THE BEGINNING OF THE END

WITH THE

BEATLES

ALISTAIR TAYLOR

JOHN BLAKE

Published by John Blake Publishing Ltd, 3 Bramber Court, 2 Bramber Road, London W14 9PB, England

First published in paperback in 2003 ISBN 1 904034 73 X

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Printed in Great Britain by Creative Print and Design (Wales), Ebbw Vale, Gwent

13579 10 8642 © Text copyright Alistair Taylor and Stafford Hildred 2003

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Dedication

I would like to dedicate this book to my wife Lesley; and to the memory of Brian Epstein and all the Epstein family; and to Beatles fans everywhere. I would like to give my heartfelt thanks to Stafford Hildred, without whose help this book would never have been written.

Contents

Prologue 1

1 The Start 5

2 The Meeting 15

3 The Contract 25

4 The Record 35

5 The Big Break 65

6 The Price of Fame 77

7 The World 99

8 The Escapes 127

9 The Palace 137

10 The Beginning of the End 145

11 The Nightmare 183

12 The Unhappy Ending 197

13 Sacking 241

PROLOGUE

The Beatles Anthology weighs 8 lb 12 oz and includes references to more than 2,000 people who played a part in the story of the greatest band the world will ever see. It is the Beatles' own definitive account of their momentous time together. But the man who was by the side of manager Brian Epstein when he first saw the Beatles playing, at the Cavern on 9 November 1961, is not mentioned. Apart from John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Pete Best, his is the only other name on the Beatles' first contract. He became the Beatles' Mr Fixit. He arranged flights, deflected paternity suits, lent money and often a shoulder to cry on. He bought islands, cars and houses for the Fab Four. He survived a determined attempt by John Lennon to turn him on to LSD. He persuaded George Harrison not to quit the group. He lost Ringo in the middle of Paris airport. And he was a grief counsellor for Paul McCartney when Jane Asher dumped him because she came home early and found him in their bed with another woman.

His name is Alistair Taylor and he has been effectively air-brushed out of official Beatles history. Yet he was the man who shared Epstein's amazing early dream of transforming this wonderful raw talent into the fabulous finished product which dazzled the globe. Today, Alistair lives on Income Support and his memories. Yet he once turned down the offer of a 2V2 per cent share of the Beatles from Brian Epstein. Estimates vary, but some years ago he was reliabil-iably informed that he had rejected a deal which would have given him an estimated £150 million.

In recent years Alistair has scratched a living any way he can. He has taken back-breaking labouring jobs, shovelling lead in a Dickensian factory near his tiny cottage just outside Matlock in the Derbyshire Dales and he has served as a barman and pot-washer in local pubs and hotels.

Alistair was with the Beatles from their historic first meeting with Brian Epstein through the astonishing Beatle-mania years. As a hard-working and trusted member of the exclusive inner circle, he witnessed the transformation of four young Liverpool musicians into the multi-millionaire international icons they became. Alistair was with the doctor who broke into Brian Epstein's locked bedroom door in 1967 when the charismatic manager was found dead. In the confused aftermath that followed, he was one of the loyal figures who struggled to help the Beatles reorganise their lives. John Lennon asked him to become general manager of Apple Corps and all four Beatles saw Alistair battling to bring some sanity to the commercial mayhem of that enterprise.

When the Beatles began to break apart and brash American accountant Allen Klein was brought in to take charge, Alistair was the most senior of a long list of employees who were sacked in 1969. It was a shattering blow to a man who had become totally devoted to 'the boys'. He had never fiddled a penny of his expenses, never sold a whisper of gossip and never wanted more than to play his part in the greatest entertainment success story of the twentieth century.

Yet when the axe came, he made four telephone calls -not to plead for his job, but to make sure that each of the Beatles knew exactly what was being done in their name. From John, Paul, George and Ringo, the response was precisely the same - not one of them would come to the phone. Alistair believes they were embarrassed, and having given Klein carte blanche to clean up the chaos they could not make any exceptions. Perhaps that embarrassment is why the name of their faithful aide does not appear anywhere in their own version of events. Who knows? Today, Alistair Taylor might be as poor as a church mouse but he is not bitter. He simply wants to tell his story.

Stafford Hildred

THE START

The advert in the Sits Vac column of the Liverpool Echo read, 'Young man wanted for position as sales assistant in city centre music store.' It might not look too exciting now, but at the time it promised a whole new life. The year was 1960 and I was 25 years old and stuck in a dull job as a clerk in a timber yard in Liverpool. I had worked in shops before and worked my way up as one of the bright young men of the John Lewis organisation. I'd left my home town of Runcorn for a new career in London until an accident in a supermarket damaged my spine and left me jobless.

Until then, my life had been on the up and up. In London, I shared a flat in Battersea and met the lady who is still my wife. My flatmate Nick and I used to see this gorgeous girl coming home from work every night and, in order to get to know her, we had a party. We put an invitation through her letter box and, to my delight, she accepted. We had asked her really for Nick's benefit, because I already had a girlfriend. But when she arrived, I opened the door and it was just like - Bang - we were instantly in love. Five days later we were engaged.

She was called Lesley, and she was gorgeous. I still think she is. We got married on Christmas Eve 1959 at Caxton Hall at nine o'clock in the morning. She had to go back to work because she managed two jewellery shops, one in Regent Street and one in Burlington Arcade. As she worked on commission, she wasn't going to take time off just before Christmas.

At four minutes past nine, we were outside on the pavement getting into a taxi that dropped her off to work. All her family thought that I had got her in the club. We had only known each other for five days when we got engaged and within a month we were married.

Life was fantastic until I slipped a disc lifting a heavy package at work. I was in agony and in plaster for eight months. I couldn't work for ages so I lost my job without any compensation. We moved back up to Liverpool where it was cheaper to live and I got a job as a clerk in a firm of timber importers. I was terribly bored. We were newly married. I was so unhappy. Lesley got fed up with me coming in every night moaning and demanded to know what would make me happy.

'I'd like to get back to retailing,' I heard myself saying. I realised that it was contact with people that I missed the most. I loved working in a shop because of the constant flow of different people who come into your life. Lesley understood. She was a sales lady. I just love the atmosphere of serving people. I started looking in the Liverpool Echo and, lo and behold, I saw the fateful ad: 'Young man wanted' ... That was late in 1960. It concluded: 'Apply in writing to Mr Brian Epstein, NEMS Ltd., WhitechapeP, so that was what I did.

I had never heard of Brian Epstein but I knew NEMS, the record shop, very well because I was a big record buyer. I was weaned on buying my first ever records there. I thought that was an incredible opportunity - to get back into selling and to move into the exciting world of music. I got a letter back asking me to come for an interview and along I went.

My interview was in the first floor office at Whitechapel where I was confronted by a very well-spoken, elegantly-dressed young man. The meeting went on for about two hours. It was great from the moment we met. We just

clicked. We talked about all sorts of things. We talked about music, life, Liverpool, just about everything. Although our future was to be bound together in pop, we were both devoted to very different sorts of music. I loved jazz and Brian was passionate about classical music, particularly Mozart and Beethoven.

Our relationship was forged in that very first meeting. I knew straight away that he was 'queer', as we unkindly called it then. I wasn't. He knew I wasn't. And he knew I knew he was. And it wasn't a problem for either of us. Remember, this was at a time when homosexuality was about as socially acceptable as bear-baiting. It was a shameful and illegal practice that was widely deplored by all so-called right-thinking people. So this was quite a test for Brian to give me. Throughout our conversation, there was this subtext bubbling away under the surface.

There was a chemistry between us right from the start that is very, very hard to explain. That initial encounter turned quite quickly from being a formal interview into a discussion between friends. He could be so precise when he wanted to be. I will always remember him sitting back and saying, 'I can't pay you enough as a shop assistant', which was what the job was. 'But I have been thinking of having a personal assistant. Would you be interested?'

Of course, I said, 'Yes'. My starting salary was £10 a week and I couldn't have been more delighted. I was earning £7 10s a week at the timber yard and I was bored out of my brain there.

Before I left his office, I was even given my first job. Brian had some bullfighting posters which needed framing. Would I be so good as to take care of that?

Of course, a lot of my work was at the counter but afterwards I would stay behind and do the ordering with Brian. He had this incredible 'GOS' system, which stood for General Over Stock. NEMS became a legend for its ability to get any record at all in those days. People came from as far afield as London to see how this relatively small shop in Liverpool had built up such a fantastic reputation for serving its customers. It was so bloody simple. On every album there was a brown sleeve with a different coloured tag on. When you sold one you left the tag dangling. And at night, after the shop had closed, Brian and I would go round and, guided by the tags, order a replacement for every record we had sold.

Brian was never unwilling to supply a record. He took enormous pride in that. If a record was available anywhere in the world and people wanted to buy it, then Brian wanted to sell it. And he would get it. Even if it took him a year.

Brian was uniquely gifted. He could listen to a record along with me and I would hear nothing special and quickly write off its chances. Brian would smile quietly and say, 'All right, Alistair. Order 250.' I would be astonished.

We had two shops - the large Whitechapel base and the small Great Charlotte Street shop. But that order was always right. Brian could smell a hit record from a million miles away. We both hated pop music. I think I beat him once, maybe twice. But usually he was 100 per cent right.

When Ray Charles' version of 'Georgia on my Mind' was released, Brian was instantly impressed. 'It is sure to be number one,' he said in those elegantly modulated, carefully measured tones. I burst out laughing. I loved the song but I was convinced that never in a million years would it be a hit. Brian backed his judgement with the wager of a large gin and tonic. And, sure enough, it cost me the price of his drink and taught me never to underestimate Brian's uncanny ability to predict a record's popularity.

I first heard John Leyton sing 'Johnny Remember Me' on an early television soap opera called Compact. We knew the record was going to be featured thanks to the enthusiasm of the rep from Top Rank and we wanted to hear it. In those days before video recorders, Brian had a dinner date which he did not want to break so I was delegated to listen and assess. I enjoyed the programme well enough but the record left me cold.

The next day, I gravely advised Brian that five copies in each shop would be more than enough. When this order was despatched to Top Rank, the rep was so disappointed he appeared in the shop with a copy of the record to see if Brian could be persuaded to change his mind. Brian and I listened together and I remained imperiously dismissive. But there was something in the lyrics that Brian liked. He asked for it to be played again and then, with just the slightest flicker of a smile, said, 'We'll take 250 copies, please.' By then, I knew much better than to protest. Brian was clearly confident that 'Johnny Remember Me' was going to be a considerable hit. I still thought it was deeply forgettable.

But Brian, of course, was right. The day it was released, we experienced an enormous rush of people wanting to listen to those haunting lyrics and it went rapidly into the charts. Our competitors on Merseyside had reacted in the same way as me and had hardly taken any copies. But thanks to Brian's ear for a hit, we had a sales rush. Brian was delighted and the rep confided that Brian's taste was rarely wrong.

Orders from NEMS were always carefully examined in the London offices of the big record companies. They knew that Brian Epstein was an expert at predicting the public reaction to a new record.

In those early days, he was not ambitious. Brian was a very easily bored kind of guy. He had done it with the furniture stores and with the record shop and suddenly something new appeared.

We became close quite soon. At 5.30pm when we closed the shop, he and I would then get together and do the ordering. And afterwards, we would go out for a gin and tonic at the Basnett Bar at the end of the day before I went home. Years later, I discovered to my surprise that the Basnett Bar was a hangout for gays. Not that they were called that then. Gay just meant happy in those innocent times.

I'd have a plate of cockles and a gin and tonic with Brian. Often, if we differed about the chances of a record becoming a hit, we would wager our usual bet of a gin and tonic. I always paid my debts and it always seemed to be me who lost the bet.

As we became more friendly, Brian would often say, 'Let's go and have dinner at the Rembrandt Club.' I loved eating there with Brian because he was such good company. We'd laugh and we'd giggle for hours. It never even crossed my mind to worry that I was sitting enjoying myself so much with a homosexual.

It annoys me that so much crap is talked about Brian nowadays. The common legend now is that Brian fell in love with John and that everything followed from that.

That's total bullshit. Excuse my French, but it's nonsense. Peter Brown's appalling book explores Brian's homosexual side in grisly detail and I'm not convinced by half of it.

Brian was always looking for some new horizon to head for. He got tired of things very quickly. Brian was an amazing man. My wife Lesley reckons that I was in love with him. And she is right. I did love him, but not in a homosexual way. The idea of going to bed with Brian, or with any man, makes me feel physically sick. It always has. But in a non-physical way, I still loved Brian. He was bright and funny and brilliant. He simply oozed charisma. Brian Epstein brightened up any room he walked into, he couldn't help it. We just hit it off straight away. There was something about Brian that inspired loyalty and devotion in me. I think he knew that. And he also knew that those qualities were not going to be found in any of the men he slept with. He kept them well away from the business.

Early on in our relationship, I remember he was going to go off to Spain. He loved the glamour and the sunshine of Spain. And he loved the spectacle of bullfighting. He insisted, 'Alistair, you must come over.' I got a cab straight over and my task when I arrived was to help him choose what clothes he was going to take with him.

He said, 'Do you think I need a dinner jacket?'

I said, 'Brian, for goodness' sake, you're going on holiday. You're going to relax, not dress up. No, of course, you don't need a dinner jacket in Spain.'

After about two days of his holiday, Brian rang me and said, 'You silly bugger. What do I need tonight? I've had to hire a dinner jacket.'

We both laughed.

Lots of people can say they slept with him and some of them have, but I honestly don't feel there was anyone closer during our time together. He could turn to me when things were rough and know he was going to get 100 per cent help.

He always wore a suit and a white shirt. He was just nine months older than me. When we first met, he somehow assumed that I was older than him and it wasn't until later that he realised. He laughed, 'I've always treated you with such respect, because I thought you were one of my elders.' It became a running joke between us.

He wasn't a hard task-master, but he wasn't easy. He could be awkward and he was a real stickler that everything had to be right. After all, he was running the best record store in the north-west of England. Then it became the north of England. Then it became the whole of England. He was the first man to stock the whole of the Blue Note jazz catalogue. Because he knew I loved jazz, he invited me to share a box at the Royal Philharmonic Hall to hear Art Blakey and Thelonius Monk.

When I first met Brian, he drove a Hillman Minx and lived at home with his mum and dad, Harry and Queenie. He and his brother Clive always called them Mummy and Daddy. They lived in a large detached house on Queen's Drive in Childwall, a very prestigious address. I went there a couple of times. Harry was a lovely, kind man. He used to come into the shop and take a look around and you could tell by his manner if there was going to be trouble, if he didn't think things were being run properly.

Brian was very inventive. When he was running the furniture store, he used to turn the furniture with its back to the shop window so shoppers could see the other side. Harry went mad, but it was unique for its time.

There was a period in the early '60s when cocktail piano music became the big thing. Brian wouldn't just put record sleeves in the window. He made a display. He would have the white cloth on the table with two glasses, two chairs and the record album sleeves. Pow, what's that? It had the desired impact, and people would stop to have a closer look.

THE MEETING

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', "Till 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 2V₂ 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.

THE CONTRACT

We organised a meeting in Whitechapel on a Sunday morning. We used the very long, narrow office which actually seemed more like a corridor than a room. Brian did not like to use his big office upstairs, next to the other family offices, for meeting the Beatles. Instead, he preferred the smaller office which was really an old stock room behind the shop. It was fitted with shelves which always seemed to be overflowing with record catalogues and stationery and office supplies. On the walls was a selection of Brian's favourite bullfighting posters.

Pete Best, John Lennon and George Harrison arrived and Brian was sitting up at the top end of the room with me next to him. They all sat in a line on one side.

Paul was late. We waited for about ten minutes as Brian grew very impatient and he sent George off to phone and find out where Paul had got to. George returned and said, 'He'll be here in a few minutes, Mr Epstein.'

Brian's eyebrows raised.

'Sorry, Mr Epstein,' added George helpfully. 'He's just been having a bath.'

Brian was clearly irritated by this and snorted, 'This is disgraceful. He is going to be very late.'

'Late,' said George with that guileless expression of his, '... but very clean.'

Brian didn't really get the joke. This was too important to him for jokes. He insisted that he didn't want to discuss anything to do with management unless all four of them were there.

Paul eventually arrived. The four of them were very nervous and quiet and they waited patiently for Brian to speak. He paused for a moment and I saw a couple of beads of sweat appear on his normally cool brow. I realised Brian was just as nervous as they were. This was very important to him. Slowly, he spoke. He had prepared quite a long speech which he occasionally consulted.

He believed in them and he wanted to manage them. He thought they had the ability to go right to the very top if they were prepared to put themselves in his hands. But he had never managed a group before and he knew he had a great deal to learn. He believed they had to make a great number of changes in their appearance and in their behaviour on stage if they were to realise their potential. But if they put themselves in his hands, then he believed there was no limit to what they could achieve.

They looked totally mesmerised by the experience. There was no clowning and no disrespect. I think they knew this was a very important decision they were making. They had already had their disappointments and they knew how many younger groups were coming up all the time. They had confidence in their ability certainly, but they knew that lots of people never got to fulfil their potential.

They had listened to a lot of bullshitters even then. But Brian was old enough and rich enough to be taken seriously. And he was young enough and cool enough to relate to them. John told me later that they trusted Brian from that first proper meeting.

Certainly, when Brian finished his speech and then asked them if they wanted to put their future in his hands, there was a pause. The four of them looked as if they had been brought into the headmaster's study having been caught shop-lifting. They exchanged glances and then John said emphatically, 'Yes.' He breathed out with a sort of sigh of relief, 'We would like you to manage us, Mr Epstein.'

And then the others started chiming in, 'Yes, please manage us, Mr Epstein,' 'Yes, manage us, please.'

There were several more meetings in quick succession over that hectic period. Brian also went in search of anyone who might give him advice about the task he was taking on. He learned that while no one questioned the Beatles' ability to entertain, they did not exactly have a reputation for reliability.

Another Beatles myth is that the first contract was signed at the Beatles' unofficial headquarters, the Casbah Club, run by Pete Best's mum. Again, that is untrue. Brian first produced a contract in the Whitechapel office and the four Beatles quickly signed. And I signed it as well, as a witness at Brian's request.

Then there was a strange sort of pause. I said, 'Are you going to sign, Brian?'

'Oh, witness mine as well, Alistair,' he replied. 'I'll do it later.'

But he never did. He gave the explanation later that he had not signed that original contract because he didn't want the Beatles to feel tied to him in any way. If they ever wanted to sack him, they could do so easily, without any legal difficulties. On the other hand, he said that his word was his bond and that he did not need to sign a piece of paper to prove it. This way, they could have all the benefits of being professionally managed without any of the legal obligations. I'm still not quite sure I understand his reasoning even after all these years, but I guess he more than proved his commitment to the boys. But the only five signatures on the original contract between Brian Epstein and the Beatles were those of JW Lennon, James Paul McCartney, George Harrison, RP Best and Alistair Taylor. Very strange.

There was great uproar in the office. Everyone was hugging each other and being very tactile for those days. There was lots of cheering and back-slapping. And when it all died down a bit, there was a voice from the back of the line, right at the end of the narrow little office, from the guy at the end of the row who said, 'Well, I think we're going to make it as a group. I certainly hope we make it as a group, but I'll tell you what - if we don't, I'm gonna be a star.' That was from Mr McCartney.

That first contract was effective from 1 February 1962 for a five-year period, but the Beatles and Brian were each able to give the other three months' notice if things went wrong. Brian was on 10 per cent of the Beatles' income up to £1,500 a year each. Once their individual earnings went over £1,500, Brian's percentage increased to 15 per cent. I don't think there has ever been anyone in the history of pop music who's had a fairer contract than the Beatles. Brian's percentage went up to 25 per cent in later contracts.

But even then they were so unbelievably lucky that Brian found them when he did. Brian set up a totally new form of management. In those days, if you were a young group then your manager or agent just said, 'Right, you're playing at Swindon tonight, Edinburgh tomorrow ...' and so on. If the members of the group had no money for petrol or hotel rooms, then that was tough and very much their problem. 'Just be there' was the instruction.

Brian set up a system which every bill they incurred came back to the office and we paid it. They always had money in their pockets, and a wage to live on. This was always deducted. We controlled all the money and managed it for them.

Brian also had a vision of how the Beatles were going to take over the world. From day one, he knew what he wanted to achieve and it was so much that at first he dared not even tell them.

Not that Brian was shy of being a hard task-master. He had a very clear idea of how he wanted the Beatles to look and behave and it was not at all like the way we had first watched them perform in The Cavern just a few weeks earlier. He pledged his determination to deliver them the recording contract which they all knew was vital to turning their regional success into national and international stardom.

And he didn't pull any punches when he told the Beatles how things were going to be in the future. Like a teacher laying down the law to his most unruly pupils, Brian said they had to stop behaving like a bunch of amateurs and transform themselves into professional musicians and entertainers.

He said, 'I want you all to make yourselves a lot smarter in appearance. On stage, there must be no drinking, no smoking, no chewing gum, and especially no swearing. The audience is not there to talk to you so don't chat to the pretty girls while you're on stage. Be punctual. If you're scheduled to arrive at a certain time, make sure you arrive when you are meant to. Remember that you are professionals now, with a reputation to keep up.'

I would hand Brian's directives to the boys and they were always neatly typed on top-quality paper with Brian's initials printed elegantly on the top. John was particularly impressed. He said, 'Brian put all our instructions down on paper and it made it all seem real. We were in a daydream 'til he came along.'

Brian was very businesslike. He knew the Beatles were in financial trouble even though they were then earning the princely sum of £3 15s each per Cavern session. This was higher than the normal rate because they were such a draw but it was an awful long way from the champagne lifestyle. Brian told them there and then that they would never play for less than £15 a night and he pledged to renegotiate their lunchtime Cavern rates. He kept that promise very quickly and they went up to £10. This was good money in 1961. Brian further impressed the shell-shocked foursome by quickly discovering the extents of their debts from a fellow shopkeeper and instantly wiped them out.

Brian found out from Bernard Michaelson, manager of Frank Hessy's music shop across the road from NEMS, that the Beatles owed an alarming £200 on various hire-purchase agreements. He paid off the debt straight away with a personal cheque which bought John Lennon the ownership of his prized Hofner Club 40 guitar, George Harrison his Futurama guitar, and paid off the remains of Paul McCartney's payments on amplifiers. It was a simple but stunningly convincing act that instantly established a bond between Brian and the Beatles.

Brian spelled out to the Beatles that they must look the part as well as act it, and took them over to Birkenhead to a tailor to be measured for their new suits. The mohair suits cost £40 each, which Brian paid, of course. I can well remember the wide-eyed acceptance that greeted that particular instruction. Subsequently, the Beatles have suggested that they did not totally go along with Brian on wearing suits. John sneered years later that he felt that he was selling out. My memories of the Beatles' reaction is rather different. They were so fed up of failing to get noticed and failing to make it to the top that if Brian had said he wanted them to climb to the top of the Liver Building and jump down into a bucket of custard they would have said, 'Where's the bucket?' It didn't take them long to realise that Brian was right, and that he knew what he was doing.

Brian never tried to interfere with their music. It was all to do with their presentation, their behaviour and their image. Brian embarked on a total clean-up job on the four boys. Haircuts followed the suits and complete new wardrobes of shirts, ties, shoes, everything followed. Brian asked them face-to-face if they had any objections to his plans and there wasn't even a murmur of dissent. Just as Brian believed in the Beatles, it was clear from the very start that the Beatles believed in Brian.

We took the famous ferry across the Mersey and Brian and I must have looked like a couple of plain-clothes policemen escorting four dangerous criminals. Brian and I got to know the four of them a little better. With the business of the contract out of the way, we were all on the same side now. John was clearly the strongest character among them, but the four of them seemed to communicate in a language almost of their own which was bound up with jokes, sarcasm and the blackest of humour. But, gradually, as the ferry made its way across, I even began to understand a little of what they were talking about.

I realised that just because they looked scruffy and aimless they were not to be dismissed easily. When we disembarked, we had a 15-minute walk to Brian's tailor and the boys were all excited at the thought of getting their first made-to-measure suits. Brian went straight into a huddle with Beno Dorn, the little Jewish tailor who was clearly an old friend. The boys gazed open-mouthed at the up-market establishment. I think their experience of tailoring up until then was a quick glance in Burton's window. Brian quickly had it all sorted out. The boys were to be kitted out in smart, dark-blue suits, a very different look from their usual black leather.

It was a great day out as the boys enjoyed being the centre of attention. The only downside to the day came when we got back to the shop and Brian discovered that none of the record companies he had contacted had called him back. Clearly, selling a new group to the record companies was going to be quite different from selling records to the public.

The following day it was haircuts and the beginning of the creation of the famous mop tops. Brian and I took the boys to Home Brothers who then had a reputation as very classy hairdressers. Their long hair was trimmed and styled into a much more clean-cut image. They were becoming just the sort of boys every girl would soon be screaming her head off for. Much to their relief, the hair was still left reasonably long but the greasy untamed look was definitely a thing of the past. John grinned that his Aunt Mimi would think he had turned over a completely new leaf: 'It seems almost a shame to give Her too many false hopes.'

The haircuts were followed by a morning in Liverpool's top men's outfitters and they returned each proudly clutching parcels of new clothes. They were like kids at Christmas as they rushed to open their new presents. Each of them had bright new shirts and ties, which were certainly a novelty and took some getting used to. Everything was carefully selected with Brian's eye for style and colour. I think he enjoyed the shopping trip more than any of us.

This was a special time to be around the Beatles. They were bright and funny and so full of life you wished you could bottle their energy. I'm not saying they knew they were going to make it, but there was a kind of inner confidence about them that you could never quite put your finger on. For them, something of the pressure of getting the success they all craved had slipped on to Brian's shoulders so they seemed to relax under the new Epstein regime.

THE RECORD

The Beatles were still very respectful and polite but there was a real friendship building here. But they were proud northern lads and there were moments when they wanted to discuss things with their sophisticated new manager man to man. I remember one night in the Tower Ballroom, New Brighton, when the six of us were having a drink. Brian had been to the bar and I had bought the second round. Suddenly, I felt a tap on the knee under the table. It was John indicating to me that he was embarrassed to find that he hadn't the price of a round on him and yet he anxiously wanted to stand his round. I slipped him a £1 note under the table and instantly heard John grandly asking Brian if he felt like another.

My main job in the next few weeks was covering up for Brian. He would be holed up in Brown's Hotel in London on a desperate round of calling in every record company contact he had, just to clinch the all-important first recording contract. He just pounded the pavement, determined to get someone to listen.

Brian was a big noise in Liverpool, but he wasn't so important down in London. It took a lot of time and it took him away from the shop. Harry would come in two or three times a week in search of Brian, who naturally neglected to tell his father that he was going to be down in London trying to get a start for the Beatles.

As it turned out, signing the Beatles was the easy bit. Getting a record company interested was much more difficult. There were more than 300 rock groups in Liverpool in the early 1960s. All of them wanted a recording contract.

In those days their work-rate was absolutely amazing. They did so many gigs that when I hear today's pop stars complaining of exhaustion I have to laugh. The very day Brian and I first saw the boys they were following their lunchtime gig at The Cavern with their last ever appearance in the shabby ballroom of Litherland Town Hall. They already worked incredibly hard and Brian was keen to keep up the pace. He loved the fact that they were hungry for success.

All sorts of characters emerged in the time that followed. Allan Williams has made a reputation from his association with the Beatles ever since the '50s by describing himself as the man who gave the Beatles away. However, he was never their manager. They never had a manager before Brian Epstein. Williams organised sending them to Germany for their first few tours before Brian came on the scene. Brian went to see Williams before signing them, just to see if he could learn anything. Williams told Brian not to touch them with a fucking bargepole and I remember Brian winced rather when he recounted that remark to me.

They were just, exciting and fun to be with, and Brian really believed in them. Brian was a volatile, inspirational character. He took everything personally and he wanted everything to be the best. If he spotted slacking or messing around among any of his staff he just lost his temper. He didn't mean to and he knew it was wrong. But he just felt everything more strongly than anyone else I've ever known.

The Beatles were sure of one thing about their new manager - he knew how to sell records. NEMS had by then expanded to nine Liverpool record shops boasting a total stock of more than half a million records. The shops were humming with customers. Since he was so efficient at shifting records the Beatles assumed it was only a matter of time before he had a recording deal lined up for them.

Brian thought so, too. He believed in the Beatles right from the very start. It was so obvious to him that they had the talent and the potential to go right to the top.

Brian was never in the slightest doubt that Beatles records would sell in enormous quantities. He thought that if he came up with a group as good as the Beatles, then record companies would be queuing to sign them up to make records. But it was not as easy as that. Because he had conquered the retail side of the record business, he thought he was ready to take the reins as a top pop manager. But Brian's early efforts to get the Beatles a recording contract were a disaster.

Brian was meticulous about everything. Once he had dictated the detailed memos about behaviour, he had calls put in to six of his best contacts in assorted record companies. Brian was not at all put out that not one of them was instantly available and had his secretary leave messages to call him back. At that stage, he thought landing a recording contract was going to be easy. He was content to ring everyone and take the best deal offered. But the next day, Brian's elegant aura of confidence was slightly disturbed to hear that none of his contacts had returned his calls.

I recall a sharp intake of breath and Brian saying that he would have to home in on one company. 'I'll start at the top,' he smiled and rang EMI Records who then described themselves, with some justification, as 'the greatest recording organisation in the world'. As the boss of NEMS, Brian made an appointment to see Ron White who was then EMI marketing director in London. He opened the conversation by asking for additional discounts to be given for very large sales. White politely refused. Both men knew full well that EMI did not give discounts.

Then Brian revealed the real reason behind his visit. Would Ron White mind listening to a record Brian happened to have with him? This was a reversal of their usual trade but White could hardly refuse the charming Liverpool businessman. The marketing director of EMI then heard Tony Sheridan's raucous rendition of 'My Bonnie' with deafeningly enthusiastic backing from the Beat Brothers, a.k.a. the Beatles. Brian explained patiently that White should ignore Sheridan and concentrate on the support group. Brian even showed the executive a picture of the Beatles, resplendent in their original leathers, to show him what they looked like.

At the time, the Beatles were contracted to Polydor. But the contract was in German and Brian and I could not understand it. White offered to get it translated and agreed to take the record to EMI's artists and repertoire (A&R) people for their professional opinion. Brian came back to Liverpool full of optimism. But he was very naive then. We all were. EMI listened to Brian Epstein because NEMS was a very good customer of theirs. But they were not remotely interested in Mr Epstein's questionable ability as a talent spotter. We'll get back to you.

Brian was so full of enthusiasm for the Beatles that he was not about to put all his eggs in one basket. He also contacted a couple of guys at Decca he knew well and arranged a meeting in London 'to discuss discounts' with Colin Borland, assistant to marketing chief Beecher Stevens. Brian surprised the man from Decca by quickly dismissing the subject of discounts and asking for a recording deal for the Beatles. Brian's enthusiasm was bubbling over and he backed it with the offer that if Decca recorded the Beatles then NEMS would order 5,000 copies. This was an enormous order. Plenty of singles never sold anything like that number. Brian played Borland and his boss Stevens the 'My Bonnie' record and pleaded with them to listen to the support group. Brian's belief and commitment impressed the two men from Decca enough for them to call Dick Rowe, head of A&R, who agreed, after another London meeting, to send his young assistant Mike Smith up to The Cavern to judge the Beatles for himself.

Brian was absolutely delighted. It was really something to get a London record company executive up from London. But Brian still pushed EMI as well. He wrote telling Ron White how disappointed he was not to have heard anything and warning him that Decca's man was heading north. I remember Brian noted, 'These four boys, who are superb instrumentalists, also produce some exciting and pulsating vocals. They play mostly their own compositions and one of the boys has written a song which I really believe to be the hottest material since "Living Doll".'

But White had received an emphatic thumbs down from three of EMI’s four house producers and the fourth was away on holiday. So he wrote back to Brian saying, 'We feel we have sufficient groups of this type at the present time under contract and that it would not be advisable for us to sign any further contracts of this nature at present.'

Brian was devastated. He felt totally frustrated, but at least now he could pin his hopes on the visit of Mike Smith. It was 13 December 1961, and Brian took Smith to dinner before they went to The Cavern where the man from London was very impressed. Brian breathed an enormous sigh of relief when Smith raved about what he saw and heard and invited the Beatles down to London for an audition on New Year's Day 1962.

He wanted his boss Dick Rowe to see the group before he took the plunge and signed them up, but Brian was in seventh heaven. Surely now they were on their way.

There were some euphoric celebrations as we shared the good news around. I remember a session in a pub with John and he kept saying over and over again, 'We're on our way. Now we're on our way.' This had all happened so fast that it instantly cemented the relationship between the Beatles and Brian. They had been working themselves hard for years, playing endless hours in Hamburg and around Liverpool and they had never been within a sniff of a London audition. Now they were on their way.

Brian travelled down by train to London for the big day while the Beatles were driven down by their friend and 'road manager' Neil Aspinall who hired a larger van especially for the occasion. The journey took an epic ten hours as this particular band on the run got hopelessly lost in the snow somewhere near Wolverhampton. The boys were booked into 27s-a-night rooms at the Royal Hotel in Woburn Place but they were quickly traumatised by London prices. In a restaurant in the Charing Cross Road, they were astonished to discover that even the soup cost 6s and walked out. Brian prudently stayed overnight with his Aunt Frida and Uncle Berrel in Ingram Avenue, Hampstead, but he met up with his young proteges for a scotch and Coke which he had quickly learned was the Beatles' favourite drink.

The following morning, Brian was first there on the snowy opening day of 1962 and he waited with the nervous foursome for Mike Smith who was late. Punctuality was part of being professional for Brian and he struggled to hide his irritation. He felt he and the Beatles were being treated as if they did not matter. It was not a good beginning. At last their turn came, but when they produced their battered old amplifiers they were firmly told they weren't required.

Brian didn't want to ruffle too many feathers. He was keen for the Beatles to be conservative and to demonstrate their ability to deliver some standards. George sang 'The Sheikh of Araby' while Paul chipped in with a melodic version of 'Red Sails in the Sunset' and 'Like Dreamers Do'. John wanted to do more of their usual Cavern act which was full of rasping rock numbers but he allowed himself to be advised by Brian. Paul's version of "Til There Was You' went down well and Brian and the Beatles were through their nervous ordeal. The Beatles thought the session went well. Pete Best noted that Mike Smith was pleased and had said the tapes were terrific. Brian took the Beatles out to a restaurant in Swiss Cottage to celebrate.

Then followed a long period of waiting. This was very disappointing after such a promising flurry of activity since we had signed up the Beatles. We all knew they had something. But we were still unsure about what would happen next. I remember once remarking, 'There's such an awful lot of groups around nowadays,' and John snapped, 'There's such a lot of awful groups around nowadays, you mean.'

The silence from Decca was deafening. Brian was like a cat on hot bricks as he desperately tried to maintain the momentum and get an answer from Decca. His dad Harry used to get extremely irritated that Brian was always down in London chasing some record company executive or other. I would always have to try to pretend that he'd just popped to one of the other shops but I never was a very good liar.

Finally in March, after weeks of pestering for the big decision, Brian got a telephone call from Beecher Stevens inviting him to London to hear Dick Rowe's verdict. Brian was by then gloomy about the prospects. He told me, 'If it was good news, we'd have heard it by now.' In the expensive confines of Decca's seventh floor Albert Embankment executive club, the record company bosses treated Brian to a long lunch before they raised the delicate subject which was occupying his every waking thought. Then, over coffee, Dick Rowe said charmlessly, 'Not to mince words, Mr Epstein, we don't like your boys' sound. Groups are out; four-piece groups with guitarists particularly are finished.'

Brian was in a cold fury but he was determined to disguise it. He said, 'You must be out of your mind. These boys are going to explode once they appear on television. They will be bigger than the Shadows. I am completely confident that one day they will be bigger than Elvis Presley.'

Personally, I never blamed Dick Rowe, even though it was a decision that was to haunt him forever afterwards. At least he took the trouble to have the Beatles down to London to take a look at them. And he later showed that he wasn't as daft as everyone thought when he signed a scruffy-looking group called the Rolling Stones.

The Beatles were not nearly so charitable. Years later, they discovered that he had signed Brian Poole and the Tremeloes instead of them. Paul said, 'He must be kicking himself now.' And John added typically, 'I hope he kicks himself to death!'

Stevens and Rowe were startled by Brian's response that the Beatles would one day be bigger than Elvis. He wasn't the first pop figure to promise them the stars but he was the coolest and the most well-spoken. Brian found their indifference to his new charges very hard to take. Rowe went on to add, 'The boys won't go, Mr Epstein. We know these things. You have a good record business in Liverpool. Stick to that.'

Brian was determined to hide his disappointment. His faith in the Beatles kept him talking up their chances. He couldn't believe that the group that held the youth of Liverpool enraptured did not deserve to have some sort of a future in the rest of the country. He had heard the music and seen its effect. The Decca executives became a shade uneasy. Brian Epstein was a very good customer and a charming man to do business with. It would be churlish to send him back north with nothing to show for his trip. Rowe sensed it was time to soften the blow and suggested Brian should talk to Tony Meehan, the former Shadows drummer who was making a name for himself as a Decca A&R man. But the idea was that Brian would be given the benefit of Meehan's advice and the use of a studio on payment of £100.

To Brian, this was coming close to adding insult to injury. He couldn't understand why a mighty company like Decca could be asking for £100 from him for

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 890