We each tried to jump higher than the other, and then …in walked John and Yoko.
Uh-oh.
‘Jesus Christ, what kind of bullshit is this?’ said John in a surprised Liverpudlian lilt.
Yoko was more direct. ‘Get the fuck off the bed!’
‘Sorry, we didn’t know,’ I stammered. Since I didn’t want to take the blame, I pointed to Phil. ‘It was his idea!’ I sputtered. We were whisked away before Phil had a chance to tell his side of the story. Good thing they never knew we spent way more time with their instruments than we did on their bed.
Around the time Parlophone was scheduling us to come into the studio to record our first single, our manager pitched the BBC in Bristol a thirty-minute documentary program about us called The Big Break, and they green-lit it. John presented it to them as a documentary about up-and-coming bands, and we were scheduled to be one of the bands on the show. A crew followed us around with huge movie cameras, filming us at home, out and about, and in the studio recording our first single, ‘I See The Light,’ a song we liked by the Texas band The Five Americans. (Their version was most famously released on the Nuggets album curated by Patti Smith Group guitarist Lenny Kaye.)
For the behind-the-scenes footage in The Big Break, the producers talked to our friends and filmed some humbling personal stuff. The idea was to show viewers what new bands endured and experienced during their quest for success, leaving the audience to try to guess whether or not the groups would become famous or if they’d get that big break. We hoped to come across as an ambitious but likable little band with big dreams and great songs, and the show offered some pretty good insight into our first days on the road outside of the local community. Sure, we were already playing shows, but from the public’s perspective we were a brand-new pop group, and seeing us loading into clubs and talking backstage about the show we were about to play was supposed to make viewers feel like they were getting to know us and, hopefully, make them root for us to succeed.
The Big Break was shot with heart and a certain earnestness, focusing on our vitality and naïve optimism. There was footage of us jumping up and down when we heard ‘I See The Light’ on the radio for the first time. John told us it was going to be played on the BBC on a program hosted by Alan Freeman that counted down new singles, so we were listening to the show waiting for it, anticipating it. With every song, my stomach tightened a little more, and my excitement grew. Then, BOOM! Our song was on the radio. We weren’t even paying attention to the film crew that was there to capture the moment. It was a magical moment. A voice in my head screamed, Hey! You’re not playing in the front room of your house, banging on pots and pans. You’re not in band rehearsal, learning to play. You’re on the radio and millions of people are listening!
Phil came over from next door and was smiling like a Cheshire Cat, even if he wasn’t bouncing like Ray and me. Our other brother, Terry, cheered us on, and Mom kept telling us how proud she was. It was a beautiful family moment. The only one missing was our father. To think that we were this poor Jewish family with a bohemian background, and there we were, listening to our first single on the radio, knowing every kid in the UK dreamed of hearing themselves on the radio, but they never got there. We did, and I knew there was a lot more to come. It was a complete joy for everyone who was there, and that moment burned itself into my memory.
The B-side of ‘I See The Light’ was ‘Is It Finished,’ an original by our sister Evelyn and songwriter Paul Smith, with whom we would collaborate for the duration of Simon Dupree & The Big Sound. Our episode of The Big Break aired in early 1967, and viewers loved the footage of us hearing ourselves on the radio for the first time—just not enough to buy the number of singles that would have landed us on the charts. But while ‘I See The Light’ didn’t blow up, it got our foot in the door. The Parlophone staff realized we were a talented band, and the executives at the label began to strategize ways to help make us more popular.
CHAPTER
THREE
The
RAVERS
By early 1967, we still weren’t making any money, and I was still digging worms up at the pier. That was discouraging, but it was still an incredible time to be in a band, and every time we went to Abbey Road was a tremendous learning experience. For a future music industry executive, it was invaluable to see how everything operated at the company and what the different departments (radio promotions, marketing, publicity) did to push the label’s acts. But for music fans, going to the studio to record was even more incredible. Not only were we interacting with the top producers and engineers of the day—and some of the best of all time—we got to meet many of the company’s top acts. There was a canteen downstairs, and everyone who had a session that day hung out there before and sometimes after they recorded. We’d see Eric Clapton, Jack Bruce, and Ginger Baker from Cream. Cliff Richard might be snacking on egg and chips, and even pop artists of the day like Engelbert Humperdinck could be spotted chatting up the ladies at the registers and the minders behind the stalls.
As much as we loved most of these guys, it was impossible to be a starstruck fan because the place had such a comfortable, congenial vibe. We were all there for the same reason. Sure, the established bands were further along in their careers, but we were all musicians, playing and recording our new songs in the studio. There was no bitterness, no jealousy, and no snide jabs. Everyone there treated us with respect, and there was great camaraderie.
‘Have you recorded today? How’d your session go?’ were some of the most commonly heard questions between artists. Even the stars said things like, ‘When will I get to hear the single? I can’t wait.’ EMI’s artists competed with one another on the charts and in the music papers, but not in the canteen. It was more than a no man’s land or a safe haven. As recording artists, we were all under varying degrees of pressure. The canteen was a laid-back, stress-free zone—a place to unwind and temporarily escape the pressure of being in the studio.
When we were in the studio, we worked with George Martin, Geoff Emerick, Alan Parsons, and David Paramor. Having George Martin behind the board might seem mind-blowing or terrifying, but it wasn’t the great George Martin of 1969 or ’78. It was the guy who worked with The Beatles on great songs like ‘Love Me Do’ and ‘She Loves You,’ which were big hits, of course, but George wasn’t a legend quite yet. He was a producer who was there to work with you to make sure you’d sound great. He didn’t have any attitude, and he certainly wasn’t jaded.
Following the success of The Big Break, John got the BBC to feature us on a show about groupies that was racy and controversial. It was called Man Alive: The Ravers. Producers of the show interviewed young girls who were sexually charged and directing their libidos at pop stars, many of whom were perfectly happy with the companionship. It was a little strange for us to be looked at like that because we were never specifically in a band for the girls. We were more intently focused on the music. We didn’t party; we didn’t hire minders to pick pretty girls out of the crowd for us to hang out with after the show. Yet our pop energy, melodies, and charisma somehow magnetized these young women, who hunted us down and, on more than a few occasions, had their way with us (except Phil, who was married).