The Beatles (125 page)

The album, as a package, was almost complete. There were attempts to include a transparent envelope filled “
with goodies
”—stick-on tattoos, badges, sergeant stripes, and little gifts that would vary from pressing to pressing.
But production costs
were insurmountable and it would have made the album too bulky and impossible for EMI to ship. In a more practical approach, the Beatles created a less-expensive souvenir cutout kit,
with a Sgt. Pepper’s Band bass drum, mustaches, and badges that could be slipped into the fold.

As it was, the cover costs alone soared into the stratosphere. A label like EMI usually budgeted anywhere from £25 to £75 for the standard cover photograph, but the bill for
Sgt. Pepper’s
topped £2,800. “
Joe Lockwood was furious
,” recalled Fraser, who was called into the EMI chairman’s austere chambers to account for the “folly.” Glowering like Zeus, he thundered, “I can hire the London Symphony Orchestra for that!”

Lockwood’s chief concern, however—and justifiably so—was the label’s liability in regard to the cover images. EMI had an international reputation to protect, to say nothing about standards of taste, and as far as he was concerned,
that photo of Hitler
was out of the question. He also insisted they “
take Gandhi out
” to avoid any backlash from the enormous overseas market. “If we show Gandhi standing around with Sonny Liston and Diana Dors, they’ll never forgive us in India,” he said.

Lockwood preferred that the whole cover be scrapped. In an altogether uncharacteristic gesture, Sir Joe had the label’s in-house art department tinker with the cover and showed up with it himself, unannounced, on Paul McCartney’s doorstep. “
We have some problems
on this,” he reportedly told Paul, handing over the retouched version. “
It had the flowers
, the drum, the four Beatles—and a big blue sky,” recalled Neil Aspinall, who happened to be visiting when Lockwood arrived. “They wiped out all the people [in the crowd] behind [the Beatles] because he was frightened that they might all sue or not want to be on the cover.”

Paul refused to buckle, and détente was reached when Lockwood grudgingly approved the original cover, sans Gandhi and Hitler, as long as NEMS got proper permissions, while Paul—with no authority whatsoever—cavalierly agreed to indemnify EMI against any lawsuits arising from the design.

Right off the bat, there was
friction between Brian and Robert Stigwood
over the direction of NEMS. In an effort to get ahold of his life and to concentrate on developing the Saville Theatre, Brian intended to downsize the company’s roster. “
He certainly couldn’t handle them
, in his condition,” recalls Alistair Taylor. “Brian and I discussed drawing the line at a maximum of six groups, preferably four—the Beatles, Gerry Marsden, Billy [J. Kramer], and Cilla [Black] with Sounds Inc. to back her—but, with Stigwood on board, we went in the opposite direction,
signing
new acts.”

Stigwood turned up the promotion of Cream, who were on the verge of breaking wide open, and pursued three or four other acts creating buzz in the London clubs. Then, in March, Brian handed him a letter that changed the course of their relationship. It was from a group in Australia, hoping to interest the Beatles’ manager. “I don’t deal with this kind of thing,” he told Stigwood, expecting him to issue a standard refusal. Instead, Robert took a look at their head shot and “
fell in love
.” They were three siblings who called themselves the Bee Gees—for the Brothers Gibb—and the demo tucked in their press kit sounded incredible.

Stigwood was convinced NEMS could do something with them, but he got no support at all from Brian. “
Brian became annoyed
when Robert said they would be the next Beatles,” recalls Nat Weiss. “As far as he cared, that sealed their fate.” But fate had its own way of striking a responsive chord. Stigwood signed the Bee Gees posthaste and decided to originate their record deal in the United States, with Atlantic.

This only magnified Brian’s indignation. Perhaps Nat Weiss had been right, fingering Stigwood as a “carnival promoter.” But the man seemed to possess a full bag of tricks, which, thus far, had been profitable.

In a style that he copied directly from Brian, Robert decided to launch the Bee Gees in America with a splash—literally—by chartering a yacht, packing it with guests and elegant food, and sailing around Manhattan. It was an elaborate, expensive affair, and Nat Weiss remembers cornering Stigwood during the cruise and asking how he intended to pay for it. “Put it on my personal account,” Stigwood replied. The next day Weiss got a call from Brian, who had flown into a rage. “They haven’t sold
one
record yet and he’s chartered a
yacht!
” he fumed. Weiss told him not to worry. “Robert says he’ll put it on his personal account.” This only prompted a more ferocious scream:
“He has no personal account!”

By the time the American visit was over, Brian got his revenge. He described to Weiss Stigwood’s preference for good-looking young men but, contrary to Brian’s fancy, definitely not hustlers. “Robert likes to be able to win them over,” he told the lawyer. Half the pleasure lay in the challenge. “He likes the art of seduction.” Brian and Weiss found “the most used-up hustler in New York,” hired him, and arranged for an encounter with Stigwood. For months they fed on the story of how “Robert thought he’d seduced someone who could have been available [to anyone] for ten dollars.” So spent Brian Epstein his time and efforts.

By May of 1967, says Nat Weiss, “Brian wanted to get rid of Stigwood. He’d already begun proceedings; he had Lord Goodman”—Arnold
Goodman, his personal solicitor—“working… to undo all of that.” None of this, of course, had the slightest impact on the Beatles. They still had no idea that Brian was even involved with partners, and had they known, they would have certainly disapproved. As it was, they were concentrating on their own album launch, keeping a close check on the progress of the troublesome
Sgt. Pepper’s
cover.

For the most part, permissions came smoothly and with expressions of great honor. There were, however, a few snags.
Shirley Temple, now an ambassador to the United Nations, wanted to approve
the cover first and, barring any objections, receive an autographed copy for her children. In a now-famous response, Mae West expressed her disturbance over an obvious contradiction. “
What would
I
be doing
in a lonely hearts club?” she wondered. But the Beatles put together a flattering letter to her themselves, which charmed West into granting a release. Leo Gorcey, of the Bowery Boys, wrote back and said he’d be happy to appear on the cover—for a $500 fee. Unwilling to set a precedent, the Beatles refused, “so we had to airbrush him out,” Blake recalled. Otherwise, everyone agreed, and the Fates, it seemed, sided with the Beatles: not a single lawsuit would arise from the cover.

For Brian, a crueler fate was yet to come.

Chapter 32
The Summer of Love

I
n early April 1967 Paul had slipped in and out of the States to celebrate the twenty-first birthday of Jane Asher, who was touring there in the Bristol Old Vic’s production of
Romeo and Juliet
. It had been a whirlwind visit. The few days he spent in San Francisco—showing up at the Fillmore,
getting stoned with the Jefferson
Airplane, wandering unrecognized into head shops and boutiques—had been among the most carefree in recent months. To Paul, the lure of the Haight’s hedonistic hippie scene, entwined with the North Beach beat movement and Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters, underscored the connection between acid and creativity. The whimsy, self-expression, and romanticism struck him as “
golden… far-out
.” Then, in Denver, while shooting some amateur movie footage in a local park, “
the idea tumbled together
.”

Kesey, in 1964, had sploshed spectral ribbons of paint across a beat-up old school bus, loaded it up with like-minded characters, and set out on a now-legendary trip across America, dispensing LSD to the masses. They had filmed the whole riotous, mind-blowing odyssey—later immortalized by Tom Wolfe in
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test
—intending to make a documentary movie. Hearing about it again in San Francisco had triggered a childhood memory of Paul’s. During the late 1950s, northern councils sponsored “mystery tours” on which kids boarded a chaperoned bus whose ultimate destination was kept secret. “
Everyone would spend time
guessing where they were going, and this was part of the thrill,” he remembered. Couldn’t this be updated with a hip, groovy edge? What would happen if the Beatles cobbled the two ideas together? How cool would it be to comb the English countryside in their own private coach, stopping spontaneously in villages and towns to film inspired, nutty sequences?
They could write little scenarios, provide an original soundtrack, control the project themselves. It was loaded with possibilities. Before long, he’d imagined it as a surreal sort of mystery tour—no, a
magical
mystery tour, to echo the spirit of the times.

Paul crystallized the idea on the flight back to London. Borrowing paper from a flight attendant, he began framing the project—sketching out dramatic segments and scenes, including the rough draft of a title song. By the time he returned to the studio, on April 20, it was all he could talk about.

Clearly his discussions with the Beatles had an edge of déjà vu. Not even a year earlier, he had worked hard to persuade them to undertake the identity of Sgt. Pepper’s band. Now Paul was worked up about another gimmick, and it was all they could do to stay focused. It especially rankled John, who was already exasperated by his partner’s slick enthusiasms. “
I still felt every now and then
that Brian would come in and say, ‘It’s time to record,’ or ‘Time to do this,’ ” John recalled. “And [now] Paul started doing that: ‘Now we’re going to make a movie. Now we’re going to make a record.’ ”

A feeling crept over John that Paul was somehow trying to dominate the Beatles, which, after all, had been
his
group. Paul had all but taken over the
Sgt. Pepper’s
sessions. He contributed so many suggestions for the arrangements, and so fast, so fluently, it was all John could do to keep up with him. It angered him that Paul had come up with the mystery tour concept; he grew peevish, jealous. Why hadn’t
he
thought of it first? And yet, admittedly, John “
enjoyed the fish and chip quality
of [it],” the idea that they’d go out “with a load of freaks” and make a low-budget, tongue-in-cheek film. And even if he hated the idea, he may have been distracted—or too fucked-up—to resist.

It would also help solve the dilemma of what to do with their next film project. It was no secret that after
Help!,
the Beatles had been unable to find a script that captured their fancy. All the ideas submitted were either variations on the Lovable Mop Tops formula, which they despised, or sappy Hollywood retreads. “
We didn’t see any way
of making a similar film of four jolly lads nipping around singing catchy little tunes,” said George. “It had to be something that had more meaning.”

A magical mystery tour, Paul argued, seemed like the perfect alternative. Because it would be mostly improvised and spontaneous, the Beatles wouldn’t have to learn lines. Nor would they truck off to out-of-the-way locations at ungodly early hours, or endure endless waiting on the set.
“
Nobody quite knows
where they’re going. We can take ’em anywhere we want, man!” Paul declared. What’s more, they could plan and even direct it themselves.

Paul was convincing enough for the Beatles to finish and record a song or two for the project, right on the heels of their
Sgt. Pepper
’s session. Only four days after they tacked the gibberish and dog whistle onto the end of their forthcoming album, the Beatles headed back into the studio to lay down the basic rhythm track for “Magical Mystery Tour.”

According to a music journalist, “
McCartney arrived at the studio
with only three chords and the opening line of the lyric:” “Roll up! Roll up!—for the Magical Mystery Tour.” John and Paul had hit on what was, for them, the perfect bit of wordplay: a phrase that fired up listeners with the keen, romantic cry of circus troupes and carnival barkers rolling their riggings into town—and, a phrase that, to any fan with the slightest streak of hipness, served as a veiled invitation to roll up a joint. It was chock-full of feeble “
references to drugs
and to trips,” Paul recalled. The song was clearly intended as an overture to the mystery tour motif, just as “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” had kicked off an imaginary vaudeville show. But as a gimmick it was stale and sounded forced. Even the fanfare of trumpets felt tired—“
the worst kind of musical cliché
,” writes Tim Riley.