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have been listening to the Beatles since 1975Jun 4
Put yourself in George Martin’s position.
It’s June 1962.
You’re the head of a fairly small but reasonably profitable label, which is a small branch on the giant corporate tree that is EMI.
You’ve kept control of the label by your willingness to do anything: obscure classical music, folk music, original cast recordings of shows, skiffle (when skiffle was A Thing, which was a few years ago now), but mostly comedy and novelty records.
You are recognised as imaginative, and a good earner, but hardly a major player.
You’re in your mid-thirties. You could be forgiven for thinking that this is as good as it will ever get. You’re the guy who produced Peter Sellers’ records.
Peter Sellers. The film star.
Then these four sullen Herberts from Liverpool show up to record something. Nobody is entirely sure if it’s a demo, or an attempt at a first single. You’ve met their manager, who seems smart and engaging, but is also clearly rather infatuated with them.
You’ve already heard their actual demo, which is rubbish, but for complicated office politics reasons to do with music publishing, there is pressure upon you to find something worthwhile about these boys. Your boss has found out that your marriage is over, and you’re having an affair with your secretary Judy, and he doesn’t like that. So you have to play nice.
And part of playing nice is that you’ve agreed to let the ‘Beattles’, as you thought they were called until a few days ago, record something.
You’re so not interested in this session that you aren’t even there at the start of it. You delegate it to Ron Richards, your assistant.
You slope off to the canteen for a cup of tea, leaving Ron in charge: no need to subject yourself to this. You know how it’s going to go.
Halfway through your tea, tape operator Chris Neal comes in and comes over to you.
Chris says, Ron said to ask you to come and have a listen to this song.
So you go back to the studio, and they play this bog-simple ditty:
Love, love me do. You know I love you. Plee-ee-ee-eeease… love me do-o.
Well, he’s right. It’s not exactly ‘Body and Soul’. But it’s also… odd.
It’s got harmonica: you like harmonica, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, that kind of thing. And this is that kind of harmonica.
Not a hit song, though.
Plus, they’re making a mess of the vocals, because the rhythm guitarist is having to sing and play harmonica at the same time. So you tell the bass guitarist to sing the title line. He looks worried.
But also: guitar bands that sing? What’s that? And who’s in charge? They all look the same. Who’s the boss? And their gear is in awful shape: Ken Townsend has clearly rigged up some sort of impromptu bass amp for the bass guitarist, whose actual amp, ragged and crappy-looking, is lurking unused in a corner.
So afterwards, you bring them up the stairs into the control room, and you play their stuff back to them, and you give them The Talk, to let them know what they’re going to need to do to shape up.
And as you do so, you overhear yourself lecturing them, and it occurs to you that this must be a bit boring, and now they’re staring back at you, stone-faced.
So you ask them if there’s anything they don’t like.
And for a moment, nobody says anything, but then the youngest and scrawniest one, the ‘lead guitarist’, who’s hardly Bert Weedon, drawls Yeah. I don’t like your tie.
And you think You cheeky git!, because you’re rather proud of your taste in ties, but his timing is so good that you can’t help but chuckle.
And then they all perk up and start wisecracking, and it turns out they’re all comedians.
Well, except for the drummer, the handsome one with the quiff. He doesn’t talk. Ever. Not much of a drummer, either.
Twenty minutes later, they’re on their way out the door, and you and Norman the engineer have had a bloody good laugh, and you think, Well… if nothing else, they’d be fun to work with.
I’ll need to get a proper drummer for them in the studio, though.
So you tell Ron to find them a song that they can have a hit with.
Because clearly, their own songs aren’t good enough.
It’s a little over eighteen months later. Early February 1964.
You’re in bed, with Judy, asleep.
Your divorce still hasn’t happened, because your estranged wife doesn’t want to have a divorce yet. She has the care of your two kids.
Anyway, that’s another issue. In the immediate term, the Beatles are now very, very, very big. Like, huge. And their latest single, ‘I Want To Hold Your Hand’, has been rocketing up the Billboard Hot 100.
It’s been over a year of sheer madness. Like nothing you, or anyone else, has ever seen before. Starting in early 1963 and snowballing since then.
Everyone wants the Beatles to go to the USA. But they have refused to do so until they have a US No. 1. It’s annoying, but they’ve played things pretty well so far, so we are indulging them.
You only just fell asleep. But you’re woken up by the phone ringing.
You answer it.
It’s Brian Epstein, now a trusted friend and colleague.
What is it? you say.
We’re number one in the States, he says.
That’s it: the four Herberts from Liverpool are now the biggest thing in show business.
You don’t even know what to say. You’re grinning all over your face.
That’s terrific, you finally manage.
Fancy a drink-up? Brian says, and you can hear him grinning down the phone.
Not half, you say, and you put down the phone and go and wake Judy up.
The two of you get dressed, and pop around to Brian’s place, and party all night.
Because, in defiance of every opinion you had of them in June 1962, the Beatles have reached the top.
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