When They Were Boys (57 page)

In Detroit in 1964, after the police had mistakenly left us, I ran alongside Mal and Neil and a few other reporters to create a makeshift wedge as the maniacal crowd, penetrating the defenseless parking garage, circled in on the Beatles. Mal pushed and shoved through the crowd with his massive arms, elbows protruding just at the right moments. It was a sweaty and scary confrontation. There is no question, in my mind, that Mal, if necessary, would have killed for them. He often boasted of coldcocking a desperate photographer in Paris. I wasn't there. But the legend of the fight, at least among the boys, remained solid.

Aspinall, too, offered total dedication, but his edges were harder. Quite often, early on in the boys' touring career in Britain, Aspinall enjoyed pushing and shoving away legitimate reporters. He was extremely jealous of anyone getting close to the boys. He was rude to me on several occasions, but Mal and Epstein intervened and made things right. While Aspinall never understood the role of media, so critical in the rise of the Beatles, Mal, with no prior experience, seemed to get it. Even later, when Aspinall assumed control of the Apple empire of the original Beatles, he tended to manage with an exclusionary style. Despite that, his knowledge of security, dedication to the Beatles, and maturing business prowess made him invaluable.

But Mal was the popular one, with the body of a lion and the heart of a pussycat. Eleven years before his ugly end, the tall and broad former technician for the postal service traveled to Nassau, the Bahamas, to be with the boys. It was February 1965, almost six months after the end of the first great summer tour of North America. It was there that I reunited with my traveling companion.

“Larry, Larry. It's you, you fucking bastard. I love ya, Larry.”

He hugged me hard when I walked through the doors of the boys' rented cottage on the Nassau beachfront, so hard that the differential between our height caused him to grab my neck and press me to him, causing a troubling nosebleed. The gentle giant had inadvertently injured me. He got some ice and some napkins, and I laughed so hard I couldn't stop the bleeding.

The Beatles were in Nassau to film the movie
Help!
Mal, as always, was with them, helping to guard the beach in front of them and the winding road behind them. George and John were relaxing in the unkempt living room, with the smell of marijuana smoke hard to miss. Paul arrived from the beach with a pair of swimming fins in his hand, accompanied by Neil Aspinall. Ringo was out of sight. I laid out my tape recorder and did a few interviews. Mal seemed more interested in the content of the interviews. In fact, both he and Aspinall asked me to avoid reporting on what the guys were smoking. I agreed.

Shortly after I turned my recorder off, Mal motioned me over. He asked me where I was staying. My hotel was a modest two-story house just off of the old docks on Bay Street, the main commercial street in Nassau. There were two beds in the room.

“Could I come along tonight, mate?” he whispered to me.

“Sure,” I said, “but why?”

“Want to spend a night away,” he replied.

I got it. Aspinall was in the house. The security was set. It was a pleasantly cool February night in the Bahamas. The shooting schedule for the movie was tight. He wanted a night on the town.

We took a cab into the downtown of Nassau. He left his little overnight bag in the room. A few minutes later, we went to the waterfront.

“Could I take notes of our conversation?”

“Of course, man, but no recordings. Just stuff on paper.”

I knew I had to work fast. He would be seriously drunk within two hours, but his insight into the boys would be valuable, someday, if not in the heady days of 1965. I was curious, because the story of Mal Evans was often elusive.

We walked to a restaurant and bar on the bay front, and I asked a few questions over dinner and drinks.

So, how did it all begin?

“I'm working for the phone company. I often took walks at lunch. Dropped in to this Cavern nightclub, took a smoke, and watched this band. It was 1962, just three years ago.”

What was it like?

“Well, the place was smoky and these guys, Pete, Paul, John, and George, were doing a very good set of rock . . . a little bit like Elvis music. A lot of businessmen there, and some kids. The music was really good. Got my Elvis groove going. You know I was a member of the Elvis fan club, did ya? Loved their music. They were very high-pitched and there was harmony . . . walked away with an impression.”

What happened next?

“I kept my job, but found part-time work at the Cavern. I was a security man.”

A bouncer?

“Yes. I bounced them round and round, but no problems really. I got to know the guys really well. Really nice guys, who were getting crowded, you know what I mean. Each month from the fall of '62 to the winter of '63, more and more of the kids showed. After Brian got working with them, I got to know him, and Barrow [press officer Tony Barrow] and everyone. Then my life changed when Brian asked me, in the spring, I think, of 1962, to become their assistant road manager. Me wife Lil didn't want me to go. We have a son, you know. But I went. Larry, I fell in love. No, not what you're thinking, man. I fell in love with all of them, the music, the fame. I feel like a brother.”

Who's your favorite?

“Wanna get me sacked? As it is, I didn't know what the hell I was doing when I first set up the stages. I think I was fired a couple of times, but I think they view me as a friend . . . almost a family member. Do love George, you know . . . there is a soul inside that skinny face. . . . Paul is a sweetheart. Yeah . . . I'm an errand boy . . . fixer . . . handy mate, ya know . . . but I would do anything for them. Paul is easier to like than John, but John's a mad genius . . . and Ringo . . . just a sweet man.”

The conversation gave way to dinner and drinks and a night in a club deep in the heart of a Nassau neighborhood. The next morning I awakened
Mal at seven to make sure he got to the film shoot. After all, he was in one of the scenes.

I saw him later that year on the 1965 summer tour, his highlight being the Beatles' meeting with Elvis in Hollywood. We saw each other again in 1966 on tour, in 1968 in London, and in 1969 in Philadelphia. Sometime in the early 1970s, Malcolm moved in other directions. Almost as much as Ringo, he felt like a man without a family when the group split. George, Paul, and Ringo quickly demanded that Mal be hired back, but much to their chagrin, Apple Corps President Alan Klein could not find a job for Mal.

After all, he had mended their socks, picked up clothing and people for them, accompanied them to India, traveled the world at their beck and call, but most of all, during the critical year of 1963, shepherded them with friendship, love, and solace when necessary, and later, sound and creative advice for their music from 1966 to 1970. Some eyewitnesses from the boys' early days state that Mal helped Paul come up with the name “Sgt. Pepper” on the album that many consider the band's most important—
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
. While that may be questionable, one thing is certain: he contributed to many of the album's songs, helping them with their lyrics and songwriting.

Although he was never properly compensated for his creative work, love and respect poured out from the boys. Evans was a witness at the March 12, 1969, marriage of Paul McCartney and Linda Eastman. He was the only member of the Apple Corps staff who was invited to the London ceremony.

Mal accompanied John in Los Angeles, where he had traveled with his girlfriend, May Pang, on the legendary “Lost Weekend.” He discovered and guided the successful Apple Corps group Badfinger. His credits for input and support could fill a chapter in this book. But one accomplishment goes deep beyond the real glory and fame of the Beatles.

Mal played a pivotal role, along with Neil Aspinall, in the most important year of the evolution of the boys: 1963. He shepherded them with protection, love, solace, kindness, and sensitive advice when they, as you will soon read, were close to jumping across the line between right and wrong in their private lives.

Unfortunately, by the winter of 1975, nearly divorced, almost broke, and
dependent on drugs, Malcolm Evans, who gave so much input and effort to
Sgt. Pepper's
, became a lonely heart.

In an interview before his death, he was asked about his lack of financial return, and answered, “Hey, loving them as I do, nothing is too much trouble, because I want to serve them.”

The man who idolized them from the beginning remained committed to them at the end.

On January 5, 1976, fourteen years after meeting the boys, Malcolm Evans, living with a girlfriend, Fran Hughes, in Los Angeles, was despondent. His girlfriend called John Hoernie, his cohort on his book,
Living the Beatles Legend
. Hoernie arrived at their rented motel apartment to see Mal looking groggy and incoherent. At one point, Mal picked up an air rifle. Hoernie expected the worst. Hughes summoned the police. And thus the tragedy unfolds. Despite repeated warnings from the police to drop the weapon, the police say Mal pointed the rifle at them. He was shot four times, and died immediately.

Malcolm Evans, who had lived the legend, took his memories to the grave. When the story of his death came over the United Press International (UPI) wire machine in the newsroom in Philadelphia where I then worked, I stood there in a state of shock and wondered, “How could such a gentle and kind man suffer such a violent death?” Yoko Ono tells me that John cried uncontrollably when he heard the news. Longtime Beatle buddy Tony Bramwell talks of Paul's shock and grief.

In a brief story following his death, the
Los Angeles Times
described Mal Evans as “a jobless former road manager for the Beatles.”

He was more than that. Much more.

Billy Kinsley, founder of the Merseybeats, describes Mal as a “constant companion, defender, and a sweet guy who would never harm a soul, unless they were running in the direction of the boys.”

Kinsley, with bittersweet memories, adds, “As they say, he was a gentle giant who had this enormous sense of satisfaction, and was there in good times and bad, always ready with a smile and a wonderful body block.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE MAKEOVER

“They were ahead of their time, but what Brian did for them, shaping the imagery, brought them a futuristic look that was so influential in their success.”

—Derek Taylor, talking to me somewhere over America in August 1964

M
ONA
B
EST, THE OFTEN-FORGOTTEN FORCE BEHIND THE FLEDGLING
B
EATLES' EARLY PERFORMANCES IN HER
C
ASBAH NIGHTCLUB
,
did much more than get the boys gigs. In fact, one of her influences may be more important than all the others: her recommendation to Brian Epstein that he “polish up” his unpolished band. She suggested he change their look, which was similar to many other bands at the time, and give them a look that was new and fresh. It was advice he took to heart.

The music was dynamic. The bookings were improving. Although Brian Epstein was struggling to get them a genuine recording contract, he knew that there was another more urgent mission in the late winter of 1962. And so he proceeded to engineer “the makeover.”

The world was indeed changing. The rock groups of the fifties, although fairly well dressed, began to symbolize a move toward the outer limits of what Americans would label as a growing problem: “juvenile delinquents.” Every generation has had its form of juvenile delinquents, but in the late fifties, the groups were famous for Elvis-style longer black hair, leather jackets, and an outward irreverence to anyone over twenty-one. Sound familiar?

Irreverence for adults was one thing, but Brian Epstein knew very well the secret to the long-term success of the Beatles:
acceptance
. He knew that the quality of their music, the factor that was bringing them early success, could be trampled by the rough-tough imagery that came right out of the Teddy Boy handbook. So he moved, and he moved fast.

Soon after his first glimpse at the group, Brian Epstein was determined to make the group more palatable to all audiences. But there was a challenge.
As Derek Taylor remarked to me much later on, “How in hell do you take away that raw radiance without destroying the act?”

The answer to that question might have determined the boys' fate, and Epstein knew that from the beginning. In fact, Taylor's early notes of Epstein's remembrances for the ghostwritten autobiography,
Cellarful of Noise
, confirms Epstein's early concerns.

He wrote, “The Beatles were scruffy and rather dirty. They were all shaved and they were neither as untidy or dirty as anyone else. . . . They smoked and ate on stage. The response was falling off, but they
were
very funny on stage.”

In the beginning, Epstein felt that the only reason the Beatles were interested in doing a deal with him was that he had some money, a car, and a good job. He was accepting of them when they set a meeting to talk about a management contract, but he was none too happy that Paul was an hour late for the first real discussions.

It was during these talks that Brian realized he would have to clean up their act without really cleaning up their act. From the beginning, he wanted trust. So the makeover would have to be executed in time. They couldn't feel hammered immediately upon signing. Like all young people of a certain age, they relished their style, and conformity is such a fashion statement in its own right for teenagers and young adults of every generation.