would leak. Over the years Pete had gained a strong respect for Johnno’s intelligence, common sense, and talent.
No, he didn’t have to worry about Johnno, Pete decided as he glanced over the papers on his desk. He was one who could keep his private affairs private. And the public loved him for his outlandish outfits and glib tongue.
Then there was Stevie. The drugs were a bit of a problem. It wasn’t affecting his performance, yet, but he had noticed that Stevie’s mood swings were wider and more frequent. He’d been stoned during the last two recording sessions, and even Brian, no slouch in the drug department himself, had been annoyed.
Yes, he’d have to keep his eye on Stevie.
P.M. was as dependable as a sunrise. It was true that Pete was by turns amused and irked that the drummer pored over every word in a contract. But the boy was investing his money well, and earned Pete’s respect there. It had also been a surprise, a pleasant and profitable one, when the girls took so giddily to his homely face. Where Pete had once worried that P.M. would prove the weak link, he had turned out to be one of the strongest.
Brian. Pete poured himself two fingers of Chivas Regal, sat back in his overstuffed leather chair and considered. Brian was, without doubt, the heart and soul of the group. He was the creative drive, the conscience.
It had been fortunate that the business with Emma hadn’t set them back. Pete had worried about it, then had been delighted when the whole affair had generated sympathy, and record sales. True, Pete still had to cross swords with Jane Palmer from time to time, but the mess had never put a dent in the group’s popularity. Nor had Brian’s marriage. It had frustrated Pete that he hadn’t been able to portray the group as four young, single men. But Brian’s family life had turned into a bounty of press.
The pity was the peace rallies, the speeches. Brian’s affection for the Students for a Democratic Society, his outspoken support of American draft dodgers. They’d nearly had the cover of Time before Brian had popped off with a few ill-chosen criticisms of the Chicago Seven trial.
Pete understood the power of the press, how one careless statement could have the masses, the record-buying masses, turning against you. John Lennon had opened his own can of worms a few years earlier with an offhand, sarcastic comment about the Beatles being bigger than Jesus. Brian had come close, too close, to making the same mistake.
He was entitled to his politics, of course, Pete thought as he sipped his whiskey. But there was a point where personal beliefs and public success parted ways. Between Stevie’s enchantment with drugs and Brian’s idealism, there was bound to be a disaster.
There were ways to avoid it, of course, and he had already begun to consider a few. He needed the public to see Stevie not just as a drugged-out rocker, but as an extraordinary musician. He needed them to see Brian as not only a peacenik but a devoted father.
With the right balance of images, not only the youth would be buying records and magazines but their parents as well.
Chapter Eight
T HEY STAYED IN California another two weeks, basking in long, lazy days, making love in the afternoon, giving all-night parties. There were midweek trips to Disneyland in careful disguises. The photographers Pete hired to record the outings were so discreet Bev never noticed them.
She decided to throw out her birth control pills, and Brian wrote love songs.
As the time to go back to England drew near, the group made peace within themselves, and set up an informal headquarters in Brian’s hillside home.
“We should all go.” Johnno carelessly passed his turn on the bong. “Hair was the first important musical for our generation. A rock musical.” He liked the phrase, the grandeur of it. Already he was turning over ideas for one. He hoped, when they returned to London, he and Brian could put together a musical that would outdo Hair , and
No, he didn’t have to worry about Johnno, Pete decided as he glanced over the papers on his desk. He was one who could keep his private affairs private. And the public loved him for his outlandish outfits and glib tongue.
Then there was Stevie. The drugs were a bit of a problem. It wasn’t affecting his performance, yet, but he had noticed that Stevie’s mood swings were wider and more frequent. He’d been stoned during the last two recording sessions, and even Brian, no slouch in the drug department himself, had been annoyed.
Yes, he’d have to keep his eye on Stevie.
P.M. was as dependable as a sunrise. It was true that Pete was by turns amused and irked that the drummer pored over every word in a contract. But the boy was investing his money well, and earned Pete’s respect there. It had also been a surprise, a pleasant and profitable one, when the girls took so giddily to his homely face. Where Pete had once worried that P.M. would prove the weak link, he had turned out to be one of the strongest.
Brian. Pete poured himself two fingers of Chivas Regal, sat back in his overstuffed leather chair and considered. Brian was, without doubt, the heart and soul of the group. He was the creative drive, the conscience.
It had been fortunate that the business with Emma hadn’t set them back. Pete had worried about it, then had been delighted when the whole affair had generated sympathy, and record sales. True, Pete still had to cross swords with Jane Palmer from time to time, but the mess had never put a dent in the group’s popularity. Nor had Brian’s marriage. It had frustrated Pete that he hadn’t been able to portray the group as four young, single men. But Brian’s family life had turned into a bounty of press.
The pity was the peace rallies, the speeches. Brian’s affection for the Students for a Democratic Society, his outspoken support of American draft dodgers. They’d nearly had the cover of Time before Brian had popped off with a few ill-chosen criticisms of the Chicago Seven trial.
Pete understood the power of the press, how one careless statement could have the masses, the record-buying masses, turning against you. John Lennon had opened his own can of worms a few years earlier with an offhand, sarcastic comment about the Beatles being bigger than Jesus. Brian had come close, too close, to making the same mistake.
He was entitled to his politics, of course, Pete thought as he sipped his whiskey. But there was a point where personal beliefs and public success parted ways. Between Stevie’s enchantment with drugs and Brian’s idealism, there was bound to be a disaster.
There were ways to avoid it, of course, and he had already begun to consider a few. He needed the public to see Stevie not just as a drugged-out rocker, but as an extraordinary musician. He needed them to see Brian as not only a peacenik but a devoted father.
With the right balance of images, not only the youth would be buying records and magazines but their parents as well.
Chapter Eight
T HEY STAYED IN California another two weeks, basking in long, lazy days, making love in the afternoon, giving all-night parties. There were midweek trips to Disneyland in careful disguises. The photographers Pete hired to record the outings were so discreet Bev never noticed them.
She decided to throw out her birth control pills, and Brian wrote love songs.
As the time to go back to England drew near, the group made peace within themselves, and set up an informal headquarters in Brian’s hillside home.
“We should all go.” Johnno carelessly passed his turn on the bong. “Hair was the first important musical for our generation. A rock musical.” He liked the phrase, the grandeur of it. Already he was turning over ideas for one. He hoped, when they returned to London, he and Brian could put together a musical that would outdo Hair , and
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