Shout! (86 page)

It was in this insecure, restless frame of mind that his eye fell on the “Apple Scruffs,” his own name for the female fans who haunted the individual Beatles’ front gates, EMI’s studios, and the steps at 3 Savile Row. Among them was Carol Bedford, the Texan girl who had arrived from Dallas to join the sisterhood a few months earlier and now lived in a shared flat not far from Abbey Road. In their brief doorstep exchanges Carol had impressed George with her humor, articulateness, and lack of sycophancy. She sensed they were developing a rapport—though never dreaming that the ultimate fantasy of every Apple Scruff was about to come true for her.

“One day, while I was at EMI studios, the roadie Mal Evans came up and asked me where I lived. I thought he might be the one who was interested, so I refused to tell him. Then later, while I was standing at the bus stop, George came along in his Mercedes. ‘Fancy meeting you here,’ he said, and offered me a ride home.”

With all his experience as a Beatle, Carol expected him to be the smoothest and most nonchalant of seducers. Instead, she found he was
almost as paralyzed by nerves as she was. “When we got to where I lived, George switched off the engine, then he pulled down his hat-brim, turned up his collar, and sank down low in his seat so that no one passing would recognize him. I tried to get out of the car but couldn’t get the door open, so he had to lean over to do it for me. Then the scarf I was wearing got caught somewhere. As I was trying to pull it free, I accidentally hit George in the face and knocked his hat off.”

She presumed that that first uncomfortable encounter would be their last one, but a week or so later, George overcame his seigneurial inhibitions so far as to call round at her flat. He gave no advance warning, however, and Carol happened to be out at the time. “When I came home, my flatmate told me this guy had been asking for me and that he seemed very shy and nervous. She didn’t have to say any more for me to know who it had been.”

Despite his nerves he tried again, and this time did find Carol at home. “He sat on my bed for about half an hour, and we talked. I kept thinking to myself, “He must have been in so
many
girls’ flats, all over the world.’ I offered to make him a cup of tea, but was so nervous that I dropped the box of matches all over the floor. George knelt down and helped me pick them up.”

At the time he still had not fully recovered from a car accident some weeks earlier in which both he and Patti had been involved. “Patti had been hurt worse than George and was still having to stay home,” Carol remembers. “I asked George how she was and he said, ‘She’s got to have plenty of peace and quiet, so I’m playing the drums really loudly in the next room.’ That’s when I realized what a rocky state their marriage was in.”

Although obviously attracted to Carol, even in these private surroundings, George still made no move on her. What chiefly seemed to inhibit him was the risk of sexually transmitted disease—mild enough in that pre-AIDS era, but still a major deterrent for someone who’d been a musician on Hamburg’s Reeperbahn. “He asked me if I’d ever had VD, or passed on NSU [nonspecific urethritis]. And he also got incredibly uptight when I told him he smoked much too much. If I’d had the pressures he did, he told me, I’d be a chain-smoker, too. He was telling me about his last medical checkup after the accident and what his doctor had said. He reminded me of a little boy who’d skinned his knee and was coming to his mother for comfort and reassurance.”

His curb-crawling for Apple Scruffs was not the only bizarre infidelity Patti Harrison would have to endure. Not long afterward, the couple visited Tittenhurst Park, the mansion in Henley-on-Thames that Ringo and Maureen Starr had taken on after John and Yoko’s departure for America. Over dinner, George suddenly blurted out that he was in love with Maureen. A few days later Patti came home to find him and Maureen in bed together. For such a gross and meaningless betrayal of two old friends, his only explanation was a shrug and the single word “incest.”

To musician friends like Eric Clapton, George compared his release from the Beatles when it finally came to “recovering from a six-year dose of constipation.” At long last he was free of the Lennon-McCartney stranglehold that had always kept his contribution to the band’s oeuvre so pitifully small. Never again would John patronize him or Paul try to boss him or George Martin lead him to a studio piano and spell out the solo he was expected to replicate on his guitar.

Certainly, in the immediate aftermath of the breakup, he seemed like nothing so much as a brilliant genie, billowing forth from the bottle that had confined him and towering triumphantly over those who had so unfairly held him captive. His first solo project was no mere two-sided album like John’s and Paul’s but a grandiose three-record set whose title,
All Things Must Pass
, could be read either as a philosophical generalization or as a heartfelt sigh of relief that the “long, cold, lonely winter” was finally at an end. The album projected a completely new George, no longer the grimly earnest sitar-bore of “Within You Without You” but a lighter, more open-hearted character who seemed to have found the perfect balance between his cherished Indian mysticism and high-octane commercial pop. Its perfect synthesis was “My Sweet Lord,” a global chart smash destined for eternal life as an anthem to simple faith that crossed all religious boundaries, equally valid whether chanted in a Himalayan ashram, played on the organ of an English parish church, or chanted at sundown by an imam from a minaret.

In the wake of
All Things Must Pass
came a chance to prove the genuineness of his affinity with the Indian subcontinent and his exhortations to universal brotherhood. In the easterly part of Pakistan’s two separate segments, a secessionist movement had declared independence from larger and richer West Pakistan, setting up a provisional government
and renaming their country Bangladesh. The Pakistani army had responded with genocidal cruelty, indiscriminately slaughtering college students, women, and children as well as independence fighters. In a land already awesomely impoverished, something like two million refugees were fleeing in panic to seek refuge over the border in neighboring India.

George conceived the idea of an all-star charity concert and live album to raise money for relief aid. As a Beatle, he doubtless would have turned the project over to his Apple minions to manage, or mismanage, as best they might. But in his new, can-do persona, he took over its organization personally, ringing up superstar friends to enlist their support, persuading hard-nosed managers and record companies to sanction the appearance of their multimillion-dollar talents, unprecedentedly, for free.

There were, in the end, two concerts for Bangladesh at New York’s Madison Square Garden in August 1971, featuring George in company with, among others, Bob Dylan, Leon Russell, Ringo Starr, and Ravi Shankar. It was a historic event that gave rock the first inklings of dignity and altruism that would culminate with Live Aid fourteen years later. It was no less a personal accolade for George, demonstrating in what high regard he was held by the foremost names in the business. Rock concert audiences would never again be quite so high-minded, nor so overanxious to prove themselves just as au courant with Eastern mysticism as were their idols. During one show, as Ravi Shankar and his musicians finished tuning up for their sitar set, they were surprised to receive an earnest round of applause.

Ironically, the star management most difficult to square over the concerts for Bangladesh proved to be George’s own. The high court–appointed receiver who—thanks to Paul McCartney—now administered the Beatles’ partnership, was empowered to receive each ex-Beatle’s solo earnings as well as their continuing income as a group (four million pounds in 1970). The receiver, James Spooner, was therefore less than thrilled to learn that George intended donating his royalties from the live album directly to the Bangladesh relief effort. Before the gift could be made there had to be lengthy enquiries to satisfy Mr. Spooner that it would not adversely affect the other Beatles’ income tax situation. The individual permissions of John, Paul, and Ringo also had to be given in writing. It was to take a further high court ruling, seven months after
the event, for George’s spontaneous act of generosity to be finally sanctioned.

His humanitarian instincts were not confined to people far away. In 1972—a time when few British pop stars other than Elton John interested themselves in good works—he set up a charity called the Material World Foundation (named after his album
Living in the Material World
) that gave support to a range of causes, from the arts to children with special needs. He could be generous to friends, notably the Beatles’ former publicist, Derek Taylor, whom he helped to acquire a mill house in Suffolk.

It was in every way a brilliant start to his new life in the new decade. But as time passed, a terrible truth slowly became apparent. “My Sweet Lord” and the other songs bountifully packed onto the six sides of
All Things Must Pass
had almost all been written by George from inside the Beatles, when the genius of Lennon and McCartney could not help but rub off a little on him. Without John and Paul to stimulate as well as frustrate him, he would never produce work even approaching such quality again. To make matters worse, with “My Sweet Lord” he was accused of plagiarizing a 1964 song called “He’s So Fine” by an American female group, the Chiffons. Though George denied any conscious plagiarism, the three notes that made the central hook in both songs were clearly identical. The resulting litigation dragged on for years and took its most bizarre turn when Allen Klein, the Beatles’ displaced manager, acquired the copyright of “He’s So Fine,” seemingly just for the satisfaction of prolonging the lawsuit against George.

Even more bizarre was the conclusion, reached years down the line, after a British court had decided against George and he had been obliged to pay a six-figure sum in compensation. He himself acquired the copyright of “He’s So Fine,” and so was free to plagiarize it or not, as he chose.

The Apple experience had not stifled his desire to have his own record label, on which he could both enjoy total artistic freedom and also foster new talent. In the mid-seventies, he finally found the right parent company in America’s A&M, a label cofounded by Herb Alpert (of Tijuana Brass fame). So was launched Dark Horse Records, its name consciously congratulating a longtime outsider who was now the music industry’s odds-on favorite.

Ironically, however, the establishment of Dark Horse saw his solo career begin a gradual and seemingly irreversible decline. His albums were
critically panned, and sold in decreasing quantity. He began to alienate concert audiences by his self-importance and his heavy-handed attempts at lecturing and preaching. His 1974 American tour was a failure so resounding that he never again went on the road in America, nor any other Western country. He had the satisfaction, at least, of seeing “Something,” his Abbey Road song, mature into a classic whose originality no one questioned and which over time would be covered by vocalists of every stamp, including Frank Sinatra and Shirley Bassey.

His continuing unhappy marriage to Patti, meanwhile, had produced one of rock’s strangest ever love triangles. Eric Clapton had become infatuated with Patti years earlier but, as George’s best friend, felt honor-bound not to pursue her. His classic song “Layla,” on the pseudonymous
Derek and the Dominoes
album, was both a love letter to Patti and a lament for his own tied hands: “I tried to give you consolation…when your old man let you down….” In 1974, Patti finally left George, subsequently divorcing him and marrying Clapton. Despite all this, the two guitar soulmates managed to stay friends; George even attended Patti and Eric’s wedding. “If my wife’s going to run off with someone,” he said, “I’d rather it was with a guy that I love.”

Thereafter, he seemed to content himself with the life of a landed gentleman-hippie, retreating into Friar Park, the 120-room Gothic mansion near Henley he had bought for two hundred thousand pounds in 1970. The house, built by an eccentric named Sir Frankie Crisp, would have made a perfect alternative school for Harry Potter, with its myriad sooty turrets, grotesque gargoyles, and light switches fashioned like monks’ skulls. Although George went on releasing albums at regular intervals, he devoted himself mainly to restoring Friar Park’s vast grounds, which encompassed a lake with stepping-stones set near the surface so that he could enjoy the feeling of walking on water. He also began a relationship with Olivia Arias, a secretary in the American office of his Dark Horse label. They married in 1978, a month after the birth of their only child, Dhani.

In 1980, he published
I, Me, Mine
, a limited-edition pictorial autobiography retailing at £175 per copy and including color facsimiles of his song lyrics as he had first handwritten them on sheets of hotel or office stationery; one even reproduced a burn he had made on it with his cigarette. Also reproduced was the check for one million pounds he’d had to write in August 1973 in part payment to the hated taxman.

John Lennon’s murder in 1980 had a profound effect on George, although—like Paul—he was unable to react with more than inappropriate Merseybeat flipness. He said that a late-night phone call had woken him with the news, he’d gone back to sleep, “and when I woke up next morning, it was still true.” With reflection he could only add the mock-tabloid cliché that he was “shocked and stunned.” In fact, he was probably the worst affected of the three survivors, having never rebuilt bridges with John the way Paul and Ringo had. He knew, too, that John had been furious with him over the scant references to their early friendship he had made in
I, Me, Mine
.

He tried to make amends with a tribute song, “All Those Years Ago,” which recalled his teenage hero-worship of John (“I always looked up to you”) and hit out, rather too late, at those who had treated him “like a dog.” It was, however, little more than a hasty doodle, sung at the anomalously cheerful tempo of a Boy Scout campfire song and not in the same league with the Elton John–Bernie Taupin Lennon tribute single, “Empty Garden,” released soon afterward.