Tony Bramwell - Magical Mystery Tours: My Life with The Beatles

Tony Bramwells remarkable life began in a postwar Liverpool suburb, where he was childhood friends with three of the Beatles long before they were famous. And by the time he caught up with George Harrison on the top of a bus going to check out The Beatles, Direct from Hamburg one of whom turned out to be George Tony was well on his way to staying by them for every step of their meteoric rise.

If anything was needed taken care of, Tony Bramwell was the man the Beatles called, the man they knew they could trust. His story has been sought after for years, and now, here it is, full of untold adventures, detailing with an insiders shrewd eye the Apple empires incomparable rise, Brian Epsteins frolics, Ken Keseys Merry Pranksters, Phil Spectors eccentric behaviour, and new stories about Yoko Ono, Cilla Black, the Stones, and the life his life.

From developing the first Beatles music videos to heading Apple Films, and from riding bikes and trading records with George Harrison to working and partying with everyone from the Beatles to Hendrix, Ray Charles to The Who, Tonys real life did (and does) encompass a whos who of rock.

He offers fresh insights into the Beatles childhoods and families, their early recordings and songwriting, the politics at Apple and Yokos pursuit of John, and her growing influence over the Beatles lives. And he reveals new information about the Shea Stadium concert footage, John Lennons late-night escapes, and much, much more. From the Cavern Club to the roofttop concert, from the first number one to the last, and from scraps of song lyrics to the famous Mr Kite circus poster, Tony Bramwell really did see it all.

Conversational, direct and above all, honest, the ultimate Beatles insider finally shares his own version of the frantic and glorious ascent of four boys from Liverpool who became rock and roll kings.

Magical Mystery Tours

TONY BRAMWELL

WITH ROSEMARY KINGSLAND

To my family and friends, with love

In memory of Roger Houghton.

Always courteous, kind and thoughtful, he was one of the publishing worlds true gentlemen.

I t was a snowy night on December 27, 1960, when I got ready to go to a concert at Litherland Town Hall. I was on Christmas holidays from school and looking forward to seeing a new group that had been advertised on fliers glued to lampposts and hoardings. They were billed as THE BEATLES! and it said they were DIRECT FROM HAMBURG! Everybody in Liverpool knew that Gerry and the Pacemakers had just gone to Hamburgas had the Silver Beetlesa place that sounded incredibly exotic to a young lad like me. But the fliers gave us no reason to think anything other than that these Beatles were a German group, and we presumed they were.

The number 81 double-decker bus, which made a stop at Litherland Town Hall, started in our suburb of Speke and went round a whole ring in Liverpool to the far side. I got on it that cold night at my local bus stop in Hunts Cross and, as usual, ran upstairs to sit right at the front. To my surprise, there was my old friend George Harrison, with his guitar next to him. He must have gotten on at his stop. I knew George well. I just hadnt seen him for a few months, not since the days when he was a delivery boy on Saturday mornings for one of our local butchers, E. R. Hughes, who had a shop in Hunts Cross. They supplied Georgethe future vegetarianwith a big old bike, a rattling, black boneshaker that had originated before WW I. It had a large basket on the front, which George would fill with meat so he could deliver all the local orders, including my mums. Hed stop at our house for a bit of gossip, or a cup of tea and a slice of cake, and wed discuss all the latest records. After work, George would come by occasionally to borrow records from me, or from a guy round the corner named Maurice Daniels, a drummer in a skiffle group. I used to lend Maurice records and he would lend his to George and so on, all of us swapping and sharing and talking records. Seven inches of black plastic with a hole in the middle. Life, magic.

Then, one day, George Harrison sort of disappeared. Time went by. Now, here he was again, on the 81 double-decker bus, wearing blue jeans and a black leather jacket. I felt suitably impressed and somewhat gauche in my smart little suit and tie. When George saw me, he grinned that lopsided smile of his.

Hi, Tone, how are you?

Where you going, George? I asked, and sat down next to him.

Litherland Town Hall, he told me. Were playing there tonight.

Thats when it slowly dawned on me. George Harrison was one of those DIRECT FROM HAMBURG BEATLES!

Youre the German group? I asked, amazed.

George nodded. Direct from Liverpool! he said.

I jangled the five bob in my pocket and thought, Hey, I can almost buy a new record with this. I looked down at Georges guitar.

Can I carry your guitar for you, George? So I can get in free?

Of course you can, George said.

As the bus rumbled along, George and I chatted about this and that. But looking back on it now, it was a strangely moving moment, riding on the top deck of a double-decker bus, with a Beatle on his way to the first-ever Beatles gig in Liverpool. We could never have guessed in our wildest dreams, as we handed over our thruppences to the conductor, what was in store for George Harrison in terms of fame, wealth and adulation. But on that chilly night in Liverpool, that ocean of success still lay ahead in the distant future. If we had had a crystal ball instead of Georges guitar in a battered black case up there in the front of the bus, we might have seen huge stadiums filled with screaming fans across America, the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas, movie stars and yachts, and bowing to the Queen at Buckingham Palace. The list is almost endless.

But we saw none of that, George and I. We were just a couple of teenagers with our whole lives ahead of us, chatting about girls and records as we rode the bus around Liverpool two days after Christmas. The whole town was glowing with magic and celebration. As we looked at the lights and the sparkling trees in peoples windows, we had no notion that soon every day would seem like Christmas. That within two or three years our bomb-ravaged Liverpool would become famous around the world.

The number 81 was as familiar to us as fish and chips. Georges dad, Harry, was a driver on the 81 route. I dont know if he was our driver that night, but we would often see him sitting up front in his worn serge uniform with the cap. He always had a smile and a wave for us, and often we didnt have to pay. The idea that one day we would move away, and that vast estates in the country, ranches in America, apartments in New York and French chateaux would be home to my old mates would have seemed crazy. The idea that the River Merseyjust another muddy old riverwould soon lend its name to Merseybeat, a bona fide genre in the history of music, would have made us laugh. We had no concept that Strawberry Fields, a wildflower wilderness where we hung out and played as kids, would be forever enshrined in millions of hearts. How could we have guessed that the name would be borrowed as a place of remembrance and pilgrimage in New York, to use Johns wordforever?

We had no clue that quiet night, riding the familiar old bus route, George and I, that we were about to go from the simple to the symphonic, with hometown places like Penny Lane and its rich, evocative characters living in, and living on, in the hearts of generations as if Shakespeare had set a play there. The idea that the humble, everyday goings-on in a scruffy Liverpool street could be set in sound and song was as far away as getting to heaven, which, according to Eddie Cochran, just took three steps. But then he wasnt talking about barbers and firemen and bankers. He was talking about girls, and girls and music were all we ever talked of.