Acknowledgements

I discovered the Beatles around my sixth birthday, in 1963, when the unforgettable refrain of 'She Loves You' permeated every section of British society. I remained sufficiently interested in late 1964 to buy the New Musical Express, discover that the group were about to issue 'I Feel Fine', and improvise my own ditty of the same title into my father's tape recorder. This rendition was accompanied by atonal chords from my Beatles toy guitar, fashioned from brittle yellow plastic. Not surprisingly, Lennon and McCartney's tune was more polished than mine, and their instruments and voices more robust.

I rediscovered the group in 1970, just in time to learn that they had split up, when my cousin Christopher accompanied me to a double-bill of Let It Be and Yellow Submarine. A few weeks later, my father offered to mend a colleague's gramophone, and I discovered that WithThe Beatles had been left on the turntable. To test my father's handiwork, I played the album several dozen times before the machine and the record were returned.

My love affair – no exaggeration – blossomed on 28 December 1970, when I watched (as did John Lennon) the British TV premiere of AHard Day's Night. Thereafter my passion for contemporary music was exceeded by my obsession with the Beatles. My first live concert featured Paul McCartney and Wings at the Southampton Gaumont; Christmas and birthday money was reserved for second-hand copies of Live Peace In Toronto and The Concert For Bangla Desh; I exhumed long-forgotten sheet music from junkshops in Bournemouth, learned to play guitar with the aid of my cousin Geoff 's Beatles songbooks, and uncritically relished everything from John Lennon Plastic Ono Band to 'Mary Had a Little Lamb'.

In 1980, I joined the staff of the magazine Record Collector, to discover that the publisher was also reissuing the original editions of The BeatlesBook magazine every month. I contributed articles to both publications for the next twenty-one years, accumulating more knowledge about the group than was healthy. Gradually I was able to separate my fan from my critic, remaining endlessly fascinated by the surreal world of the Beatles, whilst retaining journalistic objectivity towards their musical output and often careless personal lives. Encounters with many of their closest associates heightened both tendencies.

As a small child, my favourite Beatle was George, for no reason I can remember. As a teenager and beyond, I was John's; his death was – then – the most shocking and devastating moment of my life. In recent years, I have developed an almost romantic affection for George Harrison's songwriting, and often remain entranced by Paul McCartney's effortless skills. I would take Ram to my proverbial desert island, probably accompanied by National Lampoon's incisive parody of John Lennon, 'Magical Misery Tour'. I rarely play the Beatles' records these days, as every note is indelibly imprinted on my memory. But when I do, I am instantly transported to a more innocent time, for myself and us all.

Although this book was ostensibly researched over the course of one intensive year, it leans on forty years as a fan and collector, and thirty as a professional writer and author. During those three decades, I have seen three of the Beatles perform in venues large and small; enjoyed a brief encounter with George Harrison; and restrained myself from inflicting small-talk on Paul McCartney, not wanting to disturb his afternoon. The voices of all four Beatles are heavily represented in this book: as its narrative is, in part, a chronicle of how they have reacted in public and private to the events that peppered their lives, I have preferred to rely on their contemporary accounts, rather than well-rehearsed anecdotes about the distant past. In addition, I have been fortunate enough to encounter many of the key players in this story, in a variety of locations and circumstances. Among them were. . .

Yoko Ono, occasionally in London, and memorably in an executive suite at the Hyde Park Hotel. Just as she was telling me that she would now have to face the world alone without John, there was an ill-timed male cough from her bathroom. She looked embarrassedly in that direction, and changed the subject. She also chain-smoked the first half-inch of an entire pack of filter-tips during our longest encounter, and was infallibly charming throughout.

Derek Taylor, at Apple and various corporate Beatle events, by telephone and letter, and most enjoyably over a very long lunch in the Crypt of St Martin-in-the-Fields church in central London, where his droll wit was nearly drowned by the constant clatter of cutlery on steel trolleys. A mutual regard for Derek has sealed any number of music business friendships over the years. I'm not ashamed to say that I loved the man and his writing.

Neil Aspinall, tight-lipped, devilishly ironic, gruff and yet strangely warm, despite himself, at Apple.

Sir George Martin, inevitably dapper and exquisitely polite at the Café Royal.

Sean O'Mahony, five days a week for twenty years in our West London office, and often since. As ever, I'm indebted to him for the chance to write for a living; if he hadn't hired me in 1980, I would never have been able to write this book – or indeed any of the others.

Tony Barrow, endlessly cheerful and accommodating during maybe a hundred phone calls since 1980.

Tony Bramwell, by phone and in person in London and the far South-West, displaying the humour that ensured he remained a Beatle confidant.

Allan Steckler, an invaluable last-minute discovery on the US East Coast, with an intimate grasp on the Apple/ABKCO relationship.

Alexis Mardas, charming, debonair and persuasive, over several days in Athens and on a Greek island. His full account of the Apple Studios debacle stretched to almost two hours. Later, he clicked open a file on his computer to reveal John Lennon singing an otherwise undocumented song in his honour.

The late Alistair Taylor and the late and delightful Ray Coleman at gatherings of Beatle 'celebrities' in Liverpool.

May Pang likewise, but fortunately still with us.

Cynthia Lennon plugging her debut single in a London boutique hotel – slightly embarrassed to be famous, but as warm and welcoming as one could possibly hope.

James Taylor in a Scottish hotel complex, gently passionate and worldly wise.

David Peel, bellowing down a phone line from NYC as if he was exposing the Pope's dope habits in Washington Square Park.

A. J. Weberman (and his pug, Puddles) in a park alongside the East River in Manhattan. The dog was eager to tackle every other canine regardless of size, while A. J. offered a seamless flow of Dylanology, radical political gossip and astonishingly vivid memories of the Lennons in revolutionary mode.

Louise Harrison, open and warm from middle America, still betraying the trace of her brother's Scouse accent, and concerned about how posterity might remember him if current trends continue.

Steve Gebhardt in the London apartment of my late friend John Platt, opening a reservoir of memories from a career of radical filmmaking.

Allen Ginsberg, only a few months from death, yellowed by liver cancer but still a peerless coiner of images and an inveterate enthusiast for life, poetry and music.

Michael McCartney, in a London taxi and by phone in Liverpool, endlessly championing his own artistic independence in the shadow of his brother's stardom. 'Why don't you ask Our Kid? ' he says, when the questioning about Paul gets too personal.

Chris Charlesworth, on too many occasions to recall, in London: always helpful, always good company.

Barbara Orbison, keeper of the Wilburys' flame, aristocratic and generous in a lavish London hotel suite.

Bob Whittaker, destined to be remembered as the creator of the Beatles' 'butcher' sleeve, which is scant reward for his artistry and ambition as a photographer; in London.

Terry O'Neill, celebrity photographer, on the phone somewhere I can't remember.

Elvis Costello in his Dublin rehearsal studio. Ask him a question, and all you have to do is remember to turn the tape over 45 minutes later.

Neil Innes, graciously trying to pretend that he was enjoying the PR duties for the Rutles' reunion in the Virgin Records office.

Leon Russell, bearded snowy-white like a counterculture Santa Claus, behind inch-thick shades in his Nashville home studio, flanked by walls of African masks.

Gail Renard in London, reflecting on her unique role in the Lennons' Toronto bed-in.

Two McCartney aides, by telephone: the charming Eddy Pumer, after producing the radio series Oobu Joobu; and the late Tony Brainsby, unfailingly cheerful over many years as McCartney's press spokesman.

For snapshots of the solo Beatles at work and play: Rosanne Cash, superb company in a New York diner; Linda Gail Lewis at home in Wales, with all the Killer's panache; the guru-like Don Was lounging in a Notting Hill hotel; Levon Helm down the line from one more roadhouse with The Band; Graham Nash in person and via digitally reconstituted vocal transmission, always willing to please; Stephen Stills at the Dorchester Hotel in London, his deafness colliding with my incipient deafness to comic effect; Astrid Kirchherr, winning and charming in Germany; Jü rgen Vollmer from a film set somewhere in America; Carl Perkins, smoking up a storm in a London hotel a few months after his apparent recovery from throat cancer; Paddy Maloney of the Chieftains, warmly welcoming at the offices of BMG Records; Todd Rundgren, compellingly witty and intelligent in two London hotels of varying majesty, equating to the varying state of his career; Twiggy (and her felines), generous with tea and biscuits in her West London mansion-block; Willie Nelson, serene and smiling like the Buddha on a tour bus in Cambridge, and backstage in London, where I interrupted a surreal encounter between the doyen of the American outlaws and Peter O'Toole; Ray Connolly, general confidant of Lennon and McCartney; and Barry Miles, unpicking the counter-culture with enviable recall at the Groucho Club.

Various members of the staff of EMI Records, Apple Corps, MPL, Harrisongs and ABKCO have been knowingly and unknowingly helpful down the years, but did not knowingly participate in the making of this book. Sadly, 'Mr Allen Klein does not give interviews', for reasons that became obvious when his death was announced in 2009.

Several key confidants of the Beatles and their business advisers provided vital information and insights, but asked that their anonymity should be maintained, a duty I am happy to fulfil.

I have met various Beatle-related figures down the years in non-Beatle settings – among them Jane Asher, Mary McCartney, Sean Lennon and Jody (son of Allen) Klein, all of whom were very friendly, no doubt because we weren't discussing the Beatles. Interesting though those encounters were, they provided no material for this book – except that I was sufficiently impressed by Mary McCartney's worldly but unpretentious demeanour in her late teens to interpret it as a strong recommendation of her parents' child-rearing skills.

Over the thirty years in which I have been writing about the Beatles, a number of colleagues, friends and acquaintances have (like it or not) found themselves discussing our mutual interest in the group, among them Keith Altham, Keith Badman, Stuart Batsford, Mark Blake, Alan

Clayson, Andy Davis, Daryl Easlea, Mike Grant, Ian Gray, Helen Hall, Sarah Hodgson, Spencer Leigh, Mark Lewisohn, Pete Nash, Andy Neill, Mark Paytress, the late John Platt, John Reed, Rachel Reilly, Tim Riley, Ken Sharp, Paul Trynka, Carey Wallace, Michael Watts and Katherine Williams. Of those, Pete Nash deserves special thanks on this occasion for his generosity and good humour, and has earned a plug for his website (www. britishbeatlesfanclub. co. uk). Apologies to anyone I've missed.

Other friends have been unfailingly loyal during the writing of this book and its predecessors: Johnny Rogan, Clinton Heylin, Debbie Cassell, Andrew Sclanders and the late Sean Body, creator of Helter Skelter Publishing and the much missed Helter Skelter bookstore, now much missed himself by all those who knew him. Thanks also to the other members of the Doggett family, Pat, Paul, RoseAnne, Anna and Alick; to my fellow travellers and tutors on the Foundation Degree course at ACE; and to Veronica Williams. Apologies to other Green Party activists for not insisting that this book was printed on recycled paper.

As ever, much appreciation is due to my rigorous and tireless agent, Rupert Heath. Thanks also to Will Sulkin, Jö rg Hensgen, Kay Peddle and Hugh Davis at the Bodley Head; and to the staff of the National Archives at Kew, the British Library, the University of London Library, the New York Public Library, and the Library of Congress.

My father-in-law, Rear-Admiral Bob Baylis CB OBE ADC RN, died a few days after this manuscript was completed. Most popular culture since the demise of Noë l Coward left him cold, often with good reason. But he was a constant champion of my work, which was a welcome surprise, and his indefatigable wit and peerless skills as a raconteur were legendary to all those who encountered him. He was one of a kind, and it is a privilege to have known him.

His daughter, Rachel Baylis, has made me happier than I have ever known; and for that, and her endless support, love, wisdom and humour, I shall always be grateful. Without her, I could not have made it this far. I love you, my darling. Much love too to our daughters, Catrin and Becca Mascall, who eased the creation of this book by being away at university when it was written, to the great risk of the innocent citizens of London and Paris; and to Fred, startled by everything, but still a hardened killer of baby blackbirds.

Peter Doggett

Hampshire

July 2009