The Beatles Bookstore

Excerpt from The One After 9:09

Tony Broadbent looks at that day when Brian Epstein first walked into The Cavern to see The Beatles at a lunchtime gig.

BILL HARRY had been as good as his word. Even the weather had played its part. Early November was usually cold, wet and windy. And here he was, without an overcoat. Even so, he walked briskly down Mathew Street. Not to appear overly eager, but promptness was ever a virtue. He noticed his personal assistant, Alistair Taylor, had to make an effort to keep up with him.

“Bit of a surprise, Brian. Not your usual lunchtime custom.”

Mathew Street

He narrowed his eyes. Mathew Street didn’t improve with daylight. It was still a dark, grubby little street, utterly devoid of character. He turned and smiled, encouragingly. “It’s only so we can get some more information on this Polydor record they’ve released, Alistair. We needn’t stay long.”

He tried not to look too disquieted as he picked his way between the goods-lorries. Or, indeed, disgusted, as he did his best to avoid stepping on the squashed fruit and vegetables that littered the cobblestones. That would give entirely the wrong impression. Yet, even he saw that, dressed as they both were, in their business suits, they looked more and more out of place with every step they took. He did his best to ignore the inquisitive, almost insolent, gazes of the shop girls, office girls, delivery-boys, and apprentices. All of them stood in a line that stretched down one entire side of the street. Yet, much to his surprise, he found the chatter and swell of voices only added to his own growing sense of excitement.

The Cavern Club

“This is silly, Brian. Look at the steam billowing out of that hole in the wall. There must be a fire down there or something.”

He smiled enigmatically. “We’re here. And exactly on time.”

Thin wisps of steam surrounded the entrance to the Cavern like a cheap theatrical effect. But the impression it made on him was much more dramatic. It was as the very air itself was suffused with the pounding beat of drums and electric bass. Out of the blue a large man, wearing a dinner jacket and red cummerbund under an open overcoat, stepped forward sweeping out an arm towards them, like a door opening. “You must be Mr Epstein. Please go straight down, sir. We’ve been expecting you.” Paddy Delaney, the club’s doorman and chief bouncer, threw a slow salute and smiled. He nodded and said, “Thank you,” and tried hard not to salute back.

He glanced over his shoulder to see if Alistair Taylor was actually following him. Then he stepped through the brick-arched doorway and descended into the depths of The Cavern. It felt like he was entering a train tunnel and a blast of hot, fetid air hit him before he had a chance to catch his breath. The place was dark and dank and stank of disinfectant and cheap tobacco and sweat and body odour and urine. He almost gagged, but continued on down the narrow slippery stone stairs to the warehouse cellar. He put out a hand to steady himself and immediately withdrew it when he felt the walls running with condensation. For one panicky moment he regretted being there and was about to turn and push his way back up to the street, when the beat of the music caught and grabbed him¾transfixed him.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. 

He swallowed—lost for words as much as for air. It was different from anything he’d ever experienced. It wasn’t at all like the charity show at the Albany Cinema. It was raw, urgent, almost primal, and it hit him in the chest. Pounded at his head.  

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom¼Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom

What On Earth is This Place?

“Good God, Brian. What on earth is this place?” Alistair Taylor shouted. But he pretended not to hear and just continued his descent into the depths of The Cavern.

At the bottom of the steps, a man sat at a battered folding canteen table. On top of it were two bowls of loose change. One for silver, the other for pennies. The man looked up and waved him past the line of teenagers waiting to pay their admission money. He pressed on, the crush of tightly packed bodies parting in front of him, as if it too had been ordained.

The Beatles

He was in a low cavernous space made of three, long interlocking brick arches. It resembled nothing so much as a dungeon in a second-rate horror movie. Undeterred, he moved closer to the source of the sound and light until he found himself at the back of the long central aisle. There was a small stage at the far end with rows and rows of swaying teenagers seated in front of it. He looked around. Both outer aisles were one writhing mass of dancing, jiving, jumping bodies. Then suddenly The Beatles were there in front of him.

Boom. Ba-Boom. Boom. Ba-Boom. 

He couldn’t speak. He could hardly breathe. He didn’t even turn round when he felt Alistair Taylor come to stand by his side. He was already bound in chains, chains of love, and he didn’t want to break away from them. Not now. Not ever.

Boom. Ba-Boom. Boom. Ba-Boom¼

The sound of The Beatles hammered at him. It was beyond loud; it was physical. The beat thudded against his chest. Went deeper and deeper and became one with the beating chambers of his heart. Became the very lifeblood rushing and pounding in his ears.

Boom. Ba-Boom. Ba-Boom. Ba-Boom.

And suddenly he was through the sound barrier and on into the realm beyond. He became one with the mass of dancing, joyous, revelling bodies and he knew with all his heart the boys on stage were playing, singing, drumming, moving, only for him.

Boom. Ba-Boom. Boom. Ba-Boom

He felt free. “Oh, my God,” he all but cried to himself. “This is what it must feel like to feel really and truly free.” There was no prickling, no blushing, no dark sweats. Only a joy that coursed through him and buoyed him, and held him tethered, transfixed and deliciously captive. He realised he was grinning like a demented young schoolboy. And as he tried to still the urge to shout his feelings out loud, he felt tears of sheer joy pricking at the corners of his eyes.

Mr Brian Epstein of NEMS

The music stopped. The effect so wrenching, he had to shake off a rising feeling of panic he might never hear it again. But as the wave of clapping and cheering slowly subsided, and his heart stopped racing, he found he could breathe once more. He blinked, blinked. Slowly became aware of a smooth, velvety voice. “I have some special news for all you Cavern dwellers.” He tried to focus, to listen. It was probably some announcement to do with The Beatles. “We have someone rather famous in the audience today. A Mr Brian Epstein of NEMS Music Stores.”

“Oh, damn and blast,” he said to himself. That was the very last thing he’d wanted to happen.  He felt his skin start to prickle from his neck to his cheeks—the precursor to a shaming, full, red-faced blush. He felt nauseous. Tried to swallow. Did his best to smile. Maintain his dignity. Almost at the point of choking, he nodded, waved a hand for the music to continue. Mercifully, the group’s drummer immediately counted out the time on his drumsticks. The pounding beat began again. The sound engulfed him. And in an instant he was transported from the depths of misery to almost dizzying heights of joy.

The Boys Had An Extraordinary Presence

He stared at the boys on the bandstand. The lead singer was singing, imploringly, of wanting money. But money was the very last thing on his mind, it was The Beatles, themselves, that utterly consumed him and his hungry eyes missed nothing. The boys were all dressed in leather jackets and jeans as in the photographs. Their hair still unfashionably long, three of them with it brushed down over the foreheads. In between songs, they smoked, ate sandwiches, and drank Coca-Cola straight from the bottle. At times, they even turned their backs on their audience and talked and joked amongst themselves.

They ad-libbed sarcastic replies to requests and shouts from the audience. Yet they were always surprisingly funny and engaging. Once or twice, without any sort of apology, they even stopped singing halfway through a song, seemingly dissatisfied or bored with their performance. Much to his surprise, he found them no less charming for their outrageous antics. A feeling, he noticed, fully shared by the rest of the audience. The boys had an extraordinary presence. More importantly, they exuded that unmistakable charisma that spelled star quality. The very thing he now realised he’d unknowingly been searching for all the days of his life.

I Must Go and Talk To Them

At the interval, he turned, almost breathless, to his still utterly bewildered assistant. “Come on, Alistair. I must go and talk to them. I must.” Holding an arm out in front of him, as if to ward off any killjoys, he jostled his way through the crowd to the cramped band-room at the side of the stage. He approached a Beatle lighting a cigarette.  “Hello,” he said, “I’m Brian Epstein. And this is my personal assistant, Alistair Taylor.”

“That must be very nice for you,” said George Harrison, grinning. “What brings Mr Epstein and his personable assistant here, then?”

My Bonnie

“Your, er…it’s about your record, ‘My Bonnie’. People keep coming into the store and asking for it. They say you play it, here, at the Cavern.”

“Well, I don’t play it meself, like,” said George, dryly, “but he does. That little short fella hunched over his turntable desperately trying not to listen to what we’re saying. Here, Bob, meet Mr Brian Epstein of…”

“NEMS. Yes. Thank you, Mr Harrison.” Bob Wooler checked the status of the disc he was playing, squeezed out from his little cubbyhole, and proffered his hand. “The Beatles’ record of ‘My Bonnie’? Yes. I’m the one you have to blame for that. People are always pestering me about how they can get hold of a copy.”

He shook Bob Wooler’s hand. “Yes, well, I’ve been on to Polydor Records in…in London and they’ve never heard of it.”

The Beat Brothers

“Yeah, well that’s because they know us as ‘The Beat Brothers’.” It was Paul McCartney. “Hello, I’m Paul. Only, George, here, just said you’re Brian Epstein, of NEMS. We’ve bought thousands of records from your shop. Well, hundreds, maybe. But, er, our record will be listed as ‘Tony Sheridan and The Beat Brothers’. We were just the backing group, like. Although we do have a contract with Polydor to do more.”

He smiled, a winning smile. “Er, Paul MacArthy?”

“No, that’s McCartney. You must’ve been reading your Mersey Beat. I’ll duff Bill Harry next time I see him. He’s always misspelling me name.”

He nodded. “Tony Sheridan?¼and…‘The Beat Brothers’? Yes?” He half-turned. “Alistair, make a note of that, please?”

George stuck his head over Paul’s shoulder, grinned. “Would the rather famous Mr Epstein like to hear the record played live? Because if he did, like, I’m sure we could ask the not so famous Mr Wooler, here, to oblige. Couldn’t we, Bob?”

He smiled, enthusiastically, nodded again. “Yes. Thank you. That would be delightful. That is, of course, if Mr Wooler wouldn’t mind?”

“It’s all work and no play for those of us that toil in obscurity in the vineyards of pop,” muttered Bob Wooler, as he squeezed himself back into his tiny cubicle. But once The Coasters had finished their ‘Searchin’, his dulcet velvety voice purred: “Now dig this, all you Cavern dwellers, it’s time you made this disc, one of NEMS’ best ever, best sellers.”

Then he played ‘My Bonnie’ at maximum volume.

Tony Broadbent

Get your copy of Tony’s book now