The Love You Make (21 page)

At the concert several new problems were becoming apparent to them. George had capriciously mentioned in an interview that he liked jelly beans, and now the group was pelted with so many of them on stage it was like playing in a stinging hailstorm. Jellybeans, peppered with flashbulbs that exploded on impact, began to nearly blind them. Worse, the puny amplifiers the Beatles played through couldn’t carry their sound through the coliseum. Although they would eventually be equipped with the best stadium amplification possible, the necessary hardware just didn’t exist in 1964. Even worse, there was probably no amplification short of dropping a bomb that could be heard over the screaming. From the moment the Beatles were introduced to the moment they went off, they only heard one long scream of the crowd.

After the Washington concert they were invited to a party at the British embassy, and Brian decided they would go. When they arrived it turned out that they had been invited to a rather stuffy embassy party. They immediately felt conspicuous and out of place in their Beatle haircuts and gray suits among the black ties and evening gowns. David Ormsby-Gore, the British Ambassador, later to be Lord Harlech, met them in the foyer. “Hello John,” he said, extending his hand.

“I’m not John,” John said. “I’m Charlie. That’s John.”

“Hello John,” Ambassador Ormsby-Gore said to George.

“I’m not John,” George said, pointing to Ringo, “I’m Frank, that’s John.”

The rest of the party crowd converged on the boys demanding they sign autographs. One of the guests, watching John sign, remarked sotto voice, “Look, he can actually write!” Brian and the others froze, expecting John to haul off and punch the man. Instead, he shoved the pens and paper back and refused to sign. One official of the Foreign Office stuck a piece of paper under his nose and said, “You’ll sign this and like it!” Ringo shrugged amiably and said to John, “Come on and let’s get it over with.” He managed to get him to sign a few, but Ringo himself eventually lost his temper when a woman in an evening gown produced a pair of cuticle scissors from her evening bag and before he could stop her, snipped off a lock of his hair as a souvenir for her daughter. Brian whisked the boys out of the embassy in a huff. On the way back to the hotel he promised them that they would never be humiliated like that again. He invoked a solemn rule: no diplomat, no royalty, no president would ever have the Beatles at their beck and call for their amusement. From that night on it was firm NEMS policy that the Beatles simply did not attend official government functions.

When a report of the incident at the embassy appeared in the English press it raised a great cry of indignation. Public sentiment was one of great pride in the Beatles, and to be so rudely treated by Englishmen in a foreign country was considered an outrage. The Foreign Secretary, R. A. Butler, was asked by a member of Parliament to confirm whether the incident had actually happened. Brian, who didn’t want it to attract more attention than it already had, cleverly wrote a saccharine thank-you note to Ambassador Ormsby-Gore and his wife, expressing gratitude for the Beatles’ evening at the embassy. A copy of the note was offered to the Foreign Secretary, as evidence that the Beatles themselves had a wonderful time, and the incident was squelched.

The evening of the Beatles’ double Carnegie Hall performance was especially festive in New York, since it was also Lincoln’s birthday and a school and bank holiday. The sold-out show was another triumph, attended by the usual celebrities and VIPs. After the second show Brian left the theater with concert promoter Sid Bernstein and walked through the snowy Manhattan streets to where Madison Square Garden then stood on Eighth Avenue and Fifty-second Street. Bernstein told Brian he had no doubt that the Beatles could sell it out. He was so anxious for Brian to try, he offered to donate $5,000 to the British Cancer Fund if Brian allowed him to book and promote the show. But Brian preferred to wait. He told Bernstein that his boys would fill bigger halls than Madison Square Garden. Bernstein reminded him that there hardly were bigger halls than Madison Square Garden.

“Then we’ll book football stadiums,” Brian promised. “We’ll fill the largest arenas in the world.”

On February 22
Brian and the Beatles left for England from America, a scant fifteen days after they had left. The Beatles were now the entertainment rage on
both
sides of the Atlantic. Europe and Japan could not be far behind. In terms of statistics, they were clearly bigger than the biggest, Mr. Presley. The day after they left the United States, they became the cover story of
Newsweek
magazine. It was pointed out that the Beatles were barely out of their teens—John was the oldest at twenty-four-and that their twenty-eight-year-old manager, who had been the manager of a record store eighteen months previously, was one of the most admired businessmen in the entertainment industry and at least as famous as his wards.

But what did that mean to the troubled young man who sat in the first-class section of a BOAC jet on the way home, a double Cognac in his right hand, his stomach filled with prickly burrs of anxiety? Brian was most unhappy at the way things were turning out, things the Beatles weren’t even aware of. First, he had begun to depend heavily on amphetamine pills to keep his energy up, which made his temper short. Although the Beatles themselves were taking just as many pills as Brian during the U.S. trip, it didn’t seem to affect them as badly. He had a temper tantrum with the press agent, Tony Barrow, and had almost fired him, and he had shouted at each of the Beatles at one point or another. And he was beside himself over business mistakes—one that could cost them millions of dollars, as much as $50 million.

Soon after the Beatles appeared on “Sunday Night at the Palladium,” Brian’s office was besieged with offers for merchandise licensing and personal endorsements. Within a few weeks he received offers to manufacture Beatle embossed belts, balls, balloons, bedspreads, beanies, buttons, cookies, candies, cards, pencil sharpeners, towels, toothbrushes, aprons, record holders, scrapbooks, TV trays, all manner of clothing, and, of course, a Beatle wig. Brian knew nothing about personal endorsements, as few people did in 1963. What he did know was that he didn’t want the Beatles to look cheap or as if they were cashing in on their popularity. He decided that the Beatles would refuse
all
offers for personal endorsements, no matter how much money was offered, but that licensing agreements could be made as long as the product was of the finest quality. Brian would have no Beatles guitars with cheap plastic strings falling apart just a week after purchase and no Beatles lunch boxes that would rust with the first leaky tuna sandwich. Beatle merchandise would be costly but first quality.

In the beginning Brian’s office handled the merchandising requests, deciding which would be honored and which denied, but Brian soon became bored with perusing dolls and rubber boots and began to look around for someone to take care of the matter for him. He made some inquiries around London for a solicitor. Brian wanted an attorney who would be a confidant as well as a legal advisor, and he was always referred to the firm of one David Jacobs. Of course, Brian had already heard of David Jacobs, the flamboyant celebrity attorney whose exploits were carefully covered by the Fleet Street press. Jacobs’ clients included Diana Dors, Judy Garland, and Laurence Harvey, and he was frequently photographed, not at his desk, but in expensive restaurants or getting out of a limousine on the arm of some international movie star. He was perhaps best known for the large money award he won against the
Daily Mirror
on behalf of American pianist Lee Liberace. A
Mirror
journalist had written that when Liberace entered the room, he was not sure if a man or woman had arrived.

This was certainly a most appropriate case for Mr. Jacobs, who stood over six feet two inches tall and was heavily made up, at all times, in bright orange stage makeup. His hair was combed back in a dramatic wave and dyed an unnatural jet-black color, like shoe polish had been painted on it. His makeup was sometimes so thick that it caked in the summer when it was humid. It was joked that David Jacobs often mesmerized judge and jury not only with his legal expertise but because of his dazzling court performance in full makeup.

David Jacobs adored the young Brian Epstein and took him under his wing. The two men were similiar in many coincidental ways. Their families were both in the furniture business, both were born and bred of money, and both had doting Jewish mothers. Both were homosexual. David Jacobs became Brian’s chief solicitor. From then on all legal decisions and contracts would be made with David Jacobs’ advice, and it was Jacobs’ law office that took over the task of sorting out the merchandising offers. Jacobs assigned the chore to a young lawyer in his office, but the task soon overran the space as the waiting room began to fill with Beatles combs and cereal bowls. Jacobs finally advised Brian to set up a completely separate company for the merchandising end, from which Brian and the Beatles would simply take a percentage of the profits, while they did the work. Jacobs said he knew of someone who would “take the merchandising business off their hands,” which is exactly what he did.

His name was Nicky Byrne, and Jacobs knew him primarily through social circles. He admired Byrne because he gave wonderful parties, and Jacobs, who loved parties, considered himself an expert.
¹⁰
At one fabled gala a grand piano and pianist were pushed out the front door and down the streets. Byrne’s ex-wife, Kiki, was a well-known London skiwear designer who ran a chic boutique in Chelsea. Byrne had once been a partner in a club called the Candor Club, so he knew all about show business, Jacobs contended. Byrne agreed to take on the job of merchandising and formed a partnership with five friends, none of whom Brian or Jacobs knew. His other partners were all in their twenties, and one of them was allowed to buy a 20 percent share in the business for only £1000. The business was incorporated under the name of Stramsact in Great Britain, and Seltaeb—Beatles spelled backward—in America.

Byrne had his own solicitors make up the agreement between Seltaeb, Stramsact, and NEMS. David Jacobs had Brian’s power of attorney in the matter and was prepared to sign the contracts in his absence. The one point still unnegotiated in the contracts was simple: the percentages to each of the parties. Now Brian and Jacobs knew there was a lot of money to be made in merchandising, but no one knew exactly how much. A little bit of research would have turned up the fact that Elvis Presley-licensed soft goods had grossed over $20 million in 1957 alone. If Nicky Byrne got 10 or 15 percent of the Beatles licensing, he and his partners could be very, very rich.

David Jacobs casually asked Nicky Byrne what percentage he wanted. Byrne glibly suggested 90 percent for himself, expecting Jacobs to start bargaining. Jacobs nodded. “Well,” he said, “10 percent is better than nothing,” and he signed the contracts.

Brian had never studied the finalized agreements, nor thought about the terms until he had a meeting with Nicky Byrne in New York. Byrne had recently moved to America to run the company there. Byrne looked rather prosperous in his long coat with a luxurious astrakhan collar to help him brave the New York winter. He was also full of himself. He claimed that he had helped fill the New York airport for the Beatles’ arrival by bribing the crowd to show up with promises of dollar bills and free tee shirts. Brian dismissed this; he had already learned that everyone was taking credit for the Beatles’ success, from Bob Wooler to Sid Bernstein. Then Nicky presented him with a check, collected funds from merchandising, for $9,700. Brian was delighted. It was an unexpected $9,700 and after all, he had agreed to three appearances on the Ed Sullivan show for what had averaged out to be $2,400 an appearance. This would help offset some of the losses.

“How much of this do I owe you?” Brian asked Nicky Byrne, smiling.

“Nothing, Brian. That’s your 10 percent,” Byrne said.

Brian still didn’t quite understand, except that he was to keep the entire $9,700. “That’s marvelous, Nicky. How do you do it?”

Nicky explained that he had already collected over $100,000 and that after expenses there was $97,000, of which Nicky was keeping eighty-eight grand. And that was only the beginning, Nicky jovially told him. Nicky had already been offered half a million dollars for his share of Seltaeb by the Columbia Pictures Corporation, with Ferrari automobiles thrown in for all the partners, according to Nicky. He disclosed that they were all living quite comfortably at the Drake Hotel on Park Avenue and that they had offices on the best block of Fifth Avenue. Nicky was allegedly employing the services of two limousines on twenty-four-hour call and had hired a private helicopter to ferry businessmen to and from the airport.

When it dawned on Brian what had happened, it started to make him physically ill. He couldn’t think of it without wanting to vomit. As each revelation was made, he got angrier and angrier. One of the first deals that Byrne had made was with the Reliant Shirt Corporation for the privilege of manufacturing Beatles tee shirts for which they would pay $100,000. Brian at first thought this sum was ridiculously inflated, until he learned that in only three days the Reliant company had sold more than one million tee shirts, and the money had been earned back three times over. REMCO, one of the largest and best-known toy manufacturers in America, had bought the licensing to manufacture dolls. They had produced 100,000 dolls already and had orders for half a million more. The Beatles wig was such a popular item that the Lowell Toy Corporation couldn’t produce them fast enough, although their factories were manufacturing them at a rate of over 35,000 a day. The
Wall Street Journal,
in an analysis of the Beatles’ business impact, estimated that by the end of the first year of their success more than fifty million dollars worth of Beatles products would be purchased in America, and that was surely only the beginning if they managed to sustain their popularity.