I DON’T know whether it was William Shakespeare or Ringo Starr who said: ‘When this business stops being fun, I’m giving it up,’ but whoever it was I know what he meant and there was a time early this year when I almost gave it up.
The whole business became too much for me—the travelling and the telephone, the talk and the deals, the relentless social duties, the rootlessness of my life and the sheer hard slog of staying on top. For some months the strain had been building up, and I felt my life was an awful mess. Then suddenly, I realized that the power was entirely in my hands—I didn’t have to go on any more. I could dispose of my interest in my artistes and live entirely as I pleased for the rest of my life, very comfortably off.
One night I went out with a columnist—he now works on my executive staff—and we had dinner at the Rembrandt Club in Liverpool. He was interviewing me for an article to be published on January 14th, to coincide with the Beatles’ departure for their Paris season. We had talked on the usual subjects—the unprecedented success of the Beatles, its causes and effects, the future and so on. I said it was difficult to know about the future and the journalist said casually, in the way Pressmen do: ‘D’you think you’ll ever sell the Beatles?’
I didn’t reply for a moment and I looked away. He allowed the pause to continue, assuming, rightly, that the silence would embarrass me. I reached for a stick of celery and tapped it on my plate. ‘It’s a large question,’ I said ‘I don’t think I would.’
‘Look at me in the eyes,’ said the journalist, ‘and say: I will never sell the Beatles.’
Again I looked away and I gave him no reply. I felt dreadful. I wouldn’t have believed, six months earlier, that there would come a moment when I could entertain the slightest doubt about my future with the Beatles, or, for that matter, with any of my artistes.
But the truth was that I was, that very week, to decide whether or not I was staying in business as sole director of all the wonderful young people who had so changed my life. I had been made one hard, genuine cash-in-hand offer only that day of £150,000 for a share in the Beatles and three days later, in a London restaurant, I dined with the man who made the offer.
The offer was for a 50 per cent interest in all my artistes and management companies, to give me my capital gain of £150,000 and to allow me final say on the type of work the Beatles did and relieve the strain, but my power as a result would remain limited. Though I did not find it very attractive it would have been the end of much worry and strain.
I told my powerful companion: ‘I need time. You know my views so far but there is one thing I must do. I must tell the Beatles.’
I formed a complete plan in my mind. I would sell the Beatles and all of my artistes except one whom I would still retain under sole direction. Of the other artistes I would become personal manager and the agency with whom I would do the deal would take over all the headaches and a great deal of the income.
But first I had to see the Beatles. I met them in my flat and I said to them: ‘How would you feel if——took you over,’ and George, without looking up muttered: ‘You’re joking.’
‘I’ve never been more serious in my life,’ I said and Ringo said: ‘Tell us again.’ I repeated: ‘How would you feel? It’s a very good agency.’ Said John, the literary Beatle: ‘Get stuffed,’ Paul said something similar, though less polite and I said: ‘You don’t seem very enthusiastic.’
They all looked at me as if I were mad. I said: ‘You must know this. I’m not sure I can do everything I should for you. The organization is getting very big and the pressure’s a bit much. You might well be better off elsewhere.’
The Beatles were speechless. They had never imagined a split in our relationship and I argued as persuasively as I could that it could be in their own interests, though the longer I spoke the less I was convincing myself. At length, I stopped and said: ‘Well?’ Paul said ‘Sell us and we’ll pack up completely. We’ll throw the whole lot up tomorrow.’
This was all I needed and I was overwhelmed by their attitude. Their loyalty was tremendous and I feel I can never really repay it. Until then I don’t feel I had ever realized its depth nor had I known how proud they were of me as their leader. I returned to the financier and I said: ‘Thank you for your offer but I cannot accept it. I don’t think all the money in the world would be enough.’ He was very disappointed, and I suspect, annoyed but God gave us tongues to conceal our thoughts and he said, courteously enough: ‘OK Brian. Fair enough. It would have been a good deal, though.’
And this was the point. The Beatles are not a deal. They are unique human beings and I believe that even if the whole thing peters out I will always be with the Beatles. I would like to look after them in some way throughout their lives, not because I want a percentage but because they are my friends. Since those January doubts, I have not wavered in my determination to retain sole direction for I could never be sure that anyone else would care for the artistes in the way they deserve. I believe as modestly as I can, that they all need me.
The strain, however, continues and increases and thrives like a malignant disease. I know that thousands of executives in the provinces and, to a greater extent in London, have massive worries, work stupidly long hours, deprive themselves of exercise and leisure, but I do not know of anyone who works harder than I do. This is not boastful for I am not particularly proud of it, nor is it very clever. But it’s true.
The telephone in my office—I have two: one a direct line, the other through a switchboard—does not stop for one second of any day. Mostly there are two calls on simultaneously, and an inter-office dictaphone hammering the brain into a half-coma. It is one thing to have a good staff—and I have—but it is quite another to be able to delegate. I have never been good at this, and though I employ the sort of people who can make wise and honourable decisions, I am loathe to give them the power to do so, for by making my own mind up I remain sure that there is an overall design.
I believe in democracy but I also like to see one man clearly in charge, answerable to himself for his own mistakes. There are penalties. The chief of them is loneliness for ultimately I must bear the strain alone, not only in the office or the theatre, but at home in the small hours. When a disc goes badly or a business venture fails, I am the one who suffers most, for I hold myself responsible. It isn’t the money that worries me; it’s the failure. Though I didn’t seek it, fame has overtaken me and this is not always very pleasant partly because of my youth, partly because of my background and provincial origins, my sudden entry into show-business with the greatest stars in the world, I am sought now by pressmen, by fans, by all manner of people as I never wished to be.
Eighteen months ago when the first national newspaperman came to interview me, I was withdrawn, awkward, edgy and not at all anxious to talk about myself. For about three minutes I refused to say in which part of Liverpool I lived, not because I was ashamed but because I could not see its relevance. Now, from habit, I have become almost a professional interviewee and my chief anxiety is guarding against glibness. Since that first interview I have, I believe, been grossly over exposed—a danger of which everyone around the Beatles is acutely aware—not only in print but in vision. ‘Panorama’ ‘did’ me earlier this year, and I have appeared on practically every independent channel, constantly probed and scratched in an endeavour to discover the success of my artistes. (The answer to this is very simple—they are talented people.)
Mr. Kenneth Harris, who is normally more at home with Premiers and Archbishops did one of those searching face-to-face articles on me for the Observer, and twice I submitted myself to searching interviews on BBC radio. Finally by midsummer 1964 the situation became so serious that I had to turn down an offer of a 40-minute profile on BBC 2, and a writer on a magazine called The New Elizabethan ’phoned me to say ‘Would you mind if we didn’t do that article on you … we feel you’ve been rather well done already.’
Of course it is all very flattering. It was nice to be asked to telecast the ‘Week’s Good Cause’. I liked being named as one of the Ten Best Dressed men. Everyone likes to matter, but it can go too far. One begins to feel like a goldfish, swimming round and round simply to help other people relax. There are, also, a few fan problems which became more acute when George and Ringo came to live in the same block of flats and there is now not a daylight hour when the hall doorway isn’t darkened by a knot of autograph hunters, some hardly out of their prams.
At first when I was asked for autographs it was quite pleasureable—nice to be noticed and recognized—but it has since become not only a chore but perilous.
One night after a ‘Mod’ Ball at Wembley Pool, on which several of my artistes had been appearing, a screaming pack of fifty girls encircled me as I was leaving the building. They tore at my coat and pinned my arms by my side and I was about to be pulled to the ground when from the shadows leapt Neil Aspinall, the agile Beatles’ road manager who dived through them and had me clear in four or five seconds.
Never have I been so thankful to see anyone nor so grateful of Neil’s experience in saving the Beatles from death day by day.
Older fans are not so violent but they are not nearly as pleasant. On my way to Torquay one night to start work on this book I stopped off for a last minute drink at an hotel in Windsor. It was just on closing time and my assistant and I ordered two stiff brandies. At the other end of the bar were five men in evening dress all of whom were staring at me. One of them swayed over and said: ‘My friend says you’re the Beatles’ boss. I’ve got a pound says you’re not. What about it?’ I said ‘I am’ and he said, pushing the pound in my face: ‘This says you’re not.’ I replied, trying to get on with my drink: ‘All I can tell you is that I am and would you mind letting me have a quiet drink.’
‘What’s your name then?’ said the man supporting himself on the bar.
‘Brian Epstein’ said my assistant, and the other four men then came over. They demanded that I produced my driving licence and finally agreed that I was who I claimed to be.
The men then insisted that we have a drink, that their wives meet us, that we discussed the Beatles and that we sign autographs not only for them but for their children.
As Ringo says ‘this is the penalty of being the Beatles Manager’ and he should know for the prohibitions and inhibitions of a Beatle’s life are unimaginably severe.
A Beatle must not marry. It is all very well if one is married before one is a fully-grown Beatle but a fully-grown Beatle must stay single. He cannot pop into the local cinema or snatch a quick pint in the local for if he does, not only will he spend the entire time signing autographs, he may also be insulted. … ‘Why are you so big-headed? What’s so special about you? Your hair’s too long … your music’s lousy. …’
A Beatle must not go abroad for a holiday with his girlfriend for, if he does, Mr. John Gordon of the Sunday Express will thunder about moral example, not mentioning, of course, that practically every teenager in the land holidays with a member of the opposite sex. This year, for example, the Beatles’ holiday was to be gloriously private. It was planned weeks ahead and it was arranged like this. We side-stepped our regular travel agents—excellent though they are—because they are too well known. Instead we hired another company and told them we wanted a fool-proof secret route plotting for four young men and three girl-friends and a wife. The men, we explained, would travel in pairs, the girls one pair, two singles. We wanted two destinations, at which two sets of couples would link up.
None of the arrangements were to be made by phone and code names were created for the eight. Mr. McCartney was Mr. Manning; Mr. Starr was Mr. Stone. Their companions were to be Miss Ashcroft and Miss Cockcroft. Mr. Lennon was Mr. Leslie and his wife, Mrs. Leslie. Mr. Harrison was Mr. Hargreaves and his girl friend became Miss Bond. Manning and Stone, Ashcroft and Cockcroft were to holiday in the Virgin Islands; the Leslies, Hargreaves and Bond would go to Tahiti.
These were the routes: Manning, Stone to fly in disguise by charter plane from Luton to Paris, thence, after a tarmac transfer, by Air France Caravelle to Lisbon. The girls to fly BEA London to Lisbon. Link with boys at Lisbon for through flight to Puerto Rico. There to split again and link later with yacht for month’s cruise.
The Leslies and Hargreaves charter flight, Luton to Amsterdam, Miss Bond BEA to Amsterdam, link with other three thence to Vancouver en route finally for Honolulu and Tahiti for yacht.
At 8 a.m., on Saturday May 2nd, security solid, secrecy absolute and stomachs fluttering nervously, eight figures huddled in doorways around London. Every Beatle home and those of their girl friends, are watched constantly by press and fans and to guard against early discovery, the eight had stayed the previous night in the homes of other people.
Small hired chauffered cars made their rendezvous in the doorways. Travel agents sworn to silence, close friends and employees travelled with them to the pick-up point. With Paul and Ringo travelled my personal assistant Derek Taylor, travelling as Tatlock. With Patti Boyd (alias Bond) went Neil Aspinall, travelling as Ashenden.
Paul in blue tinted sunglasses, sinister slim moustache, hair slicked back under a huge hat was unrecognizable. Likewise Ringo, in black hat, with drooping ginger moustache and hornrims. Together they looked like spys in an old Paul Henreid film. Beatles never.
The first stages of all journeys passed without recognition. Both quarters reached their major staging point. But somehow, and no one will ever know, when George and John reached Vancouver there were 300 fans to meet them. And Puerto Rico went wild when the two ‘spies’ flew in.
The secret was out and weeks of minute arrangement were squandered. The result was autograph hunters, imprisonment in a hotel for two days for John and George, Daily Expressmen in a speedboat seeking—and, Express-fashion, finding—Paul and Ringo.
Is this a holiday?
Well in the end it was, and a good one, but it is an illustration of the other side of being a Beatle.
And the final seal was set on this venture when, after the boys returned, a Fleet Street editor said to me: ‘You managed to leak the holiday plans very nicely Brian. …’
Sometimes I feel, you cannot win.