I was with the Beatles in Bangor, North Wales, when they heard about Brian’s death. The whole weekend had been rather bizarre. Michael McCartney, Paul’s brother, had rung me the night before to tell me that they planned to go to somewhere in Wales to meet someone called the Maharishi. It had all begun with George, and his interest in Indian things, and he had persuaded the others to join him. Michael told me to be on the platform at Euston at a certain time for the Bangor train. It was bound to be a happening. Remember happenings? Very 1960s. I realized it would be the first time they had all gone anywhere as a group since their touring days. So that at least would be interesting to observe.
I travelled with them in their carriage, on Friday, 25 August 1967 — the four Beatles, plus Mick Jagger, Marianne Faithfull, all in their flower-power clothes. It was very revealing to see Jagger and Lennon together. They seemed wary of each other, careful and respectful, with very little contact.
I knew, from having discussed it previously with John, that John felt jealous of Jagger. Certainly not of his music, or his success, or his fame, but of the fact that Jagger always had a rebel image, right from the beginning, which John felt he should have had as well. I argued that it was the Beatles, breaking so many rules, that allowed the Stones to come along later and build on what the Beatles had done. John at that stage still resented the cleaning-up operation Brian had performed on them, ashamed in a way that he had gone along with it, which was why later, I suppose, he overcompensated by dishing out the dirt about himself, making himself worse, if anything, than he had been.
On the train, there was very little conversation between them all, though after they had been ushered into the Maharishi’s compartment, further along the train, they all laughed and joked about what he had said to each of them, but at the same time obviously taking it very seriously.
The trip had been meant to be secret, and was arranged at the last moment, but the news leaked out and at various stations along the line crowds of fans gathered. It was almost like Beatlemania days again. Fans rushed to the train when we stopped and shoved autograph books through the windows and doors; quite a killing for the fans, getting such a batch of heroes, all in the same spot at the same time. Most of them dutifully signed, except John, who soon said he was fed up. So now and again I signed his name in their little books, if they looked particularly disappointed. I do hope Sotheby’s have found a way of checking the real signatures from the false.
That evening, in Bangor, we all went into the town for something to eat. It was late at night, in a very small provincial town, and we could find only a Chinese restaurant open. When the bill finally came, I realized I had not enough money, nor had anyone else. The Beatles never carried money, just like the royal family, and this time they were without their normal aides and assistants who carried the purse for them.
The Chinese waiter was becoming very upset, thinking we were all going to walk out without paying, when George suddenly put his bare foot on the table. He had taken off his sandals and was examining the sole of the shoes. There was a slit at the front and from it he withdrew £20, more than enough to settle the bill. He had put the money there for such emergencies, months if not years previously, and forgotten about it until that evening.
The news of Brian’s death came through on the Sunday, after they had a long session with the Maharishi. They appeared at the time to be rather callous in their reaction, which hurt Brian’s family, but it was partly the result of being with the Maharishi, who told them that death meant very little. It was typical of their reaction to such things. Years before, Paul had once made a silly joke about his mother’s death, out of fear rather than cruelty. John had appeared to be uncaring after his own mother had been killed.
The death of Brian Epstein was a watershed, the end of an era, the final chapter of those Beatlemania years, although we did not realize at the time how near it was to the end of the Beatles as an active group. Everyone wondered, though, what the next era would bring. I remember George Martin telling me that he thought they would not manage in the future without some sort of organizer, some figure to lean on. They would always need some sort of help.
As for interviewing the Beatles themselves, I described in great detail in Part Three of the book (see Chapters 28–34) what exactly they were doing and thinking in 1967, so there is not much need to add to that. I knew at the time that the minute I wrote anything down it was out of date. They moved on so quickly, changing their minds, changing their clothes, their interests, always into something new.
John was the hardest to talk to. I spent hours at his home in Weybridge in silence, swimming round his pool with him, eating a meal, sitting in his little living room, often without a sound, except for the rotten television set flickering away in the corner. In the end, if conversation seemed impossible, I would pack up and come again another day, when I hoped he would be more forthcoming. With Cyn, he could go on like that for weeks. He seemed to be in a permanent state of mental abstraction. I don’t think it was the effect of drugs, though he was smoking a lot, or even Maharishi’s meditations. For long spells, he just chose to cut off. Looking back, he was waiting for Yoko to come along, and spark him into life again.
John could still be the strongest personality in the group, if he wanted to, though not as dominant as in the past. He let Paul take control of most things and allowed him to steer the Beatles into new projects, such as Magical Mystery Tour, or George to steer them into Indian mysticism.
Even at the private party to celebrate Magical Mystery Tour, which was a very jolly affair, with their friends and relations and personal staff, John seemed so subdued. We all came in fancy dress. I went as a Boy Scout, and my wife as a Girl Guide, which was a bit pathetic and showed little imagination. John looked magnificent as a greasy rocker, just as he had been, ten years previously. He talked for a while to my wife about books, then sat in a daze.
At his home, and in his head, he had so many half songs, uncompleted bits of verse, which he would play with, before quickly tiring of them. For months I seem to remember he was mucking around with ‘Across the Universe’, or variations on it. He would play or sing me the same old bits every few weeks, having failed to make any progress with it since I’d last seen him.
Paul was the easiest to talk to. He had such energy and such keenness and, unlike John, enjoyed being liked, at least most of the time. I don’t see this as a criticism. John himself could be very cruel about Paul’s puppy-dog eagerness to please. The irony was, and still is, that John’s awfulness to people, his rudeness and cruelty, made people like him more, whereas Paul’s genuine niceness made many people suspicious, accusing him of being calculating. Paul does look ahead, seeing what might happen, working out the effect of certain actions, but he often ends up tying himself in knots, not necessarily getting what he thought he wanted. I think there is some insecurity in Paul’s nature, which makes him try so hard, work so hard. It also means he can be easily hurt by criticism, which was something that just washed over John.
George, at the time I was doing the book, was an obsessive, which could make it very hard to talk to him. He hated, even then, the Beatle days, and wanted to forget them completely and move on. They all felt that, but George felt it most of all. His development, during those years as a Beatle, was by far the most dramatic. It’s easy to forget just how young he was, a callow 17-year-old, when he joined them. For so many years, most people tended to dismiss him as a mere child. John was so dominant and, at that stage in their career, being three years older, it made an enormous difference and he completely overshadowed George. Presumably John and Paul did see hidden things in George, right from the beginning, apart from his excellent guitar playing. They were proud of him, in a big-brotherly way, for being so good on the guitar, and by 1967 their pride had turned to admiration, not just for the excellent songs he had now composed, but for being so knowledgeable about Indian music and culture, going to such trouble to teach himself the sitar. For the first time in his life, he had become a leader, doing it by example, not in any bossy, domineering way.