But What Are the Beatles REALLY Like? (1964)

 But What Are the Beatles REALLY Like?

By Gerry Barker

The Toronto Star

September 12, 1964

     Traveling with the Beatles is like riding a roller coaster. You never know what to expect around the next bend. Their life is a semi-organized roundelay of press conferences, riotous concerts, dashes to airports, hotels, and a wide assortment of stadiums.

    Yeah, puts a questionnaire, but what are they really like? 

    Last week, I chased the Beatles and had an opportunity to find out something about the four boys. My first glimpse came when they were ushered into a corner of a huge basement of Philadelphia's huge Convention Hall, surrounded by a phalanx of riot season police. 

    The first impression smacks you across the face like a wet fish. They're short, untidy, and look like they need a bath. Amid a spontaneous round of applause, The Beatles sit down, swinging shaggy heads to left and right, asking advisors and hangers-on about the procedure. 

    People surge closer, flashbulbs start popping. Leading the advance on the boys is a determined group of youngsters armed with notepads and Brownie cameras. Please stare in disbelief. A clutch of beautiful women sit demurely, hoping for a nod or a wink. Reporters and photographers start complaining about the amateurs hogging the best spots. A cleaner ignores the scene and sweeps away the debris caused by the throng, which has been waiting for more than an hour. Ringo asks for a drink, and a Beatle staffer starts pouring pop into paper cups. Paul McCartney and John Lennon are wearing ties. George Harrison sits and grins. 

    The conference begins with admonishments. "All official press must be seated at the front, "drones promoter Moe Septee, heavily perspiring under the glare of TV lights. "Youngsters under 16 must move to the rear of the room. We will allow the photographers to shoot still pictures first, then we will answer questions from the press. After that, the radio and television people will conduct interviews with the Beatles."

     It didn't turn out that way, everybody, including the 12-year-old daughter of a friend of promoter Septee, asked questions. A couple of policemen asked for autographs in the middle of everything, and one of the Beatles' staffers said the radio men were "pigs". 

    When the shamble was over, the boys were rushed out, followed by a sea of admirers. Some of the attractive young women were steered upstairs to meet the Beatles. Following the concert, The Beatles and their entourage race by limousine to the airport under heavy police guard. They take off into the night for Indianapolis in the plush chartered plane, leaving behind 1000s of wet-eyed children. 

    There are problems in Indianapolis. John Lennon's throat kicks up. The British reporters traveling with the Beatles are quartered in the locker room of the Speedway Motel because no one arranged accommodations for them. Someone telephoned the police that there was a bomb aboard their chartered plane. The bomb threat was ignored. The Beatles are used to this kind of thing, and an understanding Doctor shoots Lennon with some penicillin. He also doled out prescriptions for a mild pep pill that the boys called "Purple Hearts". 

    Ringo breaks out of the security wall as the sun comes up and visits a nearby dairy farm under the nervous eye of a Deputy Sheriff. John Lennon gets out later in the morning for a couple of practice swings with a golf club. The Beatles on tour are impossible to reach. Youngsters jam hotel switchboards whenever they go. Telegrams from important people are largely ignored. In Los Angeles, Liz Taylor asked to meet the boys, but was turned down.  She asked for  and received autographs for her children.

     In Indianapolis, all the boys telephoned England. They admit to being bad letter writers.  Here, Colonel Tom Parker, the man who transformed Elvis Presley into a teen idol a generation ago, talked to all of the Beatles on the telephone from Hollywood. This immediately sparked rumors that the Beatles are going to dump their manager and discoverer Brian Epstein. They torpedoed the story by chorus saying, absolutely not. 

    "Our relationship with Brian is ideal," Paul McCartney told me, "We'd be fools to even consider altering our arrangement."  It would be difficult to erase Epstein because he is tied to the Beatles in an unsnippable, corporate umbilical.

     Epstein, the impeccable English department store operator, is a 50/50 partner in NEMS, the company which controls all of the Beatles' outside operations, including the paraphernalia of Beatlemania, and last year, is reported to have grossed $50 million in proceeds from all concerts, television appearances, films, and recordings. Epstein earns 25%.

     "We, frankly, don't know how much money we have," says George Harrison. "You'll have to ask our accountant." He added that none of the Beatles would ever have to worry about money again.  One report states the boys are worth $14 million each.

     On the road in North America, The Beatles do not require cash. McCartney says he still has the 50 quid (or $140) he arrived with.  All of their wants and desires are handled by signing the bills, usually by traveling manager Derek Taylor, or one of his assistants.

     In Milwaukee, at the Coach House, in preparation for the boys' arrival, it took all morning. Porters trundled specially purchased Scotch and cartons of milk into their suites. The boys normally drink scotch and water, soft drinks, or tea with milk. They deny that they drank Scotch with Coke.

     It was here in Milwaukee that The Beatles' ship ran aground. John Lennon, afflicted with a sore throat, was grumpy and didn't turn up at the press conference. The balance of the Beatles were angered over overzealous police,security. "We want to see our fans", says Harrison. "We know they wait to see us, and the least we can do is give them a wave or two."

     The Beatles, while appreciative, are not touched by the tremendous crowds they encounter. They regard it as sport to run the gauntlet at airports and hotels through the crowds, who frequently have jackets or shirts torn. A favorite answer to the question of what would the boys do if the fans broke through police protection is "die laughing."

     While the group is surrounded by a harried management team, they possess a characteristic air of British unflappability. Behind their security screen, the Beatles spend much of their time sleeping, reading mail, amusing themselves with gifts sent by fans, watching television, and gambling. McCartney is the poker-playing Beatle, while the whole group joined in a rousing crap game aboard the plane on the route to Milwaukee. 

    Traveling in a Beatles limousine dictates a definite drill: all doors must be locked and windows rolled up. Drivers are instructed that cars are to stay as close together as possible so that fans do not isolate the vehicles. It is miraculous that no one has been injured in the high-speed police-escorted surface dashes. My indoctrination to the Beatles dash came in Detroit, where police escorted the caravan from the Whittier hotel to the Olympia Arena at speeds of up to 70 miles per hour through the downtown area. This trip started out with youngsters and cars trying to cut in and out at high speeds, but were quickly turned aside by tailgating cruisers. Two motorcycle policemen collided at one intersection while the convoy shot down the street. 

    At performances, youngsters will frequently attempt to rush the stage and capture souvenirs. In Detroit, equipment manager Malcolm Evans, a former bouncer in the Cavern Club in Liverpool, where the boys were discovered, bounced two boys off the stage following the first show as they attempted to seize Ringo's drumsticks, a favorite target.

 Wherever the Beatles go, there's a convoy of birds (the boys' description of attractive girls). They will pop up at press conferences, be found lounging around hotel lobbies, and even check into hotels. Not all the hotels are as rigid about the rules as the Lafayette in Atlantic City, where the boys rested for two days. There, the management refused to allow any women near the Beatles' suite.

    When the Beatles arrived at their King Edward hotel suite in Toronto, there was a young girl waiting. She was quietly ushered out. 

 On the road, the Beatles are the boss. They have explicit faith in manager Derek Taylor, who makes most decisions regarding their welfare.  An advanced man for General Arts Corp, the firm booking the North American tour makes all the travel arrangements in each city. The promoter is responsible for arranging the press conferences and special interviews, if any. Taylor runs the press conference and fends off the inevitable request for the Beatles to plug this product or meet that public official.  In Toronto, Mayor Philip Given was turned away when he came to call on the Beatles. 

Major irritants for The Beatles, says George Harrison, are the ever-present ring of local officials, policemen, hotel executives, customs agents, and community leaders who use their position of privilege to get autographs. They also become impatient over delays in traveling.

 My impression of the Beatles? They're an uninhibited, casual, downright funny group of young men who will be around for a long time.