I have no intention of returning to the group. I would rather sweep roads or lay carpets.
—Robin Gibb{169}
Between their arrival in England in February 1967 and their breakup in March 1969, the Bee Gees created, recorded and pretty much produced four albums—First, Horizontal, Idea and the double album Odessa—while writing every song for every record, save one cut by Vince. They toured, did TV, radio and press, dealt with contracts, saw America and Europe, hit #1, went quintuple platinum, fell in love, married, fell out of love and got divorced.
The pace of their output seems impossible and self-destructive by today’s standards, but was considered normal for the time. In the same period, the Rolling Stones released Between the Buttons, Their Satanic Majesties Request and Beggars Banquet. The Beach Boys, suffering a breakup themselves, released Smiley Smile, Wild Honey, Friends and 20/20. Dylan, who barely survived a frantic period of his own, released only John Wesley Harding; Nashville Skyline appeared a month after Odessa. Meanwhile, the Beatles, incredibly, put out Sgt. Pepper’s, Magical Mystery Tour, White Album and Yellow Submarine.
Toward the end of this era of frenzied production, the Stones dumped Brian Jones; Brian Wilson, heartbroken over his bandmates’—his brothers’ and cousin’s—refusal to record vocals for his masterpiece Smile, quit the Beach Boys; the Beatles were hardly speaking and Dylan was emerging from a self-imposed isolation. Nobody survived intact. And here were the Gibbs; kids keeping pace with the greats. The strain was intolerable.
The Bee Gees were younger than any of those bands. In March 1969, the twins were only nineteen and Barry twenty-two. Unlike the Stones, Beatles, Beach Boys or Dylan, they grew up as exiles with no home in rock and roll and no understanding of the emerging lunacy surrounding the music. They arrived in the UK as naifs. They landed in the heart of Swinging London, a Darwinian youthquake of music, drugs, alcohol, fashion, sex, young success and the systemized destruction of existing notions of adult behavior. Those raised in England, and more accustomed to its ruthless, unending status wars—like the Stones—functioned well. Others arrived better equipped to star in such a scene. Before Jimi Hendrix hit London, he’d served in the 101st Airborne and played a million dates on the chitlin’ circuit backing, among others, the Isley Brothers. Hendrix arrived knowing exactly who he was. The Gibb brothers didn’t know shit. They had to figure it all out for themselves, remain productive and cope with an avalanche of distractions.
The Stones, Beatles, Beach Boys and Dylan grew up in the countries of their success, surrounded by family, friends, bandmates—a larger community of identity and support. Scenes coalesced around each band or performer. Each had lives outside their bands, and each had people to lean on who had nothing to do with their music or their families. Not the Bee Gees; they landed in England as strangers from a strange land. Their London community was a product of their success. Throughout this tumultuous time, they only had each other; no safety valves, no completely disinterested allies. It’s a wonder they stayed together as long as they did.
Like everyone else in Swinging London, along with money, sex, fashion, liquor and unimaginable freedom, the Bee Gees discovered drugs. “We were known affectionately throughout the music business as Pilly, Potty and Pissy,” Maurice said. “I was the piss artist, Barry was the pot-head and Robin was the pill-head.”{170} By “piss artist,” Maurice means alcoholic. Barry blew his share of weed, though to little visible effect. Robin liked pills. In those days, “pills” meant speed: amphetamine in a variety of forms and doses. If you did “pills” and stayed awake for days, then you needed the opposite “pills” to get to sleep. Those doing speed also did downers. It was a hard cycle to break and regular—or, as in Robin’s case, continual—consumption of “pills” did not improve anyone’s disposition. Those with a tendency to paranoia or a persecution complex—or those who had to collaborate with others in high-stress situations—grew increasingly sensitive, impatient, unreasonable, suspicious and solitary.
That’s not to say that Robin hadn’t been put through the wringer by Barry and Stigwood. But when band members under stress are all on different substances, they inhabit different universes, and communication breaks down.
“Robin tried to leave the Bee Gees in a peaceful way,” Robin’s spokesman told the press, “and bring about an amicable solution, but negotiations finally broke down last weekend.”{171}
“We can’t even get him ourselves,” said an RSO spokesman. “When we phone him,” Barry said, “we get Molly and she won’t let us speak to him.”{172} Barry was following Stigwood’s lead—casting Robin’s wife, Molly, as a manipulator and claiming that Robin was under her control.
“I picked up the paper like anybody else and I wondered what it was all about,” Barry said. “I phoned [Robin] and was told to bugger off. He wouldn’t speak to me. Many attempts have been made to contact him but he has made no answer. So we have stopped. Robin wants to sunbathe in the spotlight while the rest of the group stand in the shadows. The things he has said have been extremely rude, from my own brother, and I would not forgive him for that. I would say that he is unwell. He has got a big persecution complex. He thinks everybody hates him.”{173}
When Robin wouldn’t respond, Barry went after Molly again. “The wife should have nothing to do with the husband’s business affairs. I’ve never got on with Molly. I tried hard because she is my brother’s wife. He is being pushed around.”{174}
“I make my own decisions,” Robin rejoined. “I love her, but my wife is second to me in my own house. Molly and I have a partnership, not a dictatorship. She’s a wonderful person and these stories that she’s some kind of demon . . . they make me sick.”{175}
“Molly and Lulu nearly split us up,” Maurice said. “One wife would be jealous if another Bee Gee was getting attention. They even counted how many close-ups we each got on Top of the Pops.”{176}
Stigwood wasted no time having a writ issued against Robin by the High Court for breach of contract. Stigwood’s claim was that Robin was obligated to record and perform only with the band for another two years. This was the same legal hammer Stigwood threatened Barry with when Barry wanted to make movies. Barry had yielded before Stigwood actually got the writ. RSO, Maurice and Barry claimed that Robin once more had nervous exhaustion. They did not want the public to discover the split before it could be healed, and, like a couple going through a divorce, they did not want to lose face by appearing to have been abandoned by Robin.
At an April 27 BBC taping of Talk of the Town, Lesley Gibb, the seldom-seen sister, replaced Robin on vocals. RSO told the BBC that Robin had given them a doctor’s certificate proving he suffered nervous exhaustion and so could not make the gig. Robin’s lawyers weren’t playing that.
“Robin Gibb did not submit a doctor’s certificate to excuse himself from appearing on Sunday,” said Robin’s attorney, Michael Balin. “And it is not contemplated that he should supply such certificates for future agreements. His decision not to appear is one which he feels is legally justified.”{177}
In early May, Robin told the Mirror: “I’ve never felt happier. I’m broke—but I’m happy. Happier than I’ve ever been. My health doesn’t come into this. My family are involved in a High Court action against me. So how can I answer my door to them? Or take their calls? I hate doing this to them but I have no option. Until the case is heard I can’t say a thing to them. I intend to defend the case and tell the High Court all that has been happening. I want to sing on my own, write my own music and create my own little scene. I only wish my family would get round to realizing this. I haven’t been ‘got at,’ as some people may think. I came to my own decision. My family make me feel as if I am the black sheep of the fold, but I have to act for my own good as I see it, and I don’t share their outlook on the future. Already I feel free. Free of all the restrictions that one finds as a member of a group. Now I can decide everything for myself.”{178}
“The last time I slammed out,” Barry said, “was three months ago when I said I couldn’t work with Robin again. Since then, he’s had the daggers out for me. I didn’t know he had left until I read it [in the papers]. He didn’t say goodbye or tell our parents he was leaving. That’s what annoyed me.”{179}
Once Stigwood understood that Robin intended to record, he turned to the New Musical Express (NME) as a forum for threats. He wasn’t worried about making things worse; Stigwood knew that no matter what happened, the band’s public squabbles would only spur sales. In the same issue of NME, an RSO spokesman said: “We have not heard from Robin Gibb since we read of his announcement in the newspapers that he intended to leave the group, so it is impossible to see how he can say there have been negotiations. Myself, his brothers and his parents tried to contact him well before litigation started, but his wife would not let anyone speak to him. There is no real reason why he cannot talk to myself, his brothers or his parents since litigants can always speak to each other. Immediate proceedings will be instituted in the UK and USA against anybody who purports to issue a recording by Robin Gibb, in breach of the Stigwood Group of Companies’ exclusive rights. It is believed that the proposed recording may contain material by Maurice Gibb and, if so, he will join in any proceedings to restrain the record’s issue since he and Robert Stigwood have given no consent. Meanwhile, the action against Robin Gibb is proceeding.”{180}
When Robin’s lawyer denied the nervous exhaustion excuse, Barry rushed to get his version into print. “He has said that he was not getting enough credit but he never said anything to us. If we had sat down and discussed it . . .” Barry said. “It is getting to the stage where we should be thinking of going round and smashing the door in. If Robin wants to come back he will be welcomed with open arms. But I won’t speak to him again unless he speaks to me first. If he doesn’t come back we will continue as a trio. There is no question of us breaking up.
“The Press are closer to him than we are. I just get abused. But I would remind him that he only wrote four songs on this new LP. I have been writing for the past nine years. He has been writing only a few years. Over the past year we never argued about him not getting enough credit. I saw something coming because we were arguing a lot. We have grown up together and never been out of each other’s sight. Three brothers are not usually like that. That is one of the reasons this happened. Robin was lackadaisical about sessions. He would turn up at the last minute or an hour after we had finished. So we didn’t get anything from him to put down. He still has one of the greatest voices I’ve ever heard. He has a far better voice than I have. And he is a great songwriter too. I don’t think he knows what is going on. One day he is going to find out the truth. He has not only made a mistake; he has ruined his career.”{181} In June, Maurice took his turn, discussing how he and Barry were getting along, and the state of their musical collaboration. “Barry and I are a lot closer,” Maurice said. “We’re working much more together. We’re having a ball. We know we don’t want to split up.”
As far as replacing Robin, Maurice said: “We’ve only seen two people. We’re getting tapes from Wapping and Nottingham and Stoke and all over, but . . . we want to get someone who can sing nice, we can take care of the hair and the clothes and all that. At the moment we’ll go on as a three piece and if we find someone suitable to take Robin’s place, we’ll take him on. We’re not looking for a copy of Robin. I did the majority of the backings anyway, even when Robin was with us, but there’s more work for me now. It’s bringing me out more—I do six leads on the next album, before I think I only sang three all told.”{182}
In May, the Bee Gees—Maurice, Barry and Colin Petersen—released their first single, “Tomorrow, Tomorrow.” It tanked, reaching only #54 in the US. “Tomorrow” is a strange, appealing amalgam: Maurice’s opening vocals, the funky beat and the Muscle Shoals–Burt Bacharach horns reflect Maurice’s love for the southern soul of Tony Jo (“Polk Salad Annie”) White or Joe (“Games People Play”) South. The drums are further forward in the mix than in almost any other Bee Gees number; that must have pleased Colin. Just as the swamp groove gets cooking, though, the song comes to a screeching halt and Barry sings over a piano and strings that “tomorrow everybody’s going to know me better.” The co-written lyrics reflect Barry’s worries over the split and his crowing over triumphs he knows will come. It’s off-putting, and seems, especially for Barry, a little desperate.
Despite Stigwood’s attempt to stop it, Robin’s single “Saved by the Bell” dropped on July 12, as Barry and Maurice’s “Tomorrow, Tomorrow” faded from the charts. Robin’s spokesman maintained that Robin could not wait for a legal settlement before releasing the single. Waiting too long, Robin felt, might make him fade from public consciousness and he would be unable to resume his career.
“The controversy hasn’t harmed us,” Maurice said, playing the middle brother for all he was worth. “I hope his single is a hit. I wouldn’t stop it. I read somewhere that I was supposed to be against it, but at the moment we’re all happy with the way things are.”{183}
“I have left the Bee Gees,” Robin said. “There won’t on any account be any get together with them again. I don’t regret leaving and I don’t think they will miss me. The only thing I do regret is that we couldn’t have come to a compatible settlement when I first left. I haven’t heard from them for a long time. The reason we didn’t talk during the split was because my lawyers advised me not to make contact. The first time I met Maurice after that was at the NME Poll Concert in May and we were friendly and chatty. He asked me if I was coming back and I said no. That was that as far as he was concerned.”{184}
“Robin’s popularity as a solo singer is an unknown entity,” the NME’s reviewer wrote. “In terms of quality this has the makings of a largish hit. And it should be doubly interesting to compare its chart fortunes with the current Bee Gees release. Something of a do-it-yourself single, this was arranged and produced by Robin and written the night before he went into the studio to record it, just a few days after his departure from the Bee Gees. There are really no surprises. It’s very Bee Gee-ish in conception, with orchestra and particularly strings prominent, and Robin sings it in that marvellous tear-racked voice of his that always to my mind made him the most vocally interesting Bee Gee.”{185}
“Saved by the Bell” reached #2 in the UK, and only #87 in the US, but Robin took the UK sales as vindication. “I am absolutely thrilled about it,” he said. “I always expected it to go in [the charts], though I thought it would either do it very quickly or I would be in for a long wait. But I always had the confidence in it.”{186}
Over lush orchestration that evokes Frank Sinatra’s arranger (and inspiration to Brian Wilson) Nelson Riddle, Robin opens on a refrain of loss, repeating: “I cried for you,” over and over and over, like a man devoured by grief. The rich production and Robin’s emotive, straightforward singing—free of his overwarbling on Odessa—create an atmosphere of overwhelming inner pain. The emotion, if not the music, conjures up Phil Spector’s teen operas. Robin always did obsess about his own suffering in a way Barry never seems to have understood. Perhaps Barry was embarrassed by so much sentiment, and could never present such straight-up anguish in his songs. As Robin intended, his beautiful wallowing in suffering grants the listener a powerful sense of redemption.
Barry was always a human jukebox, pouring out material shaped by the sounds of the day or by his perception of what a song-writing client should be singing. Barry had a gift for being in the moment of current music. Robin’s aesthetic sprang from the late 1950s and early ’60s. His sound, even when it sold well, was always out of style. His voice belonged in the early ’60s. Barry, awash in the sounds of London from the moment he arrived, synthesized and regurgitated everything he heard. He was attuned to trends and adapted them for his sound. Robin paid no attention to contemporary rock. The solo and duo singing models for Robin’s vocals and themes were being overtaken by group rock and roll even before the Bee Gees hit England. Robin’s evocative—never specific—lyrics and his exaggerated emotion show the powerful influence of Gene Pitney, Roy Orbison and the Walker Brothers. All three sung songs of heartache, emotional deprivation and bad luck in heartbroken voices; all three preferred—no matter what the time signatures—operatic song structures that showcased their astounding vocal range and ability to evoke pathos. As with Robin, their best vocals hover on the edge of hysteria.
No other rock artist would cover “Saved,” but it’s easy to think of, for example, Céline Dion wielding it to bring down the house in Vegas. The power and beauty of “Saved” suggests that Robin’s leaving the band unleashed strong creative forces. It would be ungenerous to suggest that Robin might have held back one of his best songs from Odessa for his solo album.
Robin took the occasion of his success to bolster himself in the press. “I could not take the Bee Gees any more,” he said. “I felt like a prisoner, like I was in a whirlpool. We used to be compatible on everything and then we started to clash. I’m not saying they became big-headed but I found the simple things we used to talk about were not happening. In Australia we used to work till four in the morning for usually £6. Barry had £1; we got 10s each. On the ship over here we were going to try and become the biggest group in the world. Success changes people and I think it left me alone in the Bee Gees. Where it did change others, maybe unfortunately it didn’t change me. There became this false aura in the recording studios where they were more publicity conscious than work conscious. I found myself working by myself for half the time. It turned slowly to hatred after a while because they didn’t care if I was interested in the work or not. Their heart wasn’t in their work, but it is now, because I have left.”{187}
In August, Barry and Maurice released “Don’t Forget to Remember,” from their forthcoming Cucumber Castle. It’s a Nashville mainstream country ballad with (legendary Nashville producer) Billy Sherrill–style weeping strings. The lead vocals’ put-on drawl sound like parody, but Barry and Maurice were dead serious. Lyrically, it’s pure Boudleux and Felice Bryant, authors of “Love Hurts,” and most of the Everly Brothers’ hits. “Don’t Forget” also evokes the great Mel Tillis, a singer-songwriter who wrote for country star Web Pierce. The critics trashed “Don’t Forget,” but in the hands of Tammy Wynette it could have been a hit. “If they’d only taken this to Nashville and given it to people who really understand this kind of music,” said music critic Jené LeBlanc, “it would have been a #1 on the country charts.”{188}
“Don’t Forget” got to #2 in the UK but only #73 in the US. Robin told Melody Maker: “We never did anything like this when I was part of the group, although we used to jam on this type of number. I think it’s great. I’ve always liked country music. I think it might be a hit. I am not saying that because they are my brothers. I love the arrangement and it is one of the best records the Bee Gees have ever done.”{189}
Barry leapt into Melody Maker to refute the bad reviews and get his licks in on Robin. “I can only beg to differ with the critics,” he said. “They made some pretty insulting remarks—remarks that would have been uncalled for even with a new group. As for your critic’s remark that our record ‘wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell’—then just wait and see. And why criticize it for having a country and western flavour? You may as well be just as critical about Glen Campbell and Dean Martin for doing country and western type songs. But they’ve had big hits with them. The last Stones record was a flop. They came back with ‘Honky Tonk Women’ and made No. 1. We don’t mind critics, but to use a phrase like ‘not a snowball’s chance in hell’ is a pretty low comment.”
Addressing questions of whether he and Maurice would keep working together, Barry said: “Lennon made a film but that didn’t mean that the Beatles were splitting up. Maurice is making a film, and I will be making films. We shall be doing a lot of work individually—but we will stay together as a group. Eventually, we shall be going on tour.” When asked about replacing Robin, Barry’s hackles rose: “A replacement for Robin?” he said. “I don’t believe in replacements when someone leaves a group. It doesn’t matter who joins when a person leaves, he is never really accepted. Mick Taylor, who joined the Rolling Stones, is not to my mind a Rolling Stone. He’s not one of those five guys who started together. He will be accepted by the fans—but the Stones are the Stones, the Hollies are the Hollies, and the Bee Gees are the Bee Gees. We’re certainly not desperate for anyone to join in place of Robin.”{190}
Shortly after “Don’t Forget to Remember” came out, Colin Petersen got fired.
“I did not leave,” Colin said. “I was sacked. I was happy to continue with the Bee Gees. We were working amicably together. I got a short letter—not even a phone call. The letter was delivered by a driver. It was four lines and signed by Maurice, Barry and Hugh Gibb—their father. The letter said they no longer wished to be associated with me, therefore my association with them was terminated.”{191} “Colin’s departure is all part of our natural progression,” Barry responded. “He has been spending an increasing amount of time on his management activities, and we have been aware for some while that he would eventually leave the group.”{192} “The only way to continue as the Bee Gees is to continue as two people. A lot of songs on our albums haven’t had a drummer at all. That’s no reflection on Colin, but they haven’t needed a drummer.”{193}
The next week Barry and Maurice went on Top of the Pops as the Bee Gees and performed “Don’t Forget to Remember.” Colin’s attorney demanded an apology from the BBC, telling it that Colin was a partner in the Bee Gees’ name and that Barry and Maurice had no right to perform as such without him. The BBC shunted his complaint into legal limbo, and the Stigwood office basically told Colin to piss off. Their statement read: “The Bee Gees will go on performing as the Bee Gees, and if Mr. Petersen instructs any proceedings they will be turned over to their lawyers. If Mr. Petersen wishes to try and form a group known as the Bee Gees, that matter will be dealt with in due course.”{194}
“When Colin Petersen joined the Bee Gees in 1967, the brothers Gibb had been appearing under the name of the Bee Gees—which are Barry Gibb’s initials—for many years. The brothers Gibb have no objection to Colin Petersen performing under his own initials, or any other name. The Bee Gees name predated him by years.”
“Colin lost interest in the group,” Barry said. “During the first week of the last recording session he didn’t turn up once. He said, ‘Call me if you need me.’ A dedicated Bee Gee doesn’t do that. He also told some press people that he was only interested in the money. He said the Bee Gees wouldn’t survive when Robin left—I was never under the impression that Colin Petersen was a fortune teller!”{195} The NME, in reporting the contretemps, wrote: “By Christmas it will be THE Bee Gee.”{196}
While Barry and Maurice were dealing with Colin, Robin was savoring the rewards of going solo. In late August 1969, Robin received a £30,000 payment from Polydor as part of his £200,000 recording contract. Robin sold his shares in a song-publishing concern to RSO for £40,000. He also wrote six songs for Tom Jones. “I put it straight in the bank,” Robin said. “I’m not going to spend it just because it’s there. When I see something I want then I will go out and buy it. I don’t drink, but I might go out and buy a few thousand records. I’m quite a record collector.”{197}
Robin may well not have been drinking, but his amphetamine consumption continued unabated. In September, his parents tried to have Robin designated a ward of the court. Since Robin had not yet come of age, Molly had been signing his contracts. Robin was “surrounded by a lot of bad influences,” Barbara said, “and started taking all those pills. We didn’t see Robin for 18 months. I think it was something he had to get out of his system—but he worried us sick.”{198}
“I am very concerned,” Hugh said, “with my son’s welfare and finances. I think he is being pushed around by the wrong people. My wife Barbara and I are being kept away from our son Robin. We believe he is almost a prisoner in his own home, and we are consulting with our lawyers to have him made a ward of court as soon as possible for his own good and protection. I believe today my son is penniless. I’d like to know where all the money has gone.” Stigwood had apparently given Robin a check for £5,000 just before he quit the group. “I want to know,” Hugh said, “where that £$5,000 has gone. I don’t want anything. And making him a ward of court is the last thing I want to do.” Demonstrating his usual flair for understatement, Hugh Gibb finished by saying: “I have never been a stern father.”
“I was told,” Stigwood said, “that he had gone through an extraordinary sum of money.” “I feel sorry for my father,” Robin said. “He is making something out of nothing for himself. I have made my own career, and my own family. For a father to interfere is ridiculous—he is making a fool of himself.”{199} Robin further claimed that Hugh had been receiving a 2 percent royalty from Robin’s songs since Stigwood signed the Bee Gees.
In September, Robin signed a management deal with Vic Lewis, a former jazz drummer. Molly had to countersign; Robin was still a minor. Stigwood and Lewis went back and forth in the press. “We always take [legal] advice about all our contracts,” Lewis said. “And I am satisfied that the one I signed with Robin is completely valid.” “I don’t think Robin is at all well at the moment,” Stigwood replied. “He is not capable of making decisions.”{200}
Barry and Maurice began filming the disastrous Cucumber Castle. “We have got to have twenty or thirty screen tests in Los Angeles,” Barry said of his ambition to be in pictures. “You always have to do them because if your nose isn’t the right shape, they’ll throw you out. They have to decide what part you’re going to play, you can’t decide to be a hero. It’s a far bigger rat race, dog eat dog. Especially in Los Angeles you have to keep looking round to see if there’s a knife coming! I’d like to do a musical film and I would like to do drama, but I feel I need a lot more experience and you can only get that by doing what you know first.”{201}
It’s difficult to describe the plot or substance of Cucumber Castle because no one has ever been able to sit through more than five minutes of it. The brothers cavort in head-to-toe armor; there are comedy skits and songs by Blind Faith and Lulu. Barry and Maurice perform several numbers from their album of the same name.
On September 27, the courts thwarted Colin Petersen by allowing Maurice and Barry to perform as the Bee Gees. “It seems you are asking the court,” the judge said, “to destroy something of value for the sake of the wounded pride of a litigant who enjoyed some personal fame under this name.” The judge, no stranger to cliché, also said that Petersen was “cutting off his nose to spite his face.”{202}
“It’s given us a lot of freedom both musically and personally,” Barry said. “Maurice and I will become a complete partnership in business and in everything else we do. Out of the whole mess comes the new true Bee Gees. We intend to stick together like glue. There are only two of us now, we don’t [want to] be fighting each other. We’ve [always] been the closest, he’s always talked about the personal things with me, he discussed his marriage with me. Maurice and I love ballads, you can’t make us do rock and roll. We listen to rock and roll, we like it, as we like all forms of music, especially Chopin and Beethoven, but we’ll stick to what we can do with our hearts, not our heads. I write the lyrics and Maurice comes up with beautiful chords. Robin is a strong songwriter and a strong singer, but Maurice is the backbone musically of the group. He always has been. Robin’s leaving the group hurt me a lot. It’s a shame he’s not feeling the same ambitions now that we held together as three brothers. He’s left me bewildered but I think his success is fantastic and I hope Colin succeeds.”{203}
“Maurice and I could be the Bee Gees for the next five years,” Barry told another interviewer. “Though we’ve given the public a confusing time, we should have the chance to prove that we are the Bee Gees. The Bee Gees are not dead and don’t intend to be. I just ask the critics to back off a bit and give us a chance, we want a little leeway. Most of the dee jays and critics crucified the record. They didn’t give it a chance. We’re still capable of making the same records we did before. They forget Maurice is capable of playing about seven instruments, most of the backing tracks on the records were all him, and I sang lead on four or five of the hit singles. So how can the Bee Gees’ sound be finished? Robin has a more heartbreaking sound in his voice, it’s more emotional. Whatever he does now is his business. The critics may say we can’t do it with the next records. They will, you watch. They’ve had their fun, but now it’s a bit of fun for me. They obviously still don’t know who writes the songs. They will realise that we both write songs.”{204}
Robin’s increasing dependence on speed began to show. He gave interviews that were not exactly public relations gold; they were flat-out hostile. “You should not try to mix too much with your record buying public,” he said. “You should talk to them only from stage, through television, radio or the papers because fans want it that way. Familiarity breeds contempt. Once they know you get tired like them, eat and drink like them, get ill like them and breath the same air as them, then you are no better than Harry Blogsworth.” He also talked paranoid nonsense. “Britain is making her own nuclear warheads at a secret and very well-guarded establishment near Bath,” he said. “They’re turning them out like mad, and M.I.5 are behind every tree.”{205} Another interviewer commented on Robin “stringing his words together in a bewilderingly rapid flow.”{206}
November saw the release of “One Million Years,” the lead-in single to Robin’s solo album, Robin’s Reign. “One Million Years” failed to chart in the US or the UK. “Years” is worked to death and structured like Barry’s most indulgent numbers. It’s incongruous to hear Robin singing what sounds so like a Barry song. Maurice began working on his solo album, Loner, in early December and continued through January. He played most of the instruments himself. Maurice’s main songwriting collaborator was his brother-in-law, Billy Lawrie, Lulu’s younger brother.
In December, Barry sounded weary from the whole sorry saga. “I’m fed up to the teeth,” he said. “I’m miserable, disappointed, and completely disillusioned. I’m heading for a breakdown because I have simply had enough from everyone. I don’t want any more family arguments. I have taken all I will take and that’s it. I started the group when I was nine years old. Would I want to break up something I started? It happened, but it wasn’t me. As from today, I’m solo. Whatever Maurice does is his business.”{207}
At this point, the NME joke appeared to be true: Maurice was the only Bee Gee left.
“I have never been pushing or jealous,” Maurice said. “My biggest asset, I suppose, is that I get on with people. I keep my mouth shut and stay in the background.”{208}
“I couldn’t see them carrying on as a duo,” Colin told the press. “I think the public will more readily accept Barry as a solo artist than they would two Gibb brothers who are nothing more than remnants of the Bee Gees.”
Barry said he was leaving Britain for America, and that he had nothing left in his bank account, only shares in RSO: “I am reluctant to leave Britain,” he said, “but I can’t sit here any longer.”{209}
“We’ve always been together up until now,” Robin said. “When we found that we had natural harmonies at an early age, we became almost desperate to achieve stardom. We were always enthusiastic and faced with the same situations. There are certain feelings that you can convey only to brothers and relatives. There might have come a time when we’d all have been having a good time together. But that certainly wasn’t the situation when I left, and I’m much happier now. At last I’ve got to make my own decisions, and can attract individual attention, rather than being part of the Bee Gees. There’s much more scope, and the horizons are far wider. By leaving, I didn’t do anything to jolt the cog of the working harmony. It was for the benefit of all, really.”{210}
Robin’s solo album, Robin’s Reign, came out on December 16, 1969.
“I’m completely happy with the album,” Robin said. “The only regret is that it couldn’t have been longer. The album contains all my own material, including a kind of carol with a Christmas flavour, entitled ‘Lord Bless All.’ It’s not religious really, but simply about winter life, with a lot of pathos in it. It’s got a forty piece choir behind it, consisting of forty Robin Gibbs.”
“Lamplight” on Odessa prefigures much of the material on Reign, which showcases Robin’s tropes: unchanging beats, exquisite voice, self-harmonies, lots of room sound in the production, orchestral strings, laments for absent love, for absent friends and for missed opportunities. Themes of abandonment run through every song. “Give Me a Smile,” peppered with Tijuana Brass horn choruses, includes the lyric, clearly aimed at his brothers, “You may not know, but I miss you earnestly.” “Most of a Life” features a quieter arrangement with a lovely melody. For once, Robin directly addresses his wretchedness by citing an event: a woman walking away. “One Million Years” offers a switcheroo—Robin singing a lead that seems tailor made for Barry. The lyrics express bottomless yearning, desires that will never be fulfilled, even if the singer waits a million years for the unnamed object of the song.
In song construction, vocal performance, arrangement and production, Robin joined Scott Walker and Syd Barrett in the avant-garde of pop. Reign also evokes the little-remembered work of Curt Boettcher, a producer and writer for the Association (“Along Comes Mary”) and Tommy (“Sweet Pea”) Roe. Boettcher’s grand opus, Begin, was released in 1967 and presents heartbroken lyrics over ornate strings and complex arrangements. Begin and Reign also suggest the lush strings of Brian Wilson’s Pet Sounds.
Robin’s Reign is a heartbreaking collection, overflowing with orchestration. Robin lacks Barry’s gifts for melody, hooks and climax. But he surrenders to and owns his feelings as Barry never could or would. Robin hits crazy high notes throughout, belting out at full strength cut after cut. The record feels conspicuously effortful, as if Robin feared this was his one chance to get all his ideas out just the way he wanted. The overproduction seems intended to camouflage Robin’s insecurity about any weakness in the material, as if piling on orchestral effects might hide a lack of melody. The massed strings provide an incongruously soft bed for Robin’s suffering, and give his emotions great power. They also might be a product of his methamphetamine use. Those on speed love embellishment, get lost in detail and never leave well enough alone. Every square inch of aural space on Robin’s Reign is packed with horns, woodwinds, strings, guitars, keyboards and endless tracks of Robin’s voice.
Even the best the songs seem to lack something, an unidentifiable element, a uniting factor. In one song it might be melody, in another a relief from overproduction, in another the need for a new voice to harmonize with Robin’s. This sense of something missing pervades the record, and suggests how Robin’s brothers strengthened his work. To make up for what’s missing, Robin bombards the listener with more, when so much of the material cries out for less.
Despite all this, the influence of Robin’s singular vocals and arrangements on Reign can be heard clearly in the future work of many English singer-songwriters, in particular, surprisingly, Cat Stevens’s Tea for the Tillerman.
Robin put out “August October” as a single in February to bolster album sales.
In late January, the pathos of going solo was made plain to Robin. During New Zealand’s first rock festival, Robin performed with a small orchestra in Auckland. He looks so alone, unsure and tiny in the center of a huge, curved outdoor stage. As Robin begins “Massachusetts,” vegetables fly from the audience. One strikes Robin in the chest, others whizz past his head. Robin backs up a step, looking deeply wounded, and keeps on singing.
This moment perfectly encapsulates the beating Robin took during the breakup. The ego tradeoffs he faced were brutal: stay solo and get pelted with food, or rejoin Barry and likely never sing lead on a new song again.
“After his triumph with ‘Saved By The Bell,’ the failure of Robin Gibb’s follow-up came as something of a shock,” wrote the NME. “It also accounts for this, his third solo single, being rushed out so quickly. This casts aside the cloak of quality which has previously surrounded his work, and resorts to sheer unashamed sweet corn. Set to lilting waltz-time, with mandolin effects providing a continental flavour, it erupts into a hummable sing-along chorus. Extremely well scored, it’s the sort of disc that strikes me as a logical hit—even though it’s a bit out of character for Robin, and his last release was a flop. I think it’ll do it!”{211}
It didn’t. “August October” fared no better than #45. In April, Maurice released the one song from Loner that would see the light of day. “Railroad,” an eccentric mashup of Bee Gees strings and loping country waltz, reflects Maurice’s continued interest in Nashville country and the Band—though in performance it’s most reminiscent of folksinger-actor Burl Ives. RSO put out an early music video, a promo clip to accompany the song. A lyric goes: “’Cause I’m walking by the railroad till I’m home,” so, of course, the clip consists of Maurice walking by railroad tracks. The song did not chart, which is a shame. Maurice, with his expressive, earnest voice, doesn’t imitate the emotion of a song like Barry, or wallow in angst like Robin. Maurice inhabits his material; he has a wonderful timbre. He was never heard enough.
Robin almost finished a second solo album, Sing Slowly Sisters; it was never released during his time with the Bee Gees. Treasured by Robin aficionados for its frank expression of desolation amid lilting melodies, Sisters’ production echoes Robin’s Reign, only with more oboes. “Everything Is How You See Me,” with its western-movie, theme-song chorus arrangement, is a rare Robin moment, a song of pure romantic adulation. Robin describes himself as existing only in his lover’s eyes. “See Me” has a stronger, more commercial and memorable hook than anything on Reign.
Sisters’ most unforgettable and wrenching track is “Avalanche.” Robin sings—in an uncharacteristically high octave—a naked, unrelenting expression of misery and isolation. The production is brutally simple, possibly because this version is only a demo, and Robin intended to add orchestration later. Over a primal drumbeat—which sounds like someone playing an empty suitcase—and strummed guitar, Robin sings multiple harmonies with himself, begging someone to “cure my broken heart” and “free my lonely life.” He chants mournfully of change and of things “locked apart.” The construction and sound of the song—while possibly a nod to the White Album—are simply deranged. Robin never sounded so grief-stricken and unhinged, or stood so exposed. It’s a daring, courageous and even frightening piece of writing, production and performance.
The placement and treatment of voices prefigures production methods that gained praise for their forward thinking years later. Robin sings in the foreground as his voice shouts out the chorus and another of his voices speaks under the shouting in the background. This was a signature of, most notably, David Bowie’s “Heroes,” which didn’t come out until 1977. Robin’s torment, and his commitment to expressing his internal agony, is almost more than the listener can bear. He evokes and matches other singers of unbearable wretchedness, like, incongruously, the Louvin Brothers (“Satan Is Real”) or Gram (“Hickory Wind”) Parsons. “Avalanche” is Robin’s least pop, most moving composition.
In July of 1970, RSO went public. The pre-tax profits for RSO had been estimated at $1.2 million, so those owning a piece of the company anticipated a hearty windfall. Just prior to the sale, RSO freed Barry from his recording and management contract with the company. Barry and Maurice remained contracted as songwriters for RSO under a deal that lasted until 1975. That deal paid RSO publishing royalties from anything Maurice and Barry wrote.
The initial share price was $00.90 but quickly dropped to $00.72. Three-quarters of the available shares remained unsold. The offering was a disaster for Barry—who was reputed to be near destitute at the time—and for Maurice. The brothers were the two largest stockholders in RSO among the artists who held shares. It’s never been clear what the various RSO artists gave up for their stock, but supposedly Barry had all his cash in the company. He lost £36,000, Maurice lost £24,000 and Robin, who had cashed out before the sale, was also bust.{212} Eric Clapton, Ginger Baker and Jack Bruce—Cream—were also shareholders.
By August of 1970, the corporate financial implications of the split were weighing heavily on all three brothers. Rancorous negotiations between NEMS and RSO seemed destined for the courts. There were rumblings about physical threats being made against Robin, and hoodlums turning up who were somehow connected to monies flowing to the Bee Gees. These rumors could be dismissed as early symptoms of the paranoia that slowly overtook Robin, but hoodlums threatened the other brothers, too.
The Gibbs were learning that without each other they could not express themselves. Nobody was happy with his solo output, or performing without all his brothers. Even Barry, the ultimate unstoppable professional, never got his solo career going as an actor or a singer. The irony is that all their solo work created during the breakup, however it fared in the market, has proven over the decades to be arresting and worthwhile. Too bad neither the brothers nor their audience realized it at the time.
In the brothers’ view, their solo careers had failed. The RSO stock sale had tanked. Thugs appeared after the sale failed to meet expectations. The brothers were broke. Maurice was living above a fish and chips shop.
Those unfamiliar with rock economics might wonder how a band that sold so many records in such a short time could be destitute. The answers are simple, and lie in the pitiless contractual practices of pre-Napster rock and roll. (Post-Napster, the financial prospects for 99 percent of working musicians are even worse.) Bands signed with managers. Managers took 25 percent of everything the band made, off the top, prior to taxes or expenses. Bands signed with record labels. Record labels gave bands advances—sometimes enormous signing bonuses—from which the manager, of course, took 25 percent.
Monies paid on signing are advances against royalties—against future earnings. Every penny of an advance must be repaid—or, as the terminology has it, recouped—before the artist sees another payment from a label. A band receives only 75 percent of their advance money, but they have to pay back 100 percent. Taxes took whatever percentage taxes in England took in 1967–69.
Labels have perfected the practice of ensuring that few albums are ever profitable—that few albums earn more than they cost to record, manufacture, package, ship and promote. Any parties the label throws for the band, any promotional expenses they incur, all touring costs, any lunches the label buys for a DJ or music writer: it all gets charged to the band. That’s why many best-selling bands are in deficit to their record labels while their managers thrive. And that’s why, with few exceptions, the richest people in rock and roll are managers and not musicians.
A musician’s strongest source of income is his or her publishing or songwriting copyrights. But from the earliest days of record labels, musicians had to surrender to their label a hefty percentage of their publishing as part of getting signed. For decades, the publishing and copyrights of successful bands funded the speculative signing of all the other bands that would never earn a dime.
The Bee Gees signed away 51 percent of their publishing at the start of their relationship with Stigwood. The most—and it’s likely that they signed away other percentages of their songwriting, too—they could possibly earn was 49 percent of their own songwriting royalties. Add to this disheartening formula that the brothers spent like what they were—newly rich teenagers—and it’s easy to see where the money went: into thin air.
It was time for a reunion. Part of the thinking was that a reunion would give new life to RSO’s stock. “This is a real challenge,” Barry said. “One hit from us could change the whole situation. Shareholders and speculators apparently need some confidence. Well, they are going to get it.” “All that matters is that we’re back together,” Maurice said, “and with the same objective—to get the good vibrations into the company.” “For some reason best known to itself,” Stigwood said, “the City (England’s financial market) looks upon the show business world as a poor relation. But we are going to show how wrong the pundits can be and make them eat their words.”{213}
Before Barry could fully embrace his brothers, however, he had old business to attend to: Barry’s divorce to Maureen Bates was finalized on August 27.
The Bee Gees’ reunion was consummated on August 21, 1970. It was announced to the public on August 28. “We had all been together the night before—but with our lawyers, arguing about the same things that we had been arguing about for months,” Robin said. “The next day we met in Robert Stigwood’s office to carry on the argument, and suddenly it was all over. We threw it all out the window and decided to go into the studio that afternoon. But before we did we had a bit of a thrash with champagne on the roof garden.”
“We know that there are people in the business who have to be convinced that we mean what we say,” Barry said. “Over the next few months we will be able to convince them that we haven’t lost any of the old spark.” “Everything had been too emotional,” Maurice said. “It had been almost two years since the first signs of a split, but it seemed that afternoon in the studio it had been yesterday. Everyone asks about the rows, but I have honestly forgotten what most of them were about. We reached the stage where we believed what we read before we believed what we said to each other. Now I think we all have more stability, and are more mature. Before we were so wrapped in the Bee Gees that even minor arguments seemed to fill our whole world.”{214}
“If you had to find a reason for the reunion,” Robin said, “all I can say is that I’ve been Robin Gibb since I was born, and a Bee Gee since I was six. When I was an ex-Bee Gee all my records sounded like the Bee Gees, because that’s what I am. Now it’s like being back at school with no worries.” In keeping with his role as peacekeeping middle brother, Maurice said: “We discussed it and reformed. We want to apologise publicly to Robin for the things that have been said. We want to stop boring the public with our squabbles and do the music. We intend carrying on with our solo careers but we want to start things as a group again. There will be the three of us and we will use a session drummer. We will go into the studio to record a new single and an album in the near future.”{215} “There were some misunderstandings between us,” Robin said. “But that’s all in the past now.” “Individually they are creative people,” Stigwood said. “Collectively they are, for my money, the best pop group in the world.” {216}
“I think we re-formed because we were tired of being on our own,” Barry said. “We didn’t split because we wanted to be solo acts; we wanted to be alone for a while because we had been together for ten years. Robin rang me in Spain where I was on holiday and he gave me his views on being alone. When I got back we had two meetings and we realised we had forgotten our original arguments.”{217} “We hope we haven’t lost the public’s confidence,” Robin said. “I think we were afraid of losing each other as brothers. When brothers fight it’s worse than friends fighting and we were making mountains out of molehills.”{218} “Robin and I were the people who really fought,” Barry said. “Maurice was always on the outside getting the flak. We two were at loggerheads cause he was a songwriter and I’m a songwriter, and his voice and my voice are different. It was too much for us: who was getting credit on the songs, who was getting voice credit, who should be singing what song. Nowadays we don’t care, we discuss and then do. But our problems were very destructive.”{219}
“There would be a reporter at my door every morning,” Robin said, “telling me what Barry had said. The phone would ring at midnight and it would be Barry telling me he’d never said such things. And I wouldn’t believe him cause I’d read it in print.”{220}
“The 15 months we were split up was the best thing that could have happened,” Maurice said. “We were okay separately, but together we’re something else. In the old days, when the publishing credit said, ‘B., R. & M. Gibb,’ and I had nothing to do with it, they would say, ‘What’s Maurice’s name doing on it? Why’s he getting paid?’ We went through all the little stupid crap. ‘Who sings lead?’ Who cares as long as it’s a hit? I don’t care if I don’t have a solo track on the entire album. It’s still a Bee Gees record. All the bullshit is past; now we can handle it. After almost a year and a half apart, we wrote ‘Lonely Days’ and ‘How Can You Mend a Broken Heart,’ in the studio and cut both right away. The roadies were clapping; it was happening again.”{221}
“You become famous for the first time,” Barry said, showing a new maturity. “You’re about 20 years old. You suddenly have more money than you’ve ever known. You suddenly believe everything you read about yourself. You suddenly believe that maybe you’ve been sent on a special mission by God, that you have a philosophy for the world, ’cos you write songs, so there must be some great mystical purpose in your being. All of these things are quickly dashed when you’ve had about half a dozen hit records and you realise that everyone’s a bit fed up with you.”{222}
“They all learned their lesson,” Barbara Gibb said. “Those days frightened the life out of Robin. Now he hardly even takes an aspirin.”{223}
“We had a lot of ego problems, and we were green,” Robin said. “And the press were saying that maybe Barry should be going into films or maybe Robin should be doing this. We were being isolated by different people who said: you’re better doing things on your own. And it goes to your head.”{224}
“It was a dreadful time seeing the children you’d brought up not even talking to each other,” Barbara said. “Barry kept most of the bad things from us. Even today we don’t know half the things that went on.” “People talk to me about the strain of the rock world,” Hugh said, “and I say ‘rubbish.’ I tell the boys how we used to play the Mecca circuit twice a night six days a week and all we ever had was a couple of pints in the interval. So don’t talk to me about the pressures of the rock world. There’s more strain involved in driving a double-decker bus round London.”{225}
“We were nervous wrecks at the end of the Sixties: touring, recording, promotion,” Barry said. “I was living in Eaton Square and my neighbours must have thought I was a bit freaky. I can remember a time when I walked out my front door and there were six cars and they all belonged to me. That’s madness. The break up was a traumatic experience. Long after we fought, the press had us fighting and reopened wounds.”{226} “We are best friends with rivalries. We accept that within each other, because that is what brothers are. Now we reached the age when we can see each other clearly, understand each other rather than fight.”{227}
“The speed (methamphetamine) took Robin hard and he was seriously ill for a time,” Barry told Mitch Glazer of Playboy. “The pressure and fame got to Robin. He’s a deep thinker with a serious, sensitive side. He gets in moods that last quite a while. I couldn’t go as the big brother and tell everyone to calm down. It was impossible with that speed going around. We were too green to see the dangers, the paranoia and illness. Maybe I was guilty. They all said I was responsible. Maybe I could have kept us in line. Maybe.”{228}
On September 1, 1970—Barry’s twenty-fourth birthday—he married his dream girl, Lynda Gray. Robin had wed his boss’s receptionist; their marriage and divorce would become public and desperately rancorous. Maurice had married a pop star; their marriage lasted about as long as a union between million-selling celebrity teenagers might. As the Alpha brother, Barry secured an Alpha wife while his brothers struggled through starter marriages. Barry and Lynda lived happily ever after. No hint of scandal or serious discord ever attached to their union. Lynda usually toured with Barry; they don’t like being apart and they’re still together. They have five children.
On September 2, the newlywed Gibb bailed on his planned honeymoon and went into the studio with his brothers. As per their prior work habits, they recorded six songs in the first session.
One of the tracks cut the day after Barry’s wedding was “Lonely Days.” Stigwood wasted no time getting it to market. It’s the Bee Gees’ strongest, most exuberant song in years. Maybe shedding Colin was good for them—“Lonely Days” has a true rock beat. Opening over a Beatles-esque piano and the brothers singing a Beatles-esque intro over Beatles-esque strings, “Days” breaks wide open into a passionate, joyous sound. A driving piano, handclaps and on-the-one drums support the repeated chorus. Though referencing the loneliness of being without one’s woman, the song is obviously brothers telling each other how glad they are to be back together.
Released in October, “Lonely Days” was a smash in the US, reaching Billboard’s #3. Worldwide, it went #1.
”It was a lot nastier in the press than it was in actuality.”
—Barry Gibb{229}