What about the music?

From time to time, I check out what people have been saying about my book on Amazon (there are dozens of reviews on the US site, ranging from 1-star to 5-star) and on various Beatles blogs. If you stick your head above the parapet, you can expect to have a few missiles thrown at you, and there have been so many good reviews of You Never Give Me Your Money that I would be churlish to complain about the occasional bad one. Plus it's always intriguing to glimpse how other people see you.

But there have been two or three themes that have surfaced over and over in critical comments about the book, to the extent that I thought I ought to explain why I decided to do what I did. Whether you agree with me is up to you - but I just wanted to show that I did think about this stuff before I published the book.

Maybe the most common complaint is that there isn't enough about music in the book. And following on from that, people have said that when I have bothered to write about the music, I've often been too critical of the Beatles' solo catalogues.

Well, this is my side of the story. When I started thinking about writing this book, I realised immediately that there was no way I could tell the full story of four solo careers, and four lives, from 1969 to the present day, and expect to collect everything in a book of fewer than about five thousand pages. So my first very decision about You Never Give Me Your Money was that it wasn't a book about the Beatles' solo careers. It was very definitely a book about the Beatles as a collective entity: how they broke up, what the immediate aftermath was, and how they coped, as musicians and human beings, with the pressure of living with that incredible legacy hanging over their heads. I also wanted to write about what happened to the institution of the Beatles after the split: how it was handled by Apple and EMI, and how the four individual members reacted towards each other, and towards the very concept of 'the Beatles'.

That's why (for example) there is plenty in the book about the sour relations at various times between John and Paul, or Paul and George, or sometimes John and George, or even Ringo and George - it's because they were the Beatles, and their post-split arguments were (a sad) part of the Beatles' story. In this book, I was only interested in the Beatles' solo musical careers where they had a bearing on the Beatles as a whole - either because (as on 'Too Many People', 'How Do You Sleep', 'Run Of The Mill' and 'Early 1970') they were writing about each other, or because they were competing for popularity with each other, as was obviously the case in 1971. So no matter how much I loved a particular record, I only wrote about it to the extent that it reflected on their status as an ex-Beatle. That's why, for example, I talked about the very negative reception of Ram in the book, when it's actually my favourite Paul McCartney album. I'd love one day to write at length about why I love that record so much, but You Never Give Me Your Money wasn't the time or place for it. What mattered for the story I was telling was that Ram weakened Paul in the struggle for post-Beatles supremacy, because it was perceived as being a poor record. But I can understand that it is possible to read the book, and come away thinking that I must hate Ram, because I didn't spend a whole page defending it.

As I said earlier, people have also complained that I was too harsh in general about many of their favourite solo albums - and also about the Anthology projects, 'Free As A Bird', the Love album, Let It Be Naked . . . the list goes on. So that's something I'll talk about next time, to answer the question: "Why are you so negative about the Beatles' solo releases?" Also on my list for discussion, in case you're wondering, are the following complaints: "Why are you so cynical about the Beatles?" And not forgetting, "Do you actually like the Beatles?" Bear with me, and I'll get there as soon as I can . . .

McCartney and Ram

Returning to this blog after a couple of weeks when I've been lost in non-Beatles-related work, I see that I've received some fascinating information about potential bonus tracks on the McCartney and Ram reissues, hidden away in the comments section of the previous entry. Thanks to those who've contributed, and if you haven't seen those comments, check 'em out!

Paul McCartney Archive Collection

"Coming soon to the Paul McCartney Archive Collection" is the headline on a small insert in the Band On The Run repackage, which I finally got around to buying (not the £75 version, naturally). Underneath are pictures of six McCartney albums, which will presumably all be enlarged over the next year or two. Thoughts and suggestions as follows . . .

McCARTNEY: I can't imagine how this could be extended, though I love the idea of a set of pre-album demos (which would probably be more 'produced' than the finished record). I'd be delighted if Paul can suddenly lay his hands on an hour of out-takes, even if they all turn out to be instrumentals. Anyone fancy a 30-minute version of 'Momma Miss America'? (I do.) More likely would be full-length versions of 'Suicide' and 'The Lovely Linda' (if Paul ever finished it), alongside the 1971 B-side 'Oh Woman Oh Why' (which always sounded to me as if it belonged on McCartney rather than Ram).

RAM: This gets me genuinely excited, as it's my favourite McCartney album. If there's a demo of 'Back Seat Of My Car' in Paul's vaults, I want to hear it. A proper retrospective of the Ram sessions would have to include two tracks that were belatedly included on Red Rose Speedway, 'Little Lamb Dragonfly' and 'Get On The Right Thing', plus the I-can't-believe-this-still-hasn't-been-released gem 'A Love For You'. In their wonderful book Eight Arms To Hold You, Chip Madinger and Mark Easter reckoned that 'Little Woman Love' was also a Ram out-take, plus of course the single 'Another Day'. Then there's the mono mix of the entire LP, which appeared on a US promo, and the ten minutes of amusing nonsense issued as another promo, Brung To Ewe By. I'd love to believe that there are hours of rough mixes and alternate takes locked in a cupboard somewhere; I'd also love to believe that Paul might lower his guard long enough to release them. But I'm not holding my breath.

VENUS AND MARS: We know there are rough mixes and out-takes from these 1974/5 sessions, because they're available on bootleg. And there are 'live' versions of several songs from the LP which were tackled during the Elstree rehearsals in September 1975. Plus film footage that was used for the videos promoting 'Letting Go' and 'Venus And Mars/Rock Show'. But why am I feeling bored at the prospect? Maybe it's because the charm of this record lies as much in its production as its songwriting, so anything less than perfection is going to pale by comparison.

WINGS AT THE SPEED OF SOUND: To my mind, this is the weakest of the Wings albums, and I'm not aware of any out-takes from the sessions. So the mind boggles at how Paul might be able to extend this to two or three CDs/DVDs. I'm happy to be surprised, though.

WINGS OVER AMERICA: Another strange choice. Obviously, there must be more material available, as Eight Arms To Hold You reckoned that the original 3-LP set was taken from eight different shows, and it's entirely possible that every US concert in May/June 1976 is somewhere in the archive. Plus there is plenty of film footage, as the tour spawned both the Rock Show and Wings Over The World films. But . . . could there possibly be anything new to give us? The set-list remained virtually the same throughout the tour.

McCARTNEY II: Well, there's certainly room for a two-CD edition of this album, because it was originally meant to appear as a double-LP, with several additional 'songs' and extended versions of several more. I can't imagine playing it more than once, mind you, but it would be worth owning as a reminder of one of Paul's more adventurous trips into the unexpected.

The overall verdict? It depends how McCartney approaches each of these projects. He is understandably reticent to throw open the vaults and let everything out, because a major part of his talent is/was knowing where to draw the line. My hunch is that he will always err on the side of conservatism, and hold out-takes back rather than letting all his dirty laundry blow proudly in the breeze. But then whoever imagined that he would do something like Oobu Joobu, which was full of weird off-cuts and curios? Be brave, Paul: the fans will love you for it, and you'll also sell more records that way.

Miss O'Dell and the Final Beatles Meeting

When were the four Beatles together in the same room for the last time? Having reviewed all the evidence, I reckon that the answer is either 16 or 17 September 1969. As I wrote in You Never Give Me Your Money, on one of those dates "all four Beatles endured a turgid discussion about voting rights and share options, which broadened into a desultory fight between Lennon and Harrison about the latter's right to equal exposure on any future Beatles record" (p. 99). Various accounts of the Beatles' break-up have suggested that all four men were together on later occasions, notably on 20 September, when Lennon announced he was leaving the group. But my research showed that there were only ever three Beatles present on these days, with Harrison (for example) being the missing party when John made his historic declaration of independence.

In Miss O'Dell, however, Chris O'Dell claims - without any fanfare - to have been present six months later at an event which all four Beatles attended. She recalls helping Pattie Boyd to organise a birthday party soon after the Harrisons had moved into Friar Park, in March 1970, and casually mentions that all of the other Beatles, and their wives, were there. I checked with Pattie Boyd's own book, but she doesn't mention the party at all (indeed, her chronology falls to pieces around 1970/71). So is Miss O'Dell right, and does Beatles history need to be rewritten?

I can't prove the point either way, but I firmly believe that O'Dell slipped up, and that Paul and Linda McCartney weren't at Pattie's party. It took place on 17 March 1970, just as McCartney was finishing work on his solo album, and was doing his best to avoid visiting the Apple offices, or spend any time with his Beatle colleagues. Phil Spector was about to start work on remixing the Let It Be album tapes, and the other Beatles were about to ask McCartney to delay his album to make room for theirs. Meanwhile, three of the Beatles had invited Allen Klein to become their manager, and McCartney had refused to sign the contract. Under the circumstances, it's difficult to imagine Paul choosing to spend time with Lennon, Harrison and Starkey, with the risk that even the most casual conversation might turn into a blazing row about money, managers or the McCartney album.

In fact, I'm dubious about the idea that the Lennons attended the party, either. A couple of days earlier, psychotherapist Arthur Janov had arrived at their home to begin weeks of intensive Primal Scream Therapy. If you'd spent the day rolling around on the floor screaming about the frustration of being a Beatle, is it likely that you'd choose to devote the evening to socialising with the rest of the group?

So I reckon that, quite understandably, Chris O'Dell has confused her dates, or combined several different social occasions into one, and thinks that she remembers a four-man reunion that never took place. But I'd love to be proved wrong - with photos too, please.

Miss O'Dell

A dose of Christmas flu confined me to barracks and gave me the time to indulge in the frothy pleasure of reading Chris O'Dell's memoir: Miss O'Dell: Hard Days and Long Nights with The Beatles, The Stones, Bob Dylan and Eric Clapton. As the subtitle is nearly longer than the book, not too much more explanation is required. Suffice to say that Ms O'Dell met Derek Taylor in 1968, found her way to Apple's London HQ, became an insider with the Beatles and then the Stones, and spent most of the 70s and 80s in and around the superstar end of the music business.

During her journey, she slept with Ringo Starr, Mick Jagger, Leon Russell and Bob Dylan; became Pattie Boyd's best female friend; fell out big-time with Eric Clapton; and was celebrated in song by George Harrison. To be fair, she also acted as a tour manager, go-fer, secretary and Ms Fix-It for most of her celebrity friends.

The formula for celebrity-associated kiss-and-tell ghost-written autobiographies is simple: your ghostwriter squeezes as much mileage as possible out of your close encounters, and fills out with the rest with poorly researched retreads of familiar anecdotes about the stars. Miss O'Dell, however, is definitely a cut above the average: though it's still easy to tell where memory leaves off and research takes over, the book has commendably few of the howlers that litter the pages of most such volumes.

And the story is undeniably gripping throughout. It begins as every Beatle fan's fairytale, with O'Dell nervously entering the Beatles' entourage and discovering, to her amazement, that she is being accepted, despite the fact that she expects to be denounced and expelled at any second. This is the part of the book we'd all love to have played out - as an employee during Apple's brief spasm of idealism, before Allen Klein took over. Then the Apple dream fades, and the melodrama begins, with O'Dell becoming an increasingly enmired observer of, and then participant in, the collapse of the Harrison and Starkey marriages. She also slips ever more deeply into alcohol and drug abuse, and soon any glamour (by association) is outstripped by her increasing awareness that she is only clinging to reality by the most tenuous of chemical threads. A hangover is bound to follow, and even what appears to be a happy ending (her 80s marriage to a British aristocrat) turns out to be another nightmare. Long before this point I was thanking the gods that I'd never been anywhere near the Beatles or the Stones at a vulnerable stage of my life - there but for the grace of George go I, indeed . . .

It's well worth reading, anyway - pure indulgence, but a guaranteed page-turner throughout, and often genuinely revelatory about life in the Beatle fast lane.

Beatlemania 1970 style

Forty years ago this afternoon, A Hard Day's Night was broadcast on British TV for the first time. It's not an exaggeration to say that this screening changed my life.

If my memory serves me well, the film began at just after four o'clock. I was thirteen years old, and had to beg special permission to be allowed to watch it through to the climax, as we would normally have begun our afternoon sandwiches and cakes at five pm. After six years of barely being aware of the Beatles' existence, I had recently stumbled across a copy of the With The Beatles album (full story to follow), and had started to look longingly at the racks of Beatles LPs in my local branches of Smith's and Woolworth's. That Christmas, my parents had allowed me to move their enormous radiogram - about the size of a two-seater sofa - from the sitting-room to my bedroom. But as yet I didn't own any Beatles records.

So the screening of A Hard Day's Night would have been a landmark under any circumstances - a rare opportunity to hear the Beatles' music. What I wasn't prepared for was the emotional impact of the film. As it finished, I felt tears filling my eyes, for reasons that I couldn't understand. With decades of hindsight, I can only imagine that the film conjured up the vision of a world - and a band - so magical that it was painful to watch it vanish. In 1970, I didn't realise that I would be able to access that world whenever I wanted to.

My other main memory of the film from this original screening was that I was absolutely captivated by John Lennon - by his deadpan humour, his unshakeable cool, even the perfect way in which his hair shadowed his face. It was a teenage crush, I suppose, never sexual, but utterly transforming. Before long, I had adopted his crushing sarcasm and his (1964) haircut as my own, and for the next decade, my view of the universe and his were difficult to separate. Which is why, as I wrote a couple of weeks ago, his death had such an impact on me.

Those ten years between A Hard Day's Night and the gunshots at the Dakota seem, in retrospect, to have lasted about ten times longer than the three decades since. More next time about how I came to hear With The Beatles in 1970, and then slowly immersed myself in the world of the Beatles over the next few months. But for now, I'd like to raise my metaphorical hat to A Hard Day's Night, and 100 minutes that signposted the path to my future.

Living With Lennon's Death

At five minutes to eight, I stumbled out of bed and across the cold room to the radiogram. I punched the button for the radio, and fell back gratefully beneath the covers. Through the weather forecast, it was just another day. Then came the electronic pips with which the BBC marked the hour, followed by the familiar voice of Today presenter and professional contrarian Brian Redhead; and my world changed.

"The former Beatle", he began, and time began to slip free of its boundaries. "Not John", I remember thinking. "Please, not John." In the split-second between words, I was ready to condemn three other men. "John Lennon", Redhead continued, and I knew the worst.

Even in 2010, when other stations might lead their bulletins with the announcement that one celebrity has attacked another's performance on a reality TV show, Today still has standards. In 1980, there was no uncertainty. The top of the news meant death.

Redhead's statement was brutally austere. "The former Beatle John Lennon has been shot dead outside his home in New York." Already lying down, I had nowhere to fall, but when I recall the moment, I picture myself plummeting down and down, an impossible weight crushing my chest. I don't remember breathing, except to mutter a single profanity, over and over. I was 23 years old, and it was the biggest shock of my life. Thirty years later, I can't remember a moment to match it. There's been grief since then, and sadness of every kind that an adult in this tangled world can expect. But nothing else that split the universe asunder; shattered the fragile shell of life; wiped out hope. I've lived through worse things than John Lennon's murder, but nothing else has ever hit me that hard.

For almost exactly ten years, Lennon had been my touchstone, my role model, my hero. As a fan, I felt as if I owed him my life. And in a way, I did, as he had unwittingly provided me with an escape route from the deadening future that had seemed inevitable; had led me to the first months of a career in rock journalism; had lent me just enough of his swaggering arrogance to pull myself through month after difficult month. Later, I would always say that the world was a less interesting place without Lennon in it. But on December 9, 1980, a world without John Lennon seemed impossible - and impossible to bear.

Yet it had to be endured. I have grim, vivid memories of that day - calling my girlfriend across the other side of London, as if that would console me; walking like a dead man to work, where I demanded that the radio was silenced, as I could not bear to hear John's voice; phoning my mother, who advised me sensibly enough that I shouldn't get too upset, because he was only a pop star and I didn't actually know him. I can imagine saying something similar to my own children today, and getting the same response: "You don't understand". I didn't shed a tear, because I knew that if I started to cry, I would never stop.

In retrospect, my grief for a man I'd never met approached the borders of mental illness. That Christmas was insufferable: how could I enjoy anything when Lennon was gone? Every year, the anniversary would loom like a monster, poisoning the weeks before it. Gradually I regained some equilibrium. I wrote a book (The Art And Music Of John Lennon) that analysed every fragment of his output, and another (You Never Give Me Your Money) that chronicled the sadness that scarred his final decade, and the dissolution of the band that he had once loved. Yet through it all the terrible starkness of that moment remains.

Today, I can apply perspective to my obsession, and my grief; I know where they came from, and why they controlled me (and millions more). I can put Lennon's life and work into context; I can divide genius (John Lennon Plastic Ono Band) from hackwork (Double Fantasy), and appreciate both for what they are. I can even sit through a documentary about the murder, like ITV's surprisingly meticulous The Day John Lennon Died earlier this week, almost without a pang (no pun intended, May).

And yet . . . late in that film, the doctor who vainly attempted to save Lennon's life described the appalling damage that the assassin's bullets had done to his body. Just for a second, I caught myself thinking: "Maybe they'll be able to restart the heart, and patch up the arteries, and it will be OK." Thirty years on, part of my brain still refuses to accept that John Lennon is dead. Some dreams live forever, it seems, even when heroes are gone.