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Battling the spin generated by Elliot Mintz, Yoko, and Ono stalwarts Bob Gruen and Alan Tannenbaum (photographers both) was the counter-myth that emerged in the 1980s, infamously disseminated by necro-biographer Albert Goldman (The Lives of John Lennon), but also by Yoko's tarot card reader, John Green (Dakota Days); writer Robert Rosen (Nowhere Man: The Final Days of John Lennon); and most notoriously of all, John's last personal assistant, Frederic Seaman (The Last Days of John Lennon). The portrait that emerged from their tellings depicted a drugged up, strung out, physically abusive depressive, fiercely jealous of Paul McCartney's achievements while seemingly incapable of defying the will of his occultist wife, who—naturally —stayed married to him to control his millions and attach herself, leech-like, to her famous husband in order to fulfill her rock star ambitions, like an updated (and thoroughly warped) Lucy Ricardo.

 

Unlike Goldman or Rosen, Seaman was a bona fide insider, employed by the Lennon's as an all-purpose gofer. He came with the most sterling of credentials, being the nephew of Sean's nanny, Helen Seaman. Helen had achieved her position as wife of an old Yoko crony, Norman Seaman who, together with his brother, conductor/pianist Eugene, booked concerts in New York, including some pre-Lennon Ono performances in the early sixties. In any event, Fred began work in February 1979. His duties, often spelled out in long, hand-written notes from John, ranged anywhere from looking after Sean to running out to get groceries to acting as photographer on special occasions. Given such intimate contact with the family inside their domicile, Seaman would have been privy to their private goings-on; as such, he was required to sign a confidentiality agreement as a condition of employment. His detractors asserted that he never intended to honor the document.

Seaman was on hand when John began to demo material in earnest in the summer of 1980, flying down to meet him in Bermuda and acting as sounding board, roadie, and accompanist (banging out percussion) as John laid down the sketches of what became Double Fantasy and Milk and Honey. By his account, it was an idyllic trip, one that reignited John's passion to make music. (John had been wary of listening to current pop music, fearing if it was bad, he would hate it, feeling he could do better; if it was good, he would become angry, because it wasn't him making it.) Hearing Paul's “Coming Up” finally spurred him to action, though it took him some time to shake off the insecurity that perhaps his time had come and gone.

 

Things were only bound to get more interesting with the Lennon's resuming a musical career, but John's murder just weeks after the release of his comeback triumph brought things crashing down. Unbeknownst to Yoko or anyone else working for the couple, Fred—after asking for and getting time off for bereavement—formulated a plan. He began by removing certain items surreptitiously from the Dakota's Studio One offices. In addition to minor things like articles of clothing and electronic gear (John was constantly being gifted the latest gadgets by manufacturers, more than he could ever take the time to learn to operate; reportedly he'd frequently told Seaman to take home whatever he wanted, an invitation he did not act upon until after John's death), he also removed the entire lot of Lennon's personal diaries, covering the years 1975 until his death.

 

In his defense later, Seaman said that John had instructed him to make sure that Julian got them in the case of his demise. Apparently this brief extended to cassettes of unpublished songs (as well as the manuscript to John’s third book, Skywriting By Word of Mouth, eventually made public in the 1980s). The spiriting away of Lennon materials from the Dakota might have continued indefinitely had not Yoko, upon catching Fred taking a bath during working hours (as well as wearing John's clothes—not simultaneously) fired him in 1982. Not long after, she was tipped off about the thefts: when efforts to recover the items failed, Yoko
notified police and Seaman was arrested.

 

What emerged from his trial was a tale so bizarre that it could scarcely be imagined. First, Seaman had (per the prosecution) been plotting to secure a deal for a tell-all book (expected to sell millions) practically before John's body was cold. Two weeks after John died, a notarized contract was signed between Seaman and the aforementioned Robert Rosen, a college friend who held the materials Fred began gathering and agreed to collaborate on the book. “Project Walrus,” as the enterprise was dubbed, grew to include a retired New York City diamond dealer (introduced to Seaman by his psychiatrist) as well as Rick DuFay, a journeyman guitarist (who played with Aerosmith in the early '80s until the return of Joe Perry). There was no love lost among the members of the cabal: Rosen recorded that each one wondered “who is the most contemptible among us.”

 

Bankrolled by the diamond merchant, Project Walrus entailed establishing Fred Seaman as the heir to John Lennon’s legacy while simultaneously tearing down Yoko as a fraud and seeding “the gossip market” with the most damaging and salacious tidbits they could contrive. Seaman embezzled from Lenono's petty cash to pay Rosen a retainer, delivering grocery bags of purloined documents and materials weekly, while the Lennon journals—ostensibly removed to fulfill John's wish that Julian get them—somehow never seemed to find their way to England. Rosen worked at transcribing them and generating a manuscript for over a year, until – after Seaman's dismissal—he was declared dispensable by the plotters and, while on an expenses paid trip Jamaica, unceremoniously cut from the conspiracy. His apartment was looted of all Lennon materials, a development that did not sit well with him.

 

Rosen contacted Rolling Stone publisher Jann Wenner and spilled all he knew; Wenner in turn put him in touch with Yoko and from there, Project Walrus quickly unraveled. Rosen exchanged information for immunity while Seaman attempted to extort cash for the return of the materials—failure of the negotiations landed him in court. Whatever self-righteous bravado he'd possessed until then evaporated in the face of massive legal bills and protracted litigation. On May 7, 1983, Seaman pleaded guilty to grand larceny in the second degree and received five years probation. Simon and Schuster canceled a book deal (that included a $90,000 advance), whereupon Seaman took his gathered materials, insider info, and axes to grind over to Albert Goldman. The result of their joining forces was the second assassination of John Lennon in less than a decade.

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here. 

 

Unlike John’s missus, the former Linda Eastman possessed no musical ambitions of her own. Prior to hooking up with Paul, her melodic interactions came either as a listener or on a more intimate level (sometimes involving photography). Her first vocal with her husband on record came unexpectedly, for “Let It Be.” After Mary Hopkin—the intended singer—left the studio early, Linda was pressed into service to provide the high harmony. (Of course, this came before Paul’s declaration, in the wake of the band’s disharmonious break-up, that he would never put a woman’s voice on a Beatle record.) 

 

By the time Paul got around to laying down tracks for what would become his first proper studio album, John and Yoko had issued two singles and one live album, establishing musical identities that— to that point—didn’t really rise to the level of collaboration. (There were joint releases, and co-credits even, but the couple didn’t engage in any real duets until 1971’s “Happy Xmas (War Is Over)” single.) Paul, on the other hand, recruited Linda in late 1969 to flesh out his own vocals and— provide a sort of unschooled element that gave texture against his pop slickness.
 

Linda’s harmonies appear throughout the McCartney and Ram albums. (For the latter release, she is recalled by others present as having actually composing her own vocal lines.)  But not until the formation of Wings in mid-1971 was the complete novice compelled to formally learn an instrument, courtesy of Macca. While it is doubtful that John ever had to coax Yoko onto a stage, Linda had to be badgered, begged, and browbeaten into becoming a full-time member of Paul’s post-Beatles act.

 

His insistence that she accompany him onstage in Wings compelled the neophyte to take a crash course in keyboards, making her—in spirit anyway—a musical partner. But not until Sir Lew Grade questioned her qualifications to appear on a composition’s byline was Linda actually compelled to sit down and write a song herself. “Seaside Woman,” a reggaefied trifle, was the result. (It was recorded by Wings on November 27, 1972 and released five years later under the pseudonym, "Suzie and the Red Stripes.")

Though Macca was frequently at a loss to explain why he demanded Linda’s presence, the answer is really simple: she was his emotional support (just as Yoko was for John) and he felt that by putting her on an instrument he’d justified her position to the critics— including the ones in the band. It was an entirely thankless role that Paul forced her into, literally subjecting her to a world of abuse, while testing their marital ties as much as it demonstrated her love for her man.

It took a long time for Paul’s compositional stranglehold on Wings’ recorded output to loosen up enough to allow a song authored by Denny Laine to be issued; for Linda, who’d been with the ex-Beatle from the group’s inception, that day never came. Within Wings’ seven studio albums, she received exactly one solo lead vocal, on a song—“Cook of the House”— penned by her husband. Meanwhile, during the Wings years, she recorded some seven original tunes (plus two oldies covers: “Mr. Sandman” and “Sugartime”)—all but one single’s worth went unreleased in her lifetime—and that pair of songs was issued under a pseudonym.

That the band spent studio time laying down songs that Linda had taken the trouble to write (or co-write), only to then languish in the vaults begs the question: why? If Linda was in fact an essential component of Wings, as Paul so defensively proclaimed, why was her work not accorded the dignity of a public issue that even Jimmy McCulloch earned his first time out? The question cannot be answered without a certain disingenuousness creeping in, regarding either Linda’s musical viability or Paul’s protestations that “Wings is a band – I’m not Wings.” It was Paul who ultimately decided what was and wasn’t issued; with the lion’s share of Linda and Denny compositions recorded but unreleased, the hypocrisy is inescapable.

In any event, “Seaside Woman” came out in 1977, during the “dumping” period between Wings Over America and London Town that saw the issue of the similarly shopworn Thrillington  album. The song itself is a pleasant enough novelty, with enough Macca backing vocals slathered on to effectively mask any shortcomings from the song’s author. Given that the McCartney’s had been discussing the song’s existence for years (and even the pseudonym it was produced under), it didn’t really generate much buzz among radio station programmers, peaking at fifty-nine on the U.S. charts; lower than any Wings single but higher than several of Ringo’s.

Her next recorded composition was far more intriguing. “Oriental Nightfish,” recorded by the same Wings trio in October 1973 that produced Band On The Run, was an atmospheric electric piano piece, augmented by flute and electric guitar. Not a song exactly, in that it’s really more of an instrumental in support of a spoken word narrative, it ended up accompanying a rather trippy post-Fantasia piece of animation by Ian Emes, (directed by Linda) in 1978. The clip, featuring a nude blonde, was nominated for a Golden Palm Award at Cannes as best short film.

Other Linda compositions include “I Got Up,” cut in Paris during the late 1973 sessions that served as Jimmy McCulloch’s audition, along with the equally annoying “Wide Prairie”; 1975’s “New Orleans”—a not-bad girl-group type of throwback (like “Seaside Woman” and “Cook Of The House,” it too features a preoccupation with food); and 1980’s “Love’s Full Glory.” This last tune was perhaps the most ambitious song Linda ever recorded, being—as its title suggests—a glorious romantic ballad. It featured orchestration scored by Tony Visconti, as well as his then-wife, Mary Hopkin, on backing vocals (alongside Stiff’s Lene Lovich).
  

All of the songs were collected and issued with later recordings on the Wide Prairie album, released six months after Linda’s death in 1998. (She had literally been working on some of the tunes in her final weeks to prepare them for release.) While like Yoko, Linda’s work isn’t to everyone’s taste, some of it does possess a certain charm. Why nearly none of it was released during her lifetime (when she could have received the feedback that every artist craves) is a question only Paul can answer.

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here. 

In 1970, a Newcastle group called Half Breed crossed paths with the soon-to-be-former Beatles’ road manager, Mal Evans. Believing he had another Badfinger on his hands, Mal took them into the studio to produce a demo for Apple. Turns out he was half right; the label was interested in exactly half of Half Breed (Quarter Breed?) – singer Bill Elliot and songwriter Bob Purvis.
 

 

The duo’s proximity to the ex-Fabs paid off almost immediately. As luck would have it, an underground satirical rag, Oz, was in trial for its very existence in England, charged with obscenity. Unwilling to turn down any counterculture cause that caught his fancy, John pledged his support for their legal defense fund by producing a single to raise money and draw attention to their plight. Just as George would soon do his bit for the starving refugees in Bangladesh, John chose some sophomoric wise guys for his largesse.

Though willing to lend his compositional pen to the cause, John wasn’t about to put his voice out in front. To that end – through Mal’s intervention – Bill Elliot was tabbed to cut the lead vocal, after one “Magic Michael” flubbed his shot due to a basic lack of recording studio experience. Backed by John, Ringo, Klaus, and augmented by the brass of Bobby Keys, “God Save Us” was a catchy if repetitive slice of fifties-ish rock, released under the nomenclature “Elastic Oz Band.” (The flipside featured Lennon himself on lead vocals for a noisy piss-take of “The Hokey Pokey” called “Do The Oz.” It has since been issued as a bonus track to the Plastic Ono Band CD release, while John’s guide vocal on the A-side was released on the Lennon Anthology box set in 1998.)

 

The single would have made a fine high-profile recording debut, had anyone heard it, but “God Save Us” failed to chart. Just the same, Elliot and Purvis maintained their esteem among the ex-Fabs. After some time apart, the pair reunited to cut some demos. One song, “Another Chance I Let Go,” was deemed a superb addition to the soundtrack of a film that Apple was producing, a cinematic treatment of the play Little Malcolm. With lyrics written almost entirely by Mal and featuring Badfinger’s Pete Ham on guitar (at George’s behest), the song – re-titled “Lonely Man” – was included in the film (as were Purvis and Elliot), bringing the duo further into the ex-Beatle orbit.
 

 

Since it was clear that Apple had reached its end of days, George made Purvis and Elliot – now dubbed “Splinter” – his first signing to the newly-formed Dark Horse Records in 1974. Additionally, he put his money where his mouth was by producing their debut long player, The Place I Love, providing guitar throughout, as well as synthesizer and percussion (under a variety of pseudonyms, of course). Also present were the usual crew: Keltner, Preston, Voormann, Wright, plus guitarist Alvin “I’m Going Home” Lee.

 

“Costafine Town” was a lilting but catchy slice of piano-based pop, sounding a bit like a Harrisong performed by Marmalade. Released in the U.S. in November 1974, the song peaked at a disappointing seventy-seven; in other markets, however, it was a genuine smash, hitting the Top Twenty in England and the Top Ten in Australia and South Africa. The parent album itself was a Harrisonian delight, reminiscent of Badfinger in places but possessing slightly less edginess, lacking the firepower of the Ham-Molland guitar axis.

 

For A&M, who had agreed to take on the Dark Horse roster mostly for the sake of having an ex-Beatle in their midst, Splinter’s success was gravy – an unexpected bonus. It is therefore not surprising that they really weren’t prepared to build upon Splinter’s debut, making what followed become steadily more marginalized. Harder To Live, their sophomore effort, featured George on only one cut, the aforementioned “Lonely Man.” Produced by horn player Tom Scott, it marked an increased slide toward Los Angeles-style light rock, perhaps in keeping with the prevailing non-disco trend of the day. Unlike its predecessor, it spawned no hits.

 

The Dark Horse shake-up, which saw distribution switch from A&M to Warner Brothers, disrupted their career briefly; Two Man Band  came in 1977, over a year after Harder To Live. Sadly, the effect of George’s increasingly hands-off involvement manifested itself in increasingly bland production that downplayed the duo’s unique charms, seemingly in an effort to tailor their sound toward the marketplace. While acts like Firefall, England Dan and John Ford Coley, and Ambrosia were charting soft rock hits effortlessly, Splinter struggled, maintaining a foothold only in Japan.   

 

George contributed some guitar to Two Man Band but the album marked their U.S. swan song. Though they would go on recording together till 1984, Splinter never lived up to their early success, making Dark Horse’s only non-Harrison hit-makers a Fab footnote.

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here. 

Circa 1976 (L-R): Bassist Harry Kakoulli, Glen Tilbrook, Chris Difford, drummer Gilson Lavis, Jools Holland

Perhaps the second best known English songwriting team in rock (does anyone really think of Jagger-Richards in those terms?), Chris Difford and Glen Tilbrook of Squeeze were/are widely-regarded as the natural successors to Lennon-McCartney. In point of fact, theirs was a truer collaboration than John and Paul’s typically was, with Tilbrook supplying the melodies (and nearly always, the lead vocals) to Difford’s witty, dry, and inescapably British prose. The two, along with keyboardist Jools Holland, formed the
backbone of Squeeze in 1974.

 

The band chose their name (in a bit of irony) as a “tribute” to the album of the same name released by New York’s legendary Velvet Underground in 1973; with all the group’s mainstays departed by the time of the recording, celebrating their most unrepresentative album would be the equivalent of someone paying similar homage to The Doors’ Other Voices or CCR’s Mardi Gras. The VU association with Squeeze continued when the band hired the Velvet’s co-founder John Cale to produce their self-titled debut in 1978. (In the U.S., the album was dubbed U.K. Squeeze to avoid a conflict with the now-forgotten band, Tight Squeeze.) 

 

Their debut contained the rather unique sounding “Take Me I’m Yours,” which featured Tilbrook’s sharp tenor paired with Difford’s baritone growl to create a third voice (much like the fusion of Lindsey Buckingham’s and Christine McVie’s singing). The song landed them firmly in the U.K.’s Top Twenty while doing nothing at all in the states. At this stage of their career, Squeeze – like labelmates The Police around the same time – were not shy about exploiting the dying embers of punk, taking to presenting themselves as with one with their audience via safety pins and other punk trappings. (They later would profess a complete disdain for the genre.) 

 

Indeed, what Squeeze did best in the best post-Beatles tradition was offer up meticulously crafted pop, welding a love of observational wordplay with hooks that were sure to make Paul jealous. The endlessly inventive Jools Holland helped color their instrumental texture, while onstage, drummer Gilson Lavis drove the band with an energy that certainly emulated the punks in spirit. Their hit singles streak continued in England with the title track to their follow-up, “Cool for Cats” (croaked by Difford) and  “Up The Junction” (a soap opera set to music). 

 

Following relentless touring, 1980 saw the release of their most fully realized album to date, Argybargy. It featured the hits “Another Nail In My Heart” and “Pulling Mussels (From The Shell),” songs that actually received some airplay on the more cutting-edge radio stations in America. Despite the upward trending career-wise, Holland quit around this time to start a band built around his boogie-woogie piano stylings, The Millionaires.

   

Despite the Lennon-McCartney handle, Difford and Tilbrook soldiered on, recruiting former Ace (“How Long”) keyboardist/vocalist Paul Carrack for their 1981 album, East Side Story. (It’s Carrack’s voice heard handling most of the vocals on their U.S. breakthrough single, “Tempted.” He would soon depart for a solo career and vocal  duty with Genesis’ Mike Rutherford’s side band, Mike + The Mechanics.) As originally conceived, East was to be a double album, with each side featuring a different producer: Elvis Costello; Dave Edmunds; Nick Lowe: and Paul McCartney. Suffice to say, this did not happen. 

 

After dissolving in 1982 following a Saturday Night Live “farewell” appearance, the band went their separate ways until a 1985 reformation, which featured Holland. Since then, the “Squeeze” brand has been applied to whomever Difford and Tilbrook play with.

As a final Beatle note, Holland – by the 1990s a well-established fixture on the tube in Britain – was chosen to act as unseen interviewer for much of the Beatles Anthology documentary. In 2002, he turned in a well-received performance, backing singer Sam Brown at the Concert For George event with a rendition of George’s final recording, “Horse To The Water” (which appeared on Holland’s Small World Big Band release).

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here. 

 

As the recipient of the most notorious copyright infringement lawsuit(s) in rock history, one can understand George’s bile, as expressed in his 1973 “Sue Me, Sue You Blues”: “Bring your lawyer and I’ll bring mine / Get together and we can have a bad time.” That the aggressive pursuit for monetary damages came over a spiritual tune expressing devotion to the Almighty was an incongruity seemingly lost on everyone. 

 

The courtroom proceedings pitted one set of musical experts against another, included behind the scenes jockeying by Allen Klein, and ultimately led to George paying a fine before taking ownership of the song he was found to have accidentally boosted. With the whole complicated mess dragging out for years, here is a summary of the salient points. 

 

In late 1970 – just a year after enjoying his first and only Beatle A-side – “My Sweet Lord” became George Harrison’s debut solo single. Despite his own misgivings about issuing the song in this fashion (being perhaps mindful of Billy Preston’s concurrent cover version), popular demand from radio stations forced his hand. While Paul hadn’t yet released a solo seven-inch disc outside the Fabs, John had by this time placed a raft of Plastic Ono Band singles into the Top Forty. Both men must have been truly stunned to watch their junior partner unleash a monster upon the world, scoring the first ex-Beatle number one. 

 

With the accolades came some unwanted attention from the publishers of the 1963 Chiffons hit, “He’s So Fine.” The absurdly named Bright Tunes recognized that, beneath the layers of orchestration, “Hare Krishnas,” and “Hallelujahs,” there lurked a passing resemblance to one of their own holdings. (The actual songwriter had been a 25 year-old amateur named Ronnie Mack, who had pounded doors relentlessly before finding a taker for his compositions. Tragically, he was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease soon after and was literally on his deathbed in the hospital when awarded a gold record for the hit.) 

 

Just as “My Sweet Lord” had completed its ninth week of ten in Billboard’s Top Ten (four of those weeks lodged at number one), Bright Tunes filed suit against George, Apple, Harrisongs, and every other connected party they could serve. As it happened, Bright Tunes was in financial disarray at the time – that an ex-Beatle had apparently appropriated their property to score a mega-hit must’ve seemed (ironically enough) like a godsend. 

 

Through Allen Klein, George offered to buy Bright Tunes. Had the proposition been accepted, it would undoubtedly have spared George much grief, as well as public embarrassment. But instead, Bright’s owner, Seymour Barash, wanted George to turn over the copyright of “My Sweet Lord” to him (with George to retain half the monies generated). The counter-offer was spurned, Bright Tunes went into receivership, and that’s where things lay for the next five years.

 

In February 1976, George found himself in the witness box in a New York City courtroom, giving an extended explanation into the origins of “My Sweet Lord.” By the end of the proceedings, several facts revealed themselves. First, the court ruled that the two songs were musically indistinguishable, with common note progressions and the presence of an uncommon “grace note,” akin to a fingerprint. “Motif A” and “motif B” were shown to overlap between the songs, but the grace note proved key. 

 

Second, while George had come up with the germ of the composition himself, the musical ideas had been fleshed out by Billy Preston and Delaney Bramlett during their late 1969 tour, when the soon-to-be ex-Fab had introduced the bare bones of the song during a jam. In fact, the “smoking gun” of the case – the errant grace note – occurs in Billy’s recording and not George’s. He did come up with the original concept and did write the final lyrics, but many hands shaped the tune itself.

 

As sole attributed author on the song, George lay himself open to take the financial hit. Had he issued “My Sweet Lord” as a joint composition, perhaps some of the “blame” might have been spread around. (Absorbing ideas from others during the journey a song makes from idea to recording remains a touchy subject. The Rolling Stones are a perfect example of a band that might properly share co-writing credits – but don’t. The issue was a sore point with bassist Bill Wyman, who conceived the signature riff to “Jumping Jack Flash,” while guitarist Mick Taylor rightfully pointed out that “Time Waits For No One,” among other tunes, was his baby. Both songs are credited Jagger-Richards.)  

 

The most stunning revelation concerned Allen Klein. By the time the case had come to trial, he was no longer representing three-quarters of the band formerly known as the Beatles. Instead, he was embroiled in litigation of his own against his former clients and further, had “flipped.” Armed with intimate knowledge of the sales of “My Sweet Lord” and thus how much revenue the song had generated, he secretly made an offer to buy Bright Tunes, not for George but for ABKCO. By controlling the copyright of “He’s So Fine,” Klein was also taking over the lawsuit and now suing George himself.

 

With the latter’s offer still on the table before the trial started and another from Klein, Barash and company correctly divined that Klein almost certainly knew how the case would end and therefore what Bright Tune’s stock would be worth. But the parties could not agree on a final price before proceedings resumed.

 

In August 1976, the court ruled that George was guilty of “subconscious plagiarism.” Familiar with “He’s So Fine,” the court asserted that he inwardly had to have known that the combination of notes and chords that he put together would work, though on a conscious level George did not realize what he was replicating. With copyright infringement thus determined, a complicated formula set the damages at $1.5 million, based on the song’s earnings (calculating its single and sheet music sales, as well as commercial value to both All Things Must Pass and The Best of George Harrison).

 

However, the sale of Bright Tunes to Klein between the trial and the damages phase of the litigation threw the proceedings into disarray. To sum up what took well into the 1980s to settle: George successfully amended his pleading to assert that Klein’s meddling in the case had unnecessarily muddied the waters. The judge agreed, and George himself was able to take ownership of “He’s So Fine” by paying Klein the purchase price – the latter would not profit by his shady dealings.  

 

Rock’s rich tapestry is replete with borrowed musical ideas and “tributes.” Far stronger cases for plagiarism can certainly be made against other songs, but the worldwide success of “My Sweet Lord” made it a target. The affair didn’t seem to damage George’s reputation too badly in the short run: he rebounded that year with a strong album, Thirty- Three & 1/3, which included his own defiant take on the case: “This Song.” 

 

But others wouldn’t let go so easily. In their 1977 Beatle parody issue, National Lampoon magazine savaged George by featuring an “unreleased” album he’d recorded, Lifting Material From The World.  The cover art sported George in court being sworn in, fingers crossed, while the album itself was claimed to contain such Harrisongs as “My Sweet Lullaby of Broadway” and “My Sweet Beethoven’s 9th Symphony.” English pop empresario Jonathan King couldn't resist the obvious; he issued a take of "He's So Fine" arranged just like "My Sweet Lord." 

 

In his 1980 Playboy interview, John, no stranger to copyright infringement himself, claimed that George knew exactly what he was doing. “Maybe he thought God would just sort of let him off.”

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here. 

It is entirely likely that, had they not diverted their career path into a stint or two on television, that the Hudson Brothers would be regarded today for what they were: a serious trio of pop craftsmen, steeped in Beatleisms, to be sure, but possessing an energy and tunefulness that stands alongside the best of Badfinger or The Raspberries. Instead, they are likely remembered by most as a bubblegum act that had a kid’s TV show. It’s the same sort of taint that plagues the Monkees, notwithstanding the fact they were equally talented at both media
.

 

The brothers Hudson discovered music in their native Portland, Oregon in 1964 – the same year that the world and its possibilities were changed for an entire generation. Fourteen year-old Bill, the oldest brother (the family name was actually Salerno) and a friend took up guitar and practiced singing harmony together. Already thoroughly enamored of the Beatles, the two were soon joined by thirteen year-old Mark, who himself possessed a wonderful voice and played a mean tambourine. As a trio, the ensemble entertained at parties during high school, calling themselves My Sirs.
  

 

Not long after, baby brother Brett conned his way into the group and took up bass, completing the foursome. (He’d been sick and, after they promised him they’d let him play with them if he got better, a miracle cure occurred.) By 1966, My Sirs were one of the Pacific Northwest’s top-ranked groups, winning a battle of the bands and drawing notice. An advertising exec employed by Chrysler liked what he saw and took them on as clients, booking them to perform at dealerships and company events around the country. The catch was: they had to change their name to a Chrysler product. For this reason, My Sirs became The New Yorkers.

Already penning their own material by this time, the group released a trio of singles on Scepter Records. The first, “When I’m Gone,” made it to number nine on the regional charts. The brothers would soon learned a hard lesson about the ways of the music industry after discovering that their manager, having placed all their assets in his name, had robbed them blind to the tune of six figures. The devastating revelation knocked them for a loop, causing the brothers to reconsider their future as they took a year off.

After a change in personnel (Kent Fillmore, the one non-Hudson, was replaced by Bob Haworth), the New Yorkers decided to give it another shot and recorded Harry Nilsson’s “I Guess The Lord Must Be In New York City.” Decca picked it up, but soon after lost interest, leaving the boys stranded on the East Coast. The boys made it back home, took stock, and decided that a move to Los Angeles would best serve their future. In 1972, they issued an album on Playboy Records entitled Hudson. Though not exactly a hit, their well-honed stage act began drawing notice.

 

In 1973, their manager introduced them to Bernie Taupin, Elton John’s lyricist. Both Elton and Bernie were blown away by their music and their charisma, leading to their signing to Elton’s Rocket Records (making them label-mates with Stackridge). Taupin himself assumed the production chores on Totally Out Of Control, recorded in England and issued that same year. The album was a wonderfully realized pop/rock showcase, displaying their Beatle devotion without being slavish. (The second side even featured an Abbey Road-like medley.) A single, the marvelously Brit-pop-ish “If You Really Need Me,” fully showcased the Hudson’s musical talents but went completely overlooked by radio programmers.

 

The Hudson’s arrived back in the states to discover that television producer Chris Bearde, whom they’d met at a party months before, was interested in securing them for a short-run summer replacement series for the immensely popular Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour.  After the formality of an audition, The Hudson Brothers Show premiered on July 31, 1974. Implementing the same production team as S&C, the show followed the same successful formula, substituting the innately zany personas of the brothers. Like the Beatles in their day, the Hudson’s comic interactions also elicited comparisons to the Marx Brothers, making both acts renowned for their humor as much as for their music.

 

A certified hit, the Hudson’s segued seamlessly from the summer stint straight into their own series aimed at younger viewers on Saturday mornings. The Hudson Brothers Razzle Dazzle Show commenced on CBS on September 7 (the same day as the first Beatlefest, with which brother Mark would one day be inextricably associated). Featuring an array of shtick and cast regulars (Chucky Margolis; Rod Hull and Emu; The Bear; announcer Gary Owens), the show was nothing less than an adolescent version of Laugh-In, with a dose of music thrown in.

 

Coincidentally, it was their Laugh-In connection that gave them their most enduring musical hit. Bill was dating one of that show’s cast members, the relentlessly bubbly Goldie Hawn.  But it was Mark that would pen and sing lead on a song inspired by her, “So You Are A Star.” Released as a single (from the album Hollywood Situation), the eerily Lennon-esque piano ballad peaked at twenty-one, making them a genuine national chart success at last.  (As for Bill and Goldie, they would marry in 1976, producing actress Kate Hudson and actor Oliver Hudson, before splitting in 1980.)

 

The Hudson Brothers scored a couple of more hits (1975’s “Rendezvous,” co-written with Beach Boy Bruce Johnston) and “Lonely School Year” before their charting career faded. As for Razzle Dazzle, it lasted seventeen episodes in all, but continued airing in repeats for another three years. (In 2008, the much-loved series was at last released on DVD.)

 

The Hudson’s parlayed their hard-earned connections into the ex-Fab’s inner circle. They met all four during the seventies and indeed, hung out with their hero John Lennon (who dubbed them “the Kings of Saturday morning”) during the Los Angeles epoch. They were present on the night of the infamous Smothers Brothers/Troubadour incident; a fonder memory came one time at Harry Nilsson’s house when John serenaded them with an impromptu 5AM performance of “In My Life,” played on a battery-powered piano.

 

In later years, Mark – the most high-profiled of the group – would spearhead Ringo’s latter-day recording renaissance as his producer/collaborator, revitalizing the Ringed One’s gifts and giving him the confidence to generate a string of really fine releases. (Unfortunately, a business conflict derailed the friendship in 2006.) He also co-wrote Aerosmith’s Grammy-winning smash, “Livin’ On The Edge,” and remains a popular guest at The Fest For Beatles Fans.

Brother Bill enjoys a successful career in properties: both television and real estate. Brett has been busy with Frozen Pictures, a production company. In 2008, his documentary on the life and times of Bonzo Rutle Neil Innes debuted, entitled The Seventh Python, while an upcoming project centers on early '60s pop singer Chris Montez ("Let's Dance"). 

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here. 

Picking up at around the same time the Beatles were winding down, Stackridge was an English prog/pop band, though in truth their music defied classification. Over the course of five albums during their initial run, their albums blended elements of folk, psychedelia, classical, English music hall, and old time jazz. Among their contemporaries, they were poppier than Yes, but quirkier than Supertramp.

Their self-titled debut was released in 1971; their final long-player prior to their break-up, Mr. Mick, was issued in early 1976. During that career span, they qualified as a cult act, for though they toured relentlessly and appeared on The Old Grey Whistle Test in their homeland, they never really sustained any commercial success. In America, they really couldn’t get arrested. Part of this was due to a chronic instability, with members coming and going (and sometimes returning). Another was simply that their music didn’t really qualify as overtly commercial; a hit single was beyond both their talents and interests.

To some, Stackridge was known as “the West Country Beatles.” This handle probably didn’t help them connect with an audience at all, especially in England, where at that time, the public tended to disdain any perceived Fab pretenders. Stackridge didn’t shy away from the comparisons – indeed, they covered “Norwegian Wood” on the very public John Peel BBC radio program, while their albums were steeped in little details and sounds that evoked the Fabs indirectly.    

Their debut, Stackridge, is notable today for containing a song entitled “Dora The Female Explorer” that was intended to be the basis for a series of children’s books. Doubtless most people reading this will have some familiarity with the similarly-named television cartoon character (and/or the host of spin-off products) but as far as anyone can tell, the spunky Latina and Stackridge’s creation are related only by coincidence.

That same year, guitarist Andy Cresswell-Davis (sometimes billed as simply ‘Andy Davis’) scored a slot as guest musician on John’s Imagine album, contributing acoustic to “Gimme Some Truth” and “Oh Yoko !”

In 1973, the band scored a coup by securing George Martin to produce their third LP, The Man In The Bowler Hat (released in America as Pinafore Days ). It was their highest-charting U.K. release, while barely scraping into the Top Two Hundred in the states.

After a major re-tooling that saw only two (of six) original members left, Stackridge signed with Elton John’s Rocket Records and released Extravaganza, possibly their most satisfying album, in 1974. Despite the boost of such big-name sponsorship, it too failed to find its commercial niche. A year later, Mr. Mick, a concept album on aging, marked their swan song – for a time. Their rampant Beatle-isms on this release took the form of a reggaefied version of “Hold Me Tight” – one the Fabs’ most undervalued tunes.

Their break-up was announced in 1977. James Warren and Andy Cresswell-Davis soon after formed The Korgis, who in 1980, achieved something Stackridge never did: a U.S. hit single, “Everybody’s Got to Learn Sometime.” By the late 1990s, with the Korgis dissolved and Stackridge history, various groupings of the musicians who’d passed through both bands began reconvening, with a Stackridge live album resulting. In 2006, a CD single appeared under the Korgis’ name entitled “Something About The Beatles.” It’s an apt nod to their collective past and well worth seeking out.   

Do it now.

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here. 

No, of course they weren’t the Beatles. But that didn’t stop the spread of the most widespread Beatle conspiracy theory since Paul had died. Just as that rumor got going courtesy of DJ Russ Gibbs, the suggestion that – once again – clues were being planted to convey something important through an album got started by a journalist with the Providence Journal. And as before, Capitol Records did exactly nothing to stop it.

Klaatu’s story begins in the early seventies. Musicians John Woloschuk and Dee Long made an arrangement with producer Terry Brown at Toronto Sound recording studios, where Woloschuk worked, wherein the duo was given a blank check to use the facilities during any downtime between paying clients. Dubbed Klaatu (after Michael Rennie’s character – an interplanetary visitor – in the sci-fi classic, The Day The Earth Stood Still), they released their first single, “Hanus of Uranus,” backed with “Sub-Rosa Subway” on the now-defunct GRT Records in 1973. A second single, “Dr. Marvello” followed, but neither release drew much attention.

Drummer Terry Draper joined in 1974 as the singles continued to flow. Meanwhile, their manager was actively worked on securing a major record deal. By the time he’d made his breakthrough, Klaatu made the fateful decision to, in the name of letting the music do the talking, maintain anonymity. No interviews, no touring, not even the public release of their identities. Of all the labels to have cut a deal with them it was Capitol – the Beatles’ label – that agreed to those terms and inked a contract with Klaatu.

Klaatu was released in August 1976 – hitting the streets almost exactly between the in-store dates of Capitol’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Music compilation and Ringo’s Rotogravure on Atlantic (in Canada and elsewhere, Klaatu’s LP debut was titled 3:47 EST). The album was comprised of remixes of their singles-issued material (although their debut was now re-titled “Anus of Uranus” – nice), plus some new recordings, among them the opening cut, “Calling Occupants” (covered a year later by, of all people, The Carpenters). The album itself was a pleasing mix of psychedelic/progressive pop, featuring layered effects, adroit production, and unmistakable traces of the 1967 Beatles influence. (So too did ELO, though the two bands sounded nothing like each other.)

Lacking anything in the way of a promotional effort from the unnamed individuals comprising the band, Klaatu sank, generating little notice from anyone. The trio flew to England to begin work on their follow-up, entitled Hope, that autumn. But in February the following year – out of nowhere – the album suddenly exploded. Steven Smith, a reporter with the Providence Journal by-lined an article entitled “Could Klaatu Be The Beatles? Mystery is a Magical Mystery Tour.” By releasing an album that lacked explicit songwriting and production credits, as well as the conspicuous absence of any individual names anywhere in the packaging, the band had unwittingly enabled the imaginations of Beatle-starved conspiracy-minded folks to run wild.

On the basis of Smith’s article, plus similar chatter on Hartford, Connecticut radio station WDRC, the rumor that the Beatles had reunited and were calling themselves Klaatu took root and spread like wildfire. Inquiries to Capitol and Klaatu’s management were met with open-ended non-denials that stopped just short of lying. But those attempting to bolster their case were armed with an array of “clues,” each more asinine than the one before it; among them:

1. The album was issued on Capitol, the Beatles’ once and future label.

2. On the cover of Ringo’s Goodnight Vienna album, his face is superimposed over actor Michael Rennie’s in a still from The Day The Earth Stood Still. Rennie, of course, played the character whose extraterrestrial name was Klaatu.

3. The first album (and all that followed) featured an image of the sun on the cover, as if it were Klaatu’s logo. The Egyptian sun god’s name was Ra; reverse the two letters and one is left with A R – the initials of the Fabs’ last recorded album.

4. Abbey Road, of course, featured “Here Comes The Sun” and “Sun King,” so Klaatu’s use would be merely reinforcing an existing motif. The latter tune began with the sound of crickets chirping, as does the Klaatu album – picking up where they left off? 

5. Side one’s closing track, “Sub-Rosa Subway” features the most overtly McCartney-sounding lead vocal. Was the song’s title a play on Paul’s Red Rose Speedway?

6. That same song mentions New York City and Washington D.C., in that order. These were the first two cities that the Beatles had played on American soil.

7. As the above named track’s final seconds play out, a Morse code-like beeping is heard, said by some to translate to some relevant message (along the lines of “It’s us!”).

Fueling the nonsense, some radio stations began dedicating weekends to airing the Klaatu album alongside Beatle material, encouraging listeners to chime in with their opinions, one way or another. Recognizing a good thing when they saw it, Capitol stepped up production of the dead-in-the-water release (while postponing the issue of Hope). They also made a point of disseminating Smith’s article. Within a year of its release, Klaatu had gone from nowhere to selling anywhere between a quarter and half a million copies, all on the strength of a rumor.  

The band itself, just returned from England in early 1977, had heard nothing of the ongoing mythmaking (although New Musical Express had headlined a story on the phenomenon: “Deaf idiot journalist starts Beatle rumour”). Given their bent toward privacy and the desires of their label – having seen their debut resurrected from the dead – Klaatu went about their business and let the story play itself out. This it did, once some enterprising soul went to the trouble of looking up Klaatu’s compositional copyrights at the Library of Congress and saw the names associated with the group, thus bringing the buzz to an end. The whole tawdry tale was summed up by Rolling Stone as “Hype of the Year.”   

All drummed-up hysteria aside, the music itself was hardly an embarrassment. To anyone listening objectively, the Beatleisms were no more than those of any other act that developed in their wake. Possibly the debut’s strongest track, “California Jam ,” bore no obvious Fabness whatsoever (nor - apparently - did it have anything to do with the well-known concert of the time bearing the same name) . But by the time Hope was issued in the fall of 1977, the brand had been damaged. Despite near-universal glowing reviews, a backlash against the band resulted in poor sales.

Klaatu went on to issue two more Capitol albums: Sir Army Suit in 1978, followed by Endangered Species in 1980. Their swan song, Magentalane, was released in Canada in 1981. For their final LP, their images were at last included on the jacket; also, the band followed its release with their first ever tour. By now, Klaatu was solidly a niche act – perhaps where they should have been in the first place. Their shows received positive reviews, but perhaps weary of the ups and downs, they called it quits not long after. As a final footnote, a one-off reunion in 1988 generated one new tune: utilizing a title already used by both Paul (in 1966) and John (in 1980), the song was called “Woman.”

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here.  

Like members of the Raspberries, Big Star, Cheap Trick, and many other acts that came to fruition in the 1970s, Pennsylvania-born multi-instrumentalist Todd Rundgren cut his teeth on the music of the Beatles and other British Invasion acts. By the time he launched his first viable band, The Nazz , in 1967, he was one of dozens of other similarly coiffed and costumed American acts, sporting matching suits and playing a type of catchy pop that seemed a step behind the times. But Rundgren persevered in the wake of his band’s dissolution, scoring a minor hit in 1970 (as “Runt”) with “We Gotta Get You A Woman .”

 

In 1972, he produced his masterpiece, the double album Something/Anything?, a mostly one-man-band affair that included the hits “I Saw The Light” and a re-make of The Nazz’ “Hello, It’s Me .” A thoroughly capable pop tunesmith, the album also showcased his more progressive tendencies, which would become more pronounced in albums to come. Rundgren also doubled as a rather prolific producer. Notable albums included Badfinger’s Straight Up  (he was brought in to complete the work George had started but had to abandon in the wake of the Bangladesh crisis); Grand Funk’s We’re An American Band ; and the 1973 debut of the New York Dolls .
 

 

In September 1974, he gave an interview to Melody Maker in the wake of his impenetrable two-record set, Todd. An album earlier though, 1973’s A Wizard, A True Star, contained a song apparently directed at Lennon entitled “Rock and Roll Pussy,” questioning his revolutionary rhetoric. (“Will you get your nails dirty? Or are you only just a rock and roll pussy?”) The interview seemingly picked up where the song left off, as Rundgren spewed, “John Lennon ain’t no revolutionary. He’s a fucking idiot, man…Hitting a waitress in the Troubadour – what kind of revolution is that?” 
  

 

Rundgren’s inflated sense of self was manifest in the text that followed, as he bloviated upon his own career and philosophy while being casually dismissive of the Fabs. “(They) had no style other than being the Beatles.” His own group, the Nazz, in comparison “…used to do, like, heavy rock , and also these light pretty ballads …at the time that was something that people just didn’t do.” His pontifications were not limited to his past or music in general; they also extended into The State Of The World. “Like, there are islands of truth in a sea of falsehood…” What then to do? “The truth is out there. I believe it’s my responsibility to stand by it, and not be a pussy.”

Given such a personal assault on both his politics and his former group, which despite everything, he was protective of until the day he died, John was duty-bound to respond. In contrast to his response to the innocent query from Thomas Bonifield three years earlier, the 1974 John was much more laid back and at peace. Despite everything ongoing at the time, including his separation and the immigration battle, he was willing to engage Rundgren point by point with humor in Melody Maker without resorting to equal venom.
 

 

“AN OPENED LETTUCE TO SODD RUNTLESTUNTLE. (from dr. Winston o’boogie),” it began. “Couldn’t resist adding a few ‘islands of truth’ of my own, in response to Turd Runtgreen’s howl of hate (pain).” He first pointed out that he admired some of his work, including “I Saw The Light ,” which he noted, “is not unlike ‘There’s A Place’ (Beatles), melody wise.” He took issue with Rundgren’s characterization of him as a self-proclaimed revolutionary but left the politics at that. More gnawing was the charge of assaulting a waitress, which he denied while admitting he was “…an ass, I was too drunk. So shoot me!”

 

John couldn’t resist psychoanalyzing his quarry. “It sounds like I represented something to you…your dad perhaps?” But pride in his former band’s work was never far from his mind. “So the Nazz use (sic) to do ‘like heavy rock’ then SUDDENLY a ‘light pretty ballad.’ How original!...Which gets me to the Beatles, ‘who had no other style than being the Beatles’!! That covers a lot of style man, including your own…”  The letter ended on a note of kindness. “Anyway, however much you hurt me darling; I’ll always love you.”

Rundgren’s return to sanity was splashed in the magazine about a month later. To his credit, he accepted fault for his harsh words and humbly acknowledged that in the name of “a little honest communication,” he’d gone too far. “I would like to extend my apologies to John Lennon for the extreme nature of my remarks. I am often reputed to be over critical, and my comments do not reflect my personal respect for him.” A follow-up phone call smoothed things over; John remained a fan and as far as whatever sparked Rundgren’s bile in the first place goes, his deep feeling for the Beatles manifested itself almost continually from that time onward.

 

Two years later, Rundgren released an album entitled Faithful, which indeed featured a half dozen 1960s classics – reproduced “faithfully” – from bands that had influenced Rundgren’s career. Included were two Beatles’ tracks (and Lennon compositions at that): “Rain” and “Strawberry Fields Forever .” The Fab fixation did not end there; in 1980, his band Utopia released Deface The Music, a Rutles-like regurgitation of Beatle-style music. All the eras are represented: from the Merseybeat of “I Just Want To Touch You ” to the Revolver-like “Life Goes On” or psychedelic “Hoi Polloi.”

 

In 1992, Rundgren toured as part of Ringo’s All-Starr Band; this was followed nine years later by a road show that featured Heart’s Ann Wilson, The Who’s John Entwistle, and former Beatle engineer Alan Parsons. They called themselves A Walk Down Abbey Road; a highlight was his stunning take on George’s “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.”

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here.