Paul McCartney by Philip Norman

the rudimentary musical talent of skifflers, were an obstacle to any meaningful further development into rock ‘n’ roll. Pete Shotton and his washboard were the most glaring example but, as John’s partnerin-crime since toddlerhood, Pete’s position was unassailable.
    Nigel Walley was another Lennon childhood friend; originally the group’s bass-player, now their manager, sending handwritten letters to potential bookers and giving out business cards (‘The Quarrymen–Open for Engagements’) yet still receiving a musician’s share of their earnings. Paul suggested that Nigel’s cut might be reduced to something more like a manager’s 10 per cent but when John seemed unreceptive to the idea, he said nothing more about it. ‘In those days, Paul was keen not to overstep the mark with John,’ Colin Hanton says. ‘I mean, he was the new boy and he had to be careful.’
    In many ways, Paul and John were not the total opposites they appeared. Both had the same passion for rock ‘n’ roll and ambition to play it to the same standard as their American heroes. Both were artistic, bookish, fond of language and addicted to cartooning; both had the same sense of humour, nourished by the aural anarchy of Spike Milligan and Peter Sellers on BBC radio’s Goon Show, although John’s was ruthlessly cruel while Paul’s was subtler and kindlier.
    Paul’s most immediate effect on the Quarrymen was in their presentation. ‘You could see he had this show business side to him,’ Colin Hanton says, ‘while John just lived for the music.’ The group had always worn what they liked onstage, but now John accepted Paul’s suggestion of a uniform: black trousers, white Western-style shirts and black bootlace ties.
    On 23 November, they had a return booking at the New Clubmoor Hall, where Paul had previously mucked up ‘Guitar Boogie’. He was determined to cut a better figure this time. ‘He had this sort of oatmeal jacket–he’d worn it to the Woolton fete–and he let it be known to John that when we did the gig, he was going to wear the jacket,’ Hanton remembers. ‘So the gig got nearer and then one day John turned up and he had got a cream jacket that was lighter than Paul’s. It was John’s way of saying “Hey, I’m cooler than you.”’
    That night, a photograph was taken of the Quarrymen onstage that would be endlessly reproduced in years to come. John is singing lead, with Paul apparently harmonising. They are the only two in the line-up wearing jackets. The others strum and plunk away in shirtsleeves, unaware that an officer class has been born.
    With Paul’s arrival, rehearsals became more frequent–and more serious. Mostly they took place at his house which, in itself, gave him a certain air of authority. With Jim McCartney banished to the kitchen, the tiny sitting-room at 20 Forthlin Road took on the appearance of a serious band room. Not wanting Mike to be left out, his father had got him a banjo first, then a full-size drum-kit in pale blue, which he set about mastering with his usual exuberance. Considerate as always, Paul would always go outside to check that the noise wasn’t audible beyond a couple of houses’ radius. However, the break in Mike’s arm had left it permanently weakened, and he was never a threat to the Quarrymen’s existing drummer, Colin Hanton.
    The welcome was more uncertain when John called a rehearsal at his Aunt Mimi’s house in Menlove Avenue, Woolton. Mimi had always been bitterly hostile to his music, refusing even to have a piano in the house because it would remind her of vulgar pubs. She could not see–nor, in fairness, could anyone her age–how skiffle might ever lead to a worthwhile career. ‘The guitar’s all very well, John,’ she famously advised him, ‘but you’ll never make a living from it.’
    These visits showed Paul the full panoply of middle-class gentility in which John had been raised. Mimi’s 1930s semi-detached villa had a name, ‘Mendips’,