By Tony Barrow
Liverpool Echo
October 30, 1981
Paul McCartney will be a pop star forever. In sharp contrast to George, he feeds on the approval of his public. His body and his mind are custom tailored for the job of being in the limelight. Paul has not stayed quite so baby-faced as Cliff Richard, but not has he led the same sheltered existence.
If George and then John had not made such an issue about ending the regimen of touring, Paul would have lapped the globe a few more times after 1966 as the Beatles' left-handed guitarist.
Paul is made with the distinctive molecules of a showman, from his bone marrow to his fingertips. He remains incurably addicted to the adulation of an audience. Like all good policemen and actors, he is never off duty. He conducts himself with flamboyant self-importance because he knows he is a very big star, and he wallows in the constant glory of it all. When he appears to be operating with a low profile, it's because Paul feels scripted to do so.
These traits made him an ideal Beatle. He coped with the trauma of Beatlemania, showing scarcely a sign of brain damage. I think he and I worked well together. We placed the same importance upon the value of publicity. I tended to home in on Paul for PR purposes, without realizing I was doing it.
In the days when the Beatles would pose for endless pictures, it was Paul who fetched a dull session to life by adding bits of action. That was almost too good to be true, really, because Paul was also the world's most successful writer-performer of pop songs in history. What more could any publicist ask for?
The changes in Paul were the result of gained experience. In 1962, he was willing to work very hard at being the most charming Beatle. By Magical Mystery Tour, he had mastered his art and acquired power too. He handled media interviews astutely. An interview he gave to America's Life magazine about his drug-taking experience led to worldwide headlines.
Paul was called upon to clarify his position. "I was asked the question, and the decision was whether to tell a lie or tell the truth. The man from the newspaper is the man with the mass medium. I'll keep it a personal thing if he does too. It's his responsibility for spreading whatever I say. I don't think my fans are going to take drugs just because I did."
Long after the breakup of the Beatles, Paul came back to me when his Ram album was ready for release in May 1971. He wanted me to give the new record a push with the press. Ram contained the least significant songs of Paul's solo period. Our brief reunion was unsuccessful not because of the album's mediocre material, but because Paul favored a strange remote control PR campaign: me playing his LP tracks to journalists at my Mayfair offices in central London, him staying incommunicado about the whole thing at his Scottish farm, 538 miles away!
"Can you make it all up like we used to?" He asked when I wanted some in-person McCartney words to support the project.
John Lennon was the firm foundation upon which the Beatles were built. He held his men together through the tough, crude, crazy, illegal, and exhausting sessions in the Hamburg clubs. He led them on into their era of great commercialism and social success without too much compromise toward the gold, lame, littered land of pop music.
John was the main reason Brian Epstein involved himself with the Beatles. But the closeness of their relationship did not stop John from verbally thrashing the group's new young manager whenever he disagreed with Epstein's policy. He did not have McCartney's fine flair for creating little ditties, which grew up to be infectious bestsellers. But he was the period's most adventurous composer-lyricist, a full decade ahead of himself.
He did not have Ringo's facility for steering himself clear of aggro by crossing over to the other side of the street, but he delivered a solidly valid argument when he stayed to fight. He said what he thought, and he meant what he said. Then he moved on swiftly to avoid boring himself.
In the summer of 1962, the news of his wedding was kept from the Beatles' public (because that is the way it was in 1962) for almost a year, until baby Julian was a few months old. During the time we were ignoring his marriage in front of outsiders, John picked up my press office copy of the Beatles' first album and wrote on the back of the sleeve. Besides the credit line, John Lennon - guitar. He added, "Married." It was not until a puzzled visitor queried the matter that we noticed what he had done.
In the years which followed, John Lennon proved to be a PR man's nightmare for more serious reasons. He did not care who he insulted, provided he felt they deserved it. His brand of black humor varied between sickness and cruelty. He was a premature punk rocker clad awkwardly in a carefully buttoned Cardin jacket.
Although their names were linked neatly under the composers' credit, Lennon and McCartney, John and Paul stayed poles apart as songwriters. When interviewed, each gave the impression that the writing partnership was a closely knit affair. In fact, with few exceptions, their songs were solo creations. It was not too difficult to distinguish a romantic McCartney lilter from a roaring linen belter.
A few titles were genuine 50-50 collaborations. Otherwise, they merely offered one another advice and made fragmentary contributions to each other's stuff. Once the Beatles ceased to function as a unit, even in the recording studio, my public relations job on the group's behalf came to an end.
It is more than 10 years since I saw John. On reflection, over a decade later, I conclude that I knew only half of John Lennon. There was little in the half I knew in the 60s to suggest that he would become a preacher of peace and a lecturer of love in the 70s.
During the lifespan of the Beatles, he was a man whom it was easy to respect, and I did for his pioneering musical ingenuity, his brute-force determination. But love, really love Lennon and be loved in return? I doubt that happened before Yoko Ono.
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