200 yards from where we were standing! I used to go often when it was a jazz club, in the days before the groups took over the music scene. Yet Brian was blissfully unaware of its existence. He suggested we took a look at this strangely popular group of musicians called the Beatles on our way to lunch. Brian had seen a poster advertising the Beatles ‘direct from Hamburg’. People insist today that we must have known they were a Liverpool group by then. Well, maybe we should have known. But the truth is, we didn’t.

One of the many Beatles myths is that Brian Epstein’s arrival at The Cavern was announced by disc jockey Bob Wooller. Another is that he rang the day before and demanded VIP treatment. They are just not true. It was much more casual than that. It was almost on a whim that Brian first saw the Beatles. He was simply intrigued by this unknown group that inspired such devotion at his tills and wanted to take a quick look at them for himself. It came at a time in his life when he was bored. What inspired him to suggest we checked out the Beatles in The Cavern was curiosity, pure and simple.

It was 9 November 1961, and it took us only a few minutes to walk up Mathew Street to The Cavern. I paid at the door with two half crowns Brian had discreetly passed to me as we approached the door, which was guarded by a single, aged, snoozing bouncer. We sat right at the back. Some accounts have us nursing our briefcases. Not true. We didn’t go with any intention of doing business. We were on our way to lunch.

The Cavern was a complete dump. It seemed to have gone downhill since its days as a jazz venue. There was condensation dripping down the walls. It was an old vegetable warehouse and it still stank of its former occupants. It was really hot and airless and packed with kids trying to get near the stage. The place was bursting at the seams. The girls had their beehive haircuts and the boys just tried to look cool. There was no proper bar there and Coke was the drink of the day. The noise hit you at the same time as the smell and it was hard to tell which was more upsetting.

My first reaction was ‘Let’s get out of here,’ because on stage were four dreadful young men making the most appalling racket. They looked like typical, unpleasant youths to me. Neither Brian nor I liked pop music. It was loud. It was physical. There was so much noise you could feel the sound. And even sitting at the back, it hit us like a thump in the chest. We felt desperately out of place in our suits among all these casually dressed kids. It was an extraordinary experience. People recognised Brian and he felt increasingly uncomfortable. But we just sat there with this amazing noise and energy blasting at us.

The four Beatles were dressed in black leather jeans and bomber jackets and black T-shirts and they just looked completely out of control. I could see Brian’s eyes widen with amazement as they yelled and swore at their audience between songs. They were swigging back Coke and they were smoking on stage. They were just awful. We just sat there like a pair of lemons wondering what planet we had landed on. It was one of the most shocking experiences of my life and I know Brian felt the same.

But then I suddenly found that my foot was tapping in time to the music. In spite of my job, I didn’t like pop music in the least. And I certainly didn’t feel drawn to this wild bunch of louts. They were the sort of lads I had always avoided at school, you know, the trouble-makers who didn’t give a damn about anyone. And yet there was something earthy and undeniably attractive about them. Their confidence and their arrogance was already apparent. I just glanced round and I saw Brian’s hand was tapping in time to the same rhythm. We didn’t look at each other or say anything.

For 40 years since that fateful visit, I have wondered exactly what it was that Brian saw in this loud and dirty pop group. I remember saying years later to Paul that they sounded as if they only knew five chords. He replied, ‘Do you mind. We only knew three.’ I still don’t know, but something special happened that lunchtime in The Cavern. It was mind-blowing for both of us. They were loud and they weren’t very good but there was just this special ingredient. It was beyond charisma. It was beyond musicianship. It was beyond anything you could easily define.

They only played about five numbers. They sang ‘Money’, ‘’Til There Was You’, ‘A Taste of Honey’ and ‘Twist and Shout’ and, in a way, they were all equally terrible. What had clinched it for me was, towards the end of their set, when Paul had said, ‘We’d like to finish now with a number that John and me have written.’ That was ‘Hello, Little Girl’, which sounded like a decent pop song to me. They never recorded it. In fact, years later they gave it to the Fourmost, another of our groups. And it became quite a big hit. Brian and I exchanged a glance. So they could write songs as well as perform them. That was pretty unusual back in those days.

The famous fable goes that Brian went to see them in their dressing room and to impress them he introduced me as his personal assistant. That’s rubbish. It has been re-hashed time and time again that Brian introduced me as his PA just to dazzle the Beatles as a big-time businessman. That is simply not true. I was his PA. Brian was not struggling to impress the Beatles. You could see from the looks on their faces that he was already doing that quite convincingly.

We just said, ‘Hello’. The so-called dressing room was a cupboard. We couldn’t have all got in their dressing room if we’d tried. We recognised them because they came in the shop. We were amused that we’d thought they were some mystery German group when all the time they were Scousers. Brian said, ‘I just want to say we’ve seen your last five songs. You were great.’

They looked a little embarrassed and thanked us and we left. In the years since, the Beatles have recalled countless wisecracks and flip remarks they made to the smooth Mr Epstein over the years, but my memory is that the four of them were polite and extremely respectful.

We couldn’t hear ourselves think and we both wanted to get out of the place and have a proper chat. Brian and I went off for lunch and I remember we hardly spoke as we left The Cavern and walked to Peacock’s restaurant. They’d been so loud that I think our hearing took a little time to return to normal and we were still collecting our thoughts after a pretty shattering experience.

It took Brian less than half-an-hour to come up with the decision that was to change all our lives. He asked me what I’d thought of the Beatles and I said, ‘Frankly, I thought they were awful. What a din! And yet they do have something. They look scruffy and they are not in the least professional but they do have something.’

‘Yes,’ said Brian, with that famous half-smile beginning to form on his handsome face. ‘They are awful. But I think they are fabulous. What do you think about me managing them? I would like to know, Alistair, do you work for me or do you work for NEMS?’ asked Brian.

‘For you, Brian, I suppose. I’m your personal assistant,’ never having considered there to be a difference. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because I am thinking about managing the Beatles and I know it will mean a lot of work and reorganisation for us. I want to know what you think of the idea. If I took on the Beatles, would you come with me? Or do you want to stay at the shop?’

It took me a moment or two to realise that he was actually serious. And I understood what he had been leading up to. I don’t believe he had thought of the idea until we went into The Cavern. He was completely captivated by this remarkable raw talent that he’d seen and heard there. I believe he had an instant vision of how he could mould them into this amazing pop group that was nothing like the world had ever seen.

I was there when Brian first saw the Beatles and I don’t believe for a second the endlessly repeated view that he fell hopelessly in love with John. He fell in love with the sheer energy, wicked humour and irresistible charisma of the four of them. Brian was a brilliant man who could have succeeded in any one of a hundred fields. But I think that that day in The Cavern he saw the potential of the Beatles and he was transformed by it. Straight away, he said to me that he believed they could be bigger than Elvis. It wasn’t a gradual thing. There was no steady learning curve with Brian Epstein. From that day on, he just knew that he and the Beatles could conquer the world.

His enthusiasm was infectious and, of course, I wanted to be a part of his plans. He said at that lunch that he would have to set up a new management company and he invited me to join him. That sounded a whole lot more exciting than working in a record shop and I quickly told Brian that I was with him all the way. I’d love to say that I shared Brian’s vision, but it would not be true. I could see that the four lads had raw talent. John Lennon and Paul McCartney might not have been the sort of boys your parents would want you playing with but there was something about their strutting arrogance and wide-eyed energy that was undeniably attractive. George Harrison was much quieter and kept in the background that day and Pete Best, the drummer, scarcely spoke at all.

But it was Brian I backed to succeed. I didn’t have the remotest idea whether or not the Beatles were heading for the charts or the dole queue but I was by now convinced that Brian Epstein was going places. He simply exuded confidence and ambition. I was already in awe of Brian when we went to The Cavern. If he now had a dream to fulfil, I definitely wanted to be part of it.

Then he dropped a quiet bombshell on me. He said, ‘Alistair, since you will be very closely involved with the setting up and running of this new company, I would like to give you 2½ per cent of the Beatles’ contract.’

The conversation that followed is still very painful to recall. Estimates vary but I am reasonably certain that it cost me many millions of pounds. I don’t think Brian was testing me and my loyalty, but even 40 years later, when the man in question is sadly no longer around to verify it, I’m still not sure. But I said, ‘Brian, I can’t accept that, even though it’s so generous. I have no money of my own to put into the Beatles and I know it will cost an awful lot to set the business up.’

Brian persevered, ‘I don’t want your money. I want your loyalty.’

But I would not be told. I said, ‘You already have my complete and absolute loyalty. You will always have that. All I need is a decent salary and I’ll be happy.’

With the relentless agony of hindsight, I can only think that my financial problems at the time were so pressing that a rise of a couple of pounds a week in my pay packet seemed like a much better prospect than the doubtful chances of an unwashed foursome from Merseyside taking the entertainment world by storm. How wrong can you be?

Brian let it drop. His mind was full of plans for the Beatles. Over the years, I’ve learned that Brian had a history of taking up projects with enormous enthusiasm and then quickly losing interest. His family and older friends thought the Beatles would just be another passing interest. I never thought that, partly because I was only just starting to get to know him well and partly because I saw a definite change in Brian Epstein that day. On the strength of listening to four undisciplined louts sing five raucous songs in a sweaty cellar, Brian Epstein was 100 per cent convinced that he had discovered the most popular entertainers of the twentieth century. And he was right.