Beatles vs. Stones (30 page)

Even as the boutique was collapsing, however, Apple Corps expanded into film, electronics, publishing, and music divisions. In June 1968, the Beatles bought an impressive, five-story building at 3 Savile Row for £500,000, installed a recording studio in the basement, and made it their new headquarters.

Although Apple would never have existed if the Beatles hadn’t desired to shield themselves from the Labour government’s high personal income tax, the enterprise was also fueled by an eager determination to prove that “business” didn’t always have to be stodgy, starchy, and serious. Instead, the Beatles insisted that business could be
fun
—a worthy outlet for the group’s boundless creative energy. Apple was also propelled by an extraordinary generosity of spirit. The Beatles boasted that it would provide an unprecedented opportunity for other creative types. By signing with Apple, they said, newbie artists would be allowed to pursue their visions without having to compromise, beg for nickels, or worry about pleasing their corporate masters.
“We’re in the happy position of not really needing any more money,” announced twenty-five-year-old Paul McCartney, “and so for the first time the bosses aren’t in it for the profit.”

To prove the point, Paul helped design a full-page advertisement that ran in
NME
and
Rolling Stone
, which showed their trusty assistant, Alistair Taylor, as a one-man band: he’s pictured with a big bass
drum strapped onto his back and guitar in his hands, and he appears to be singing like a loon. “This man has talent . . .” the copy reads up top. “This man now owns a Bentley . . .” it says at the bottom. The accompanying text provided instructions for people to send in their demo material. Within a few days, Apple was inundated with demo tapes featuring all varieties of music, as well film scripts, poetry, novels, fashion designs, and ideas about electronic gadgets. And yet not a single person who sent material this way wound up getting signed.

The Beatles unwisely put numerous Liverpool friends on Apple’s payroll, and meanwhile, they hired several business professionals who failed to serve the company well. Department heads ran up astronomical expense accounts by flying first-class, staying at luxury hotels, and conducting business at trendy restaurants and nightclubs. Lower-level employees lived large, too. One of them, Richard DiLello (aka the “house hippie”) wrote an insider account of Apple’s rise and fall called
The Longest Cocktail Party—
an apt title, since one of his responsibilities was to ensure that the place was always well stocked with cartons of cigarettes, Cokes, high-end liquor, and Kronenbourg lager. Derek Taylor, recently rehired as the Beatles’ press agent (after resigning in 1964), turned his office into a veritable salon for journalists and touring musicians.
“I remember going [there],” said publisher Sean O’Mahony, “and the entire room was a haze of cannabis. It was ridiculous—you could hardly breathe.” Apple was also a destination spot for down-on-their luck tourists and burnt-out hippies. Someone said the building’s lobby resembled
“the waiting room of a Haight-Ashbury VD clinic.”

To top it all off, crackpots and scam artists were always calling up Apple’s headquarters on the telephone. One staffer remembers overhearing a phone call.

“What did she want?”

“Mick’s home phone number and some acid.”

“Mick’s home phone number and some acid? Christ, what the fuck do they think this place is! Why do they always come
here
?”

In an interview that ran in the January 1969 issue of
Disc and Music Echo
, journalist Ray Coleman asked Lennon whether he was “happy” with Apple? Lennon seized the opportunity to vent his frustration with unusual candor.

No, not really. I think it’s a bit messy and it needs tightening up. We haven’t got half the money people think we have. We have enough to live on, but we can’t let Apple go on like it is. We started off with loads of different ideas of what we wanted to do, an umbrella group for different activities. But, like one or two Beatle things, it didn’t work out because we aren’t practical and we weren’t quick enough to realize that we needed a businessman to run the whole thing. . . . It’s been pie-in-the-sky from the start. Apple’s losing money every week because it needs closely running by a businessman. We did it all wrong, you know, Paul and me running to New York [to appear on
The Tonight Show]
saying we’ll do this and encourage this and that. It’s got to be a business first, we realize that now. It needs a new broom, and a lot of people have to go. It needs streamlining. It doesn’t need to make vast profits, but if it carries on like this, all of us will be broke in the next six months.

Lennon’s last comment was a bit hyperbolic; none of the Beatles were in imminent danger of going broke. Then again, how could anyone be expected to know otherwise? All around the world, newspapers picked Lennon’s remarks off the wire services and put them into print. He was the first Beatle to confirm, in even a minor way, what so many others already suspected and feared: without Epstein at the helm, the Beatles were in real trouble. They seemed flaky. First, they were flirting with the Maharishi, next came the
Magical Mystery Tour
fiasco, and now this. Apple was a boondoggle, a shit show, a fiasco.

When Lennon aired out the Beatles’ business in the media, the others were aghast. It wasn’t just that they were all heavily financially
invested in Apple Corps (although that was the case); they were also invested creatively, time-wise and ego-wise. It was an exceedingly audacious endeavor, and they had launched it with no small amount of fanfare.
Of course, they knew Apple was floundering, and badly. But they were trying hard to fix it. Now Lennon had just created another infuriating distraction.

About a week after the piece ran, while visiting Apple’s headquarters, Coleman had the misfortune to cross paths with Paul McCartney in a hallway. Paul lashed out:
“You know this is a small and young company, just trying to get along,” he exclaimed. “And you know John always shoots his mouth off. It’s not that bad. We’ve got a few problems but they’ll be sorted out.” (By now, Coleman’s back was pressed against a wall.) “I’m surprised it was you—we thought we had a few friends in the press we could trust.”

In fact, Coleman had long been magnanimous toward the Beatles. Oftentimes he had sat on juicy stories that he knew would embarrass the group, cause them trouble, or disrupt their families. This, however, was truly newsworthy. Lennon had provided an accurate, firsthand appraisal of Apple’s problems in an interview that both parties understood to be on the record. Moreover, Coleman was certain that Lennon knew what he was doing. He was well practiced at giving interviews, and he put his remarks across sharply precisely because he wanted them to land with big impact.
“The day we spoke he was as clear-minded as he had ever been,” Coleman said.

•  •  •

In 1971, Klein gave an interview to
Playboy
that focused heavily on his personal and business relationships with the Beatles and the Stones.

PLAYBOY:
Why did you want the Beatles?

KLEIN:
Because they’re the best.

PLAYBOY:
Why did you feel you’d have them?

KLEIN:
Because I’m the best. I can even tell you the moment when I knew for sure I was going to be their manager. I was driving across a bridge out of New York and I heard on the radio that Epstein had died and I said to myself, “I got ’em.” Who else
was
there?

PLAYBOY:
Did you get in touch with John or did he call you?

KLEIN:
I called John. Sometime in early 1969 I read that he had made a statement to the papers saying that if the Beatles didn’t do something soon, Apple would be broke in six months. That was my opening.

Peter Brown, who was made executive director of the newly formed Apple Corps in 1967, remembers that Klein called frequently. On one occasion, Brown even agreed to a meeting between himself, Klein, and Clive Epstein (the late Brian’s younger brother). But nothing was accomplished.
“[Klein] was so foul-mouthed and abusive, I ended the meeting in a few minutes and had him shown the door—just as Brian had done years before,” Brown recalled. After reading Lennon’s comments about Apple, however, Klein redoubled his efforts to make inroads on the Beatles. “I would dutifully return the calls,” Brown said, “but Klein was now insisting that he would only speak to one person—John Lennon. I told him that was impossible.”

Refusing to be stymied, Klein then reached out to Tony Calder, a business partner of Andrew Oldham’s who was also friendly with Derek Taylor. Over a couple of afternoon vodkas in Derek’s office, Calder passed along a high-priority message: Klein was staying at the Dorchester Hotel, and he wanted to have John and Yoko over for dinner.

Derek did as he was asked. Years later, he seemed a bit sheepish about it.
“Klein is essential in the Great Novel as the Demon King,” he quipped. “Just as you think everything’s going to be alright, here he is. I helped to bring him to Apple, but I did give the Beatles certain solemn warnings.”

Although Klein would become widely disliked in the music industry, his early success in pop music management was not hard to understand. Among other skills, he was said to be brilliant at sizing a person up. In just a few moments, he could locate someone’s seductive points or their vulnerable ones. Back in 1963, when soul singer Sam Cooke was having troubles with his record label, RCA, Klein told him:
“Sam, I think they’re treating you like a nigger, and that’s terrible—you shouldn’t let them do it.” When Klein met Lennon in January 1969, he pressed a different button: He stressed that there were
four
Beatles. Paul McCartney wasn’t anybody’s leader! Where did he get off, treating the others as if they were merely sidemen? It was just what John wanted to hear.

Lennon also believed that Yoko was fully his equal as an artist, and that she wasn’t being paid proper mind—neither by the other Beatles, nor by the broader society. And so Klein prearranged to have the hotel serve Yoko the macrobiotic rice that he knew she favored, and he lavished attention upon her throughout the entire dinner. He told Yoko he would find funding for her art exhibitions, and he would get her avant-garde films distributed by United Artists.
Not only that, he predicted they would pay her a million dollar advance (a preposterous claim).

When Klein discussed his background, he stressed the uncanny ways that his own rough childhood had paralleled John’s. Allen never knew his mother; she died when he was very young. His father, a Hungarian immigrant, worked in a butcher shop, and since he couldn’t afford to raise four kids on his own, he placed infant Allen in an orphanage, where he remained until he was at least nine (some sources say older). Eventually he was placed in the custody of an aunt (just like John had been). Klein had graduated from high school, but it had not been easy: teachers found him difficult to handle, and he’d been expelled numerous times. Later he put himself through tiny Upsala College, in East Orange, New Jersey, by working all day and taking courses at night.

And now? He owned a yacht and he worked from a plush corner office on the forty-first floor of a West Side office building. He could afford to gloat about his success because he had earned it. It came as a result of his calculator brain, his tenacious work ethic, and his utter fearlessness. On his desk, he kept a plaque that parodied Psalms 23:
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil
for I am the biggest motherfucker in the valley
.”

Some speculated that Klein, a nondrinker, neurotically channeled his energy into work; that he was what we would nowadays call a “workaholic.” That may be so (it is impossible to say), but he certainly had other passions as well. He was said to be a devoted family man and a gifted tennis player, and he had an extraordinary love for popular music. During his dinner with John and Yoko, he made a point of demonstrating his enthusiastic knowledge of soul, pop, and rock ’n’ roll by quoting various song lyrics from way back. Of course, he also underscored his deep understanding of the Beatles.
“He knew every damn thing about us, the same as he knows everything about the Stones,” Lennon said.
“He’s the only businessman I’ve met who isn’t grey right through his eyes to his soul.”

Klein assured Lennon that initially he wouldn’t charge him a penny. He just wanted permission to look into his affairs and see what he could do on his behalf. The next morning, Lennon sent a memo to EMI’s chairman, Sir Joseph Lockwood:
“Please give [Klein] any information he wants and full cooperation.”

That came as alarming news to McCartney. Although Paul had once had a favorable view of Allen Klein, he had recently revised his thinking as a result of his new connection with the Eastman family. Paul was introduced to the American photographer Linda Eastman in May 1967. He was still seeing Jane Asher at the time, but their relationship was rocky, and he found himself drawn to Linda’s good looks and charming self-confidence. At first, Paul and Linda didn’t see much of each other, but about a year later they reconnected, and in March 1969 they were married in a shotgun wedding. Linda came from a
privileged background. She grew up in Scarsdale, New York, where artwork by Picasso and Matisse decorated her family’s home. Her father, Lee, was a hugely successful showbiz attorney, and her brother, John, was being groomed to take over the family law firm. Both men were posh, debonair, and expensively educated.

The Eastmans advised McCartney to stay far away from Klein.
Not only was he gross and unlikeable, they said, he was also now under investigation in the US by the SEC (Securities and Exchange Commission) over an alleged stock-kiting scheme involving Cameo-Parkway Records, a nearly defunct label that he’d purchased in July 1967. When Paul asked Lee and John Eastman if they’d be willing to help the Beatles straighten out their finances, they said they would be happy to oblige. And perhaps they would have done a fine job. But McCartney should have realized that the other Beatles weren’t about to let him put his own relatives in charge of the group’s finances.