Exhibit A

The opposite of love is not hate; it’s indifference.” —Elie Wiesel

“I hate him. Except for all the places where I love him half to death.” ― Charlotte Stein.

John Lennon wrote vitriolic comments about fellow-Beatle Paul McCartney in a picture biography of the famed pop group, providing new evidence of the tensions between them, the Observer newspaper said Sunday.

The weekly said Lennon jotted the comments in a 1971 biographical pamphlet [The Beatles From Apple] about the Beatles that will be auctioned Aug. 28. The remarks bear out what Beatles fans have long known – that there were constant personality clashes between McCartney, the Beatle with the clean-cut image, and the abrasive, sardonic Lennon.Lennon marked almost every one of the 76 pages with corrections and comments, including one that the Observer took as an indication the group already was experimenting with drugs in the 1960s.

The paper said Lennon wrote alongside one photograph of the group: “Staged photo pretending to be the fab four: all waiting stoned for it to be over.” On a photo of the Beatles sporting moustaches, the Observer said Lennon wrote: “Paul started this moustache business because he’d split his lip on a ‘stoned’ moped ride – purely functional, really.”On one McCartney photo, Lennon scribbled the words, “I’m always perfect” as coming from McCartney’s mouth. He drew a Hitler-style moustache on another photo of McCartney.In an entry noting McCartney’s marriage to Linda Eastman, Lennon crossed out “wedding” and wrote “funeral”, the Observer said.

The comments quoted by the Observer seem to reflect Lennon’s belief that McCartney and Ms. Eastman were denying him and his wife, Yoko Ono, their share of credit and publicity for the Beatles’ achievements. The Observer said that on an entry dated June 1968 that read “Paul to Hollywood”, Lennon added: “Cuts Yoko and John out of film 3/8”.On one page, the paper said, Lennon wrote in big letters: “This book is so prejudiced against John (and) Yoko… that I want to know who put it together and fire them.”

But in a final tender moment, the Observer said, Lennon wrote under a photo of himself with McCartney: “The minutes are crumbling away.”

Associated Press: Lennon’s resentment of McCartney reflected in book notes. (July 20th, 1986), courtesy of Amoralto.



Here I was, with my hair combed as much as a Beatle as I could muster, and Paul’s leaning in because I was so nervous. I was saying “I’m Andy Gold, and he couldn’t understand because I was just muttering under my breath. And so John is cracking up at me being an idiot [laughs]. His hair was very, very red, I remember being struck by that–because up til then, I wasn’t clear from pictures how red his hair was.

Singer/Songwriter Andrew Gold talking about seeing The Beatles in 1964 as a 13-year old when they appeared in Brentwood, California, at a fund-raiser for the Hemophilia Society attended by Hollywood’s who’s who and their children, the day after their Hollywood Bowl concert.

(filed under:I admit I have a thing about John’s red hair.)

The Beatles in Manila

Excellent but lengthy article about the Manila debacle  by Oliver X. A. Reyes, Esquire Magazine.  Below is my Readers’ Digest condensed version:

The Beatles in Manila was to be at the tail end of a two-country Asian tour, the last-ever live performances the Fab Four would ever give outside of North America. The itinerary for that first day called for John, Paul, George, and Ringo to be greeted at the tarmac by a bevy of beauties offering leis (later scrapped), then a ceremony wherein Manila Mayor Yeba Villegas would hand to the Beatles the keys to the city (also later scrapped), then a motorcade to the Philippine Navy Headquarters, where they would give a press conference. The Beatles would then be whisked away onto a yacht harbored off Manila Bay. The yacht, called Marima, was owned by one of the country’s leading industrialists.

There was no need for them to review their Manila itinerary during the flight. They just wanted to smoke their joints, wanted to be left alone. Passengers in the economy section of their Cathay Pacific flight shoved personal family photographs onto flight attendants, pleading that they be forwarded to the Beatles for autographs. None were signed. The flight captain invited the band into the cockpit. They said no.

George recounted, “When we got to Manila, a fellow was screaming at us, ‘Leave those bags there! Get in the car!’ We were being bullied for the first time. It wasn’t respectful. Everywhere else—America, Sweden, Germany, wherever—even though there was a mania, there was always a lot of respect because we were famous showbiz personalities. But in Manila it was a very negative vibe from the moment we got off the plane, so we were a bit frightened.”

The fellow who had screamed at the Beatles to leave their bags was the Collector of Customs of the Manila International Airport, Atty. Salvador Mascardo. He had himself driven onto the runway to demand that the bags be handed over, swearing at the Fab Four, “You’ll go back to the plane if you don’t surrender those things!” That the band members were separated from their personal luggage was especially distressing. They had marijuana in those bags. They were in an unknown country, uncertain about the drug laws and the will in enforcing these. The hundreds of security forces watching over The Beatles took on a sinister aura.

As the band’s road manager (and future Apple president) Neil Aspinall later described the arrival scene, it could have very well been that The Beatles were being arrested: “The army was there and also some thugs in short-sleeved shirts over their trousers and they all had guns. You could see the bulges. These guys got the four Beatles and stuck them in a limo and drove off and wouldn’t let them take their briefcases with them. They left them on the runway and those little briefcases had the marijuana in them. So while the confusion was going on I put them in the boot of the limo that I was going in and said: “Take me to wherever you’ve taken the Beatles.”

This was the first time in the Beatlemania era that the boys were all alone in a foreign country, cut off from both Neil Aspinall and Brian Epstein. Still uncertain about their friends or their bags or their fates, The Beatles were whisked to their press conference at the Philippine Navy headquarters. Only navy bands are supposed to hold press conferences at navy headquarters. Despite the circumstances, The Beatles tried to charm at the press conference. As the photographers stood up to take their photos, John yelped “Woof! Woof!,” Ringo pranced and shouted, “Shall we dance!”. Only Paul was not hiding behind sunglasses. They insisted, “[W]e’re not hiding from our fans. They’re hidden from us.”

Epstein now stood at the sidelines. He, according to one Filipino, “always looked pissed off.” He cut the proceedings short after 30 minutes with a curt announcement, “Gentlemen, that’s all.” They then proceeded to the harbor, to board the Elizalde yacht, Marima, which then pressed on towards the sea.  George Harrison recounted, decades later, that upon boarding the yacht, they were placed in this room. “It was really humid, Mosquito City, and we were all sweating and frightened…[N]ot only that, but we had a whole row of cops with guns lining the deck around this cabin that we were in. We were really gloomy, very brought down by the whole thing. We wished we hadn’t come.”

In his memoirs, Tony Barrow explained that advance man Vic Lewis and promoter Ramon Ramos had arranged that the Beatles and their immediate aides would use the Marima as their hotel during their Manila stay. Decoy rooms were reserved at the Manila Hotel to throw off the fans. The deception utterly failed. Weeks before the arrival, the Manila Times already reported that the Beatles would be staying at a yacht. Nonetheless, Barrow recounts that the boys were pleased at first with the idea of prolonged isolation, more so after they confirmed from Neil Aspinall that their weed had not been confiscated. But they sweltered in the heat, they chafed at the gun-toting cops on the deck, then they learned that they and their team would be offloaded along the coast only shortly before The Beatles’ first show the following afternoon. They needed more time to prepare their suits, their instruments, and they soon agreed with Epstein, who had been sulking the whole time on the yacht, that they needed to leave.

“We’re not staying one minute longer on this bloody boat,” Brian Epstein screamed at Vic Lewis after managing to get hold of a ship-to-shore phone. “There’s absolutely nothing to do and we do not want to spend any more time on this ghastly little yacht!” They were shuttled back to the Manila Hotel, where the whole team occupied a suite and six adjoining rooms. John, George, and Ringo remained in their suite; Paul reportedly got into a car and drove along the Escolta district, then the financial center of Manila.

Ramon Ramos, Jr. would later claim that while The Beatles were in Tokyo, he sent them a cable advising that the Palace was inviting them to a reception on the morning of July 4th, at 11 in the morning. The reply to the cable allegedly came two days later, the day the Beatles arrived. The Beatles were willing to attend, if the reception were to be rescheduled at four in the afternoon, right before their first show at the Rizal Stadium. Considering that the Beatles had left the yacht because of their concerns over the lack of preparation time before the concert, the alleged response claimed by Ramos, Jr. is implausible.

Peter Brown reported…that Tony Barrow had probably received the Ramos cable while in Tokyo, but it was unclear if the news had actually reached Epstein.  Epstein would later claim, “The first we knew of the hundreds of children waiting to meet The Beatles at the palace was when we watched television earlier this evening [of July 4].” But earlier that day, by eight in the morning, two police colonels, accompanied by Ramos, knocked at the hotel room of Vic Lewis, demanding to know what time the Beatles would be arriving at Malacañang.

What time are the Beatles arriving at the Palace, Epstein was asked. As with Lewis, Epstein claimed this was the first he had heard about the invitation. He likewise was prepared with his answer, No. The boys were asleep; the boys were tired. They needed their rest, especially after having gone onto that stupid yacht. Besides, The Beatles do not do official functions.

Epstein went up to his room, but the armed aides would not leave. The phone rang for Brian. It was John Addis, CMG, Her Majesty’s Ambassador to the Philippines. The Ambassador suggested it was not a good idea for the Beatles to skip the luncheon. The Philippines was not the right country to stand on ceremony about an invitation. It was best not to insult them. Brian stood his ground. No.

Some accounts claimed that The Beatles themselves had not known about the invitation until after the concerts. Yet in the 1990s, Paul would recount that all of them were awake that morning, in their hotel room. They heard the police colonels banging on their door, shouting, “They will come!” George would remember that someone had come into their room, saying “Come on! You’re supposed to be at the palace.” A television set was turned on. “There it was, live from the palace. There was a huge line of people either side of the long marble corridor with kids in their best clothing and the TV commentator saying: And they’re still not here yet. The Beatles are supposed to be here.”

The guests that had gathered at Malacañang beginning at ten o’clock that morning comprised not just the children, but also their parents, who were friends of the Marcoses. For some of them, this was their first time to catch up with the Marcoses since they had moved into the Palace seven months earlier.

Barrow, the publicity man, realized they had fucked up. He called the Roces-owned TV-5, the television station which had been granted exclusive rights to produce The Beatles in Manila, a half-hour summary of the tour that was to air for three consecutive nights at 10:30, right before the Chiquito sitcom Gorio and His Jeepney. Yes, the TV station was ready to broadcast an official statement from The Beatles. Barrow wrote the statement, then he and Epstein rushed over to the TV-5 studios so that the statement as read by Epstein could be recorded. Their efforts were in vain; as the statement was being broadcast later that night, the audio mysteriously disappeared.

Barrow remembered that even as The Beatles left the Rizal Stadium at the end of their evening show, miasma already loomed. Their police escort had vanished, and the stadium gates were locked. “This left our stationary limousines at the mercy of organized troublemakers, scores I would say rather than dozens, pressing menacingly against our windows, rocking the vehicles to and fro and yelling insults at The Beatles which none of us could understand.” They were able to eventually escape back to the Manila Hotel. In the dead of night, the police came. They invited Vic Lewis to come with them. He was interrogated at the police station. “You represent The Beatles. Why did you not bring them to the palace.” At some point that night, Lewis and Ramon Ramos, Jr. appeared at the Press Office in Malacañang. They emphasized that this was not a deliberate snub, not an act of rebellion, but a simple misunderstanding. Lewis allowed Ramos to blame Epstein.

[The next morning] the boys…ordered breakfast from room service. When no trays of food arrived, they sent their road manager Malcolm Evans, to see what was holding breakfast. There was not a Manila Hotel employee in sight when Evans arrived at the lobby. When finally someone appeared at the front desk, he gruffly announced that there was no more room service for the Beatles.

In the Daily Mirror, Airport General Manager Guillermo Jurado said that there would be no special security arrangements for The Beatles. “They will get what they deserve,” warned the airport manager, like a godfather announcing that the once-favored son no longer had his protection. When the Beatles arrived at the airport, the escalators had been turned off. The group was slowed down as they lugged their equipment. Several teenaged fans were present to send off their idols, but they were overshadowed and over-shouted by a mob of an indeterminate number of non-fans. “Beatles alis diyan, Beatles go home!” the mob shouted. “Nakakahiya kayo!” the fans would scream back, in near tears.

Those who wanted to harm The Beatles were stationed at every exit of the customs/immigration area and the quarantine area that every ordinary passenger had to pass through. The mob stalked the entourage at every nook of the airport. Paul remembered, “We got pushed about from one corner of the lounge to another.” Brian Epstein, Vic Lewis, Tony Barrow, Neil Aspinall, Peter Brown and Mal Evans all banded together to protect the boys at all costs. Someone kicked at Epstein, he fell down, his ankle seemingly sprained. He also received a punch in the face. Mal Evans was kicked in the ribs; he was bloodied by the time he got to the plane. Ringo was able to duck a punch, just before he, George, and John made it past the immigration area. Paul had already sprinted ahead of everyone else.

“I’m sure nobody got badly hurt, but that was because we didn’t fight back,” Neil Aspinall said. “If we had fought back it could have been very bad. It was very, very scary, and nothing like this had ever happened before—and nothing like it has ever happened since.”

The group had already boarded the plane and was awaiting their Argo-style escape when an ominous message pierced through the loudspeakers. “Mr. Tony Barrow and Mr. Malcolm Evans must return to the departure building.” The publicist and the road manager deplaned, uncertain of their fates. “Tell [my wife] Lil I love her,” Evans asked the rest of the group, only maybe in jest.

It turned out there was a plausible excuse for holding Barrow and Evans. Since The Beatles entourage had not gone through the normal immigration procedure when they had arrived, the papers of Barrow and Evans had yet to be processed. Perhaps they could have been detained further if the Marcoses wanted to. By this time though, Benjamin Romualdez was at the airport, deployed to take charge and end the drama. He would later hold court at his own embassy in Washington D.C. as Philippine Ambassador to the United States, but then, he was powerful enough simply as Imelda’s brother. Romualdez confronted one of the goons at the airport, telling him to let the Beatles be.

They remained unnerved in the plane while waiting for Barrow and Evans to return. Epstein was hurting, bleeding. Vic Lewis came over. Did Brian get their share of the gate receipts? That’s nearly 50 percent of the performance fee, you know. Epstein erupted at Lewis. “Is that all you can think of, Vic? Bloody money at a time like this?” Lewis was having none of it from Epstein, all of this was Brian’s fault. He may have been the advance man charged with arranging the on-the-ground arrangements, but he believed it was Brian who had screwed up the invitation. He charged at Brian, “I’ll fucking kill you!” The others had to separate them.

At 4:45 in the afternoon, with Barrow and Evans on board, The Beatles soared over the Manila runway. There was applause.

Hidden References

Q: It seems that with [Give My Regards To] Broad Street, you’re more willing to do some of the old songs that are McCartney standards. Would you not have done those songs 10 years ago, when Wings was new, and your solo career was new?

A: Yeah, I wouldn’t have done them, yeah. What happens was breaking up with The Beatles was a bit like a divorce, from ‘what I hear’ [smiles].  And you don’t want to hear anything from this person, thank you. You don’t want to hear there songs, see their clothes, smell their smells or whatever, but I got to the point when I was making this film, that it’s really a pity, because they’re nice songs, and if I’m gonna just block that off the rest of my life, it’s sad really.

Q: The film in a way serves as a long video…[as another way of touring] and promoting an album.

A: I can’t deny that, but that’s not the main reason. I can go out and tour myself once I get all this stuff out of the way but I’ve been working very hard the last two years. […]

Q: Would you tour again, was that buried in that sentence?

A: Yeah, that was buried in that statement, just a little hidden reference to the fact–[smiles], no it’s just that I’m aware that people have asked me that question, and I think buried in that question is ‘since John died, would you tour again.’ I think that’s basically what where getting at here Pat’ [said kiddingly to the interviewer.]  And I do like that, so I don’t rule it out.

Q: [nods at Paul’s observation] what’s the downside of touring, other than for security reasons–or is that the only downside?

A: No, it’s not the only, no I don’t think there’s–there was always security problems. I hate to say it, but I think just walking out on the street….um, I don’t think I’m any more vulnerable. You think about it, ordinary people get mugged, more than famous people do, actually. It’s just, you know, we’re in this kind of society–you know what I do? [holds up crossed fingers] A lotta that.

Q: How would you describe your relationship with John before he died?

A: Couple of years after The Beatles broke up it was very touchy, because I think we suspected each other of business manoevers. We would ring up and it’d be like ‘why’s he ringing?’ And when you’re put on the defensive like that it’s hard to say ‘I’m not, honest, you don’t know where to put yourself, but we had alot of those kinds of ups and downs for quite a few years, but the favourite thing was that whenever we talked not about business, and what we ended up doing actually, was that we made a rule not to talk business on the phone, and on those occasions we [speaking in faux hip] ‘had really good vibes, man’. And it was great we just talked  kids, we talked family, we talked cats, we talked life…it was a great thing for me, one of the consolation prizes after John was killed…you know you find yourself holding on to little bits of wreckage to keep yourself afloat, and with me it was the fact that the last phone call was one of the best we ever had together. It was really warm, we were really friends again.

Q: But with Here Today, there were still things you wanted to say…

A: Sure, there still are–but that’s what happens when someone gets snatched away, isn’t it? Tell them all the stuff you never told them, and I didn’t get a chance. So me, I write it to the great record player in the sky. You gotta get it out some way. Yeah, that song was saying ‘come on, you said we didn’t get on but what about the night we had a laugh and what about the night we cried, come on.’

Paul McCartney, CBS Morning News


Paul’s habit of using the editorial “We” instead of “I”  is all over this interview, as is his obvious pain over John’s death and their woefully unnecessary splintered friendship.

How Does Paul Live

Paul McCartney’s face often wears an expression of sweet, grave and trusting innocence. The expression is an engaging one, but it is no clue to his character. Those who like to think of Paul writing Yesterday, that song of aching beauty, would do well to remember that he himself always called it Scrambled Eggs.

He is an interesting and complicated young man of 23.  [His] party-political program is for more houses, more buses and more old-age pensioners for everyone.

He is tall, agile, neatly dressed and well-organized. His hair is never too long and he is never at a loss for words. He is a terrible tease, an excellent mimic. He has wicked charm, a shrivelling wit, a critical intelligence and enormous talent. With Paul you never get away with the ill-considered remark, the hazy recollection. He is self-conscious, nervy, restless and on the go: he will surprise us all in the end.

He is half-Beatle and half not; he relies on the others to the extent of having considered living in Weybridge with them. “I thought maybe we should all be grown-up together,” he said, “I then I thought, ‘I don’t want to live in Weybridge. To thine own self be true – Polonius, Hamlet.” (His conversation is as peppered as a Restoration comedy with asides of this sort. They can be disconcerting. “O, sceptred isle” is one he likes, but he relates it to nothing in particular.)

And so Paul lives alone in London. “I love the look of London,” he said. He goes to the pictures, does the Times crossword, drives himself around in his mini or his Aston Martin DB6, goes shopping, keeps appointments, finds out what he wants to know.

He tolerates a minimum of fuss: chauffeurs and cars with black windows. He hates black windows. “I’m thinking,” he said tartly, “of getting a bicycle with black windows.”

He enjoys moving without detection; he arranges to get in and out of the country, loves disguises, relishes writing songs under the pseudonym of one Bernard Webb, student in Paris. Skiing recently, a photographer came up to him and said, “You are Paul McCartney.” “Who, ME?” said Paul with the aforementioned expression on his face, and the man went away. It is possibly his much publicized courtship of Miss Jane Asher that has made him so secretive; if anybody gets away with a quiet wedding, it will be Paul.

At the moment he is on a program of self-improvement that he is embarrassed to discuss; but his mind, by all accounts, is in a ferment.
“I don’t want to sound like Jonathon Miller going on,” he said, “but I’m trying to cram everything in, all the things I’ve missed. People are saying things and painting things and writing things and composing things that are great, and I must know what people are doing.”

He sees no limit to his own possibilities; ideally speaking, he would like to know everything. “I vaguely mind people knowing anything I don’t know,” he said.  “I will tell you what I feel strongly about and that is most people’s attitude to things like music and painting, culture with a capital C. If a navvy or a workie is seen coming out of an art gallery it’s a joke. Now, if all a person wants to do is find out about strip clubs in Hamburg, his mates would have thought that was all right.”

Paul’s father was a cotton salesman and his mother was a midwife. She died when he was 14. He can remember when he was five standing in his mother’s backyard (72 Western Avenue, Speke) and asking himself what he would be when he grew up. “No answer came back to me,” he said, disappointed. He likes quick results. The problem cropped up again when he was 17. “I had just enough GCE’s to get into a teachers’ training college. I worked it out – five ‘O’ levels plus one ‘A’  level equals teaching. But I had a horror of doing something ordinary.”

And so he filled in no forms for the teachers’ training college. “With things I don’t want to do,” Paul said, “Well, I just don’t do them.”

He ended up a Beatle. “We knew something would happen sooner or later; we always had this little blind Bethlehem star ahead of us. Fame is what everyone wants, in some form or another; there must be millions of people all over the world annoyed that people haven’t discovered them. ‘What’s up?’ they ask themselves.

“Fame in the end is getting off your parking fine because he wants your autograph, and fame is being interrupted when you’re eating by a 50-year-old lady with a pony tail. The four of us are known to almost everybody in the world, but we don’t feel that famous. I mean, we don’t believe in our fame the way Zsa Zsa Gabor believes in hers.”

Being a songwriter, he is now very rich. He has learned to discipline himself with money. “I like the idea of anything grand and rich as a novelty,” he said. “I like chauffeurs as a novelty. But take John – John discovered the other day that he liked Bourneville chocolate. Well, he bought a consignment; I mean, it was on every table in the house and in a week he was pretty sick of it. I’ve learned to do things in clumps.

“I mean, if you can have everything, there’s no point in having everything, is there? I don’t think I want much more money.”

Baptized a Catholic, his interest in religion is flabby. Indeed, if it were not for his concern with the afterlife he would call himself an atheist. He is no longer, however, obsessed with worry about growing old. “That wore off,” he said. “If our bodies stayed young our minds would have to stay young, and nobody wants that. But Bertrand Russell seems all right – I wouldn’t mind being like him at all.”

It is surprising to find him in favour of subsidies for the arts and on the side of the BBC. What America needs, in his opinion, is a BBC. “Whether you want to listen to it or not,” he said, “it’s there.”

“It makes me sad for them. And it’s a lousy country where anyone who is black is made to seem a dirty n*gger. There is a statue of a good Negro doffing his hat and being polite in the gutter. I saw a picture of it.

“We look at things a lot better over here; we have millions of little societies preserving things. We have little societies to preserve barrels of beer and little John Betjeman societies and little ban-the-bomb societies.

“O sceptred isle,” he said and went on to discuss what he likes to call the teenage thing.

He thinks the Americans had it coming to them and he is delighted that where they got it from was us. “There they were in America,” he said, “all getting house-trained for adulthood with their indisputable principle of life: short hair equals men, long hair equals women. Well, we got rid of that small convention for them.

“You can’t kid me the last generation were any more moral than we are. They hid it better. If you wheedle it out of people they were just as bad as we are, only they grew out of it.

“Perhaps,” he said, with the air of one hitting on the truth, “perhaps they grew too tired for it.”

He doesn’t really know what he will do next; he is confident it will be exciting. He will shortly move into a house he has bought in North London. One gathers that it was built in 1830 and that it is the most elegant house in England. Not least of its charms for Paul is that it has a street lamp-post inside the front gate.

He prepared to drive to Weybridge to write songs. He had one in his pocket about loneliness and old age; in fact, a heartrending song. It concerns Miss Eleanor Rigby.

“Eleanor Rigby,” it begins, “picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been.”

But as I have said, Paul’s songs are no clue to Paul. “I don’t know whether poets think they have to experience things to write about them, but I can tell you our songs are nearly all imagination – 90 percent imagination. I don’t think Beethoven was in a really wicked mood all the time.”

“He was?”

Paul’s face assumed the grave, sweet, innocent expression. “Oh,” he said. “Beethoven can’t be the same as us after all, then.”

Maureen Cleave, How A Beatle Lives,  The London Evening Standard, March, 1966.

*Interesting that Paul’s brutally insightful “it’s a lousy country where anyone who is black is made to seem a dirty n*gger” comment never made a ripple in the U.S., but John’s comparatively minor comment about Jesus set everyone’s hair on fire.

Abbey Road

Paul’s Sketches

Now part of Beatles folklore, Paul McCartney had drawn out his idea for the Abbey Road album cover while The Beatles were still recording the songs that would eventually appear on the LP. From these sketches, Paul left artistic license up to his friend, the photographer Iain Macmillan, to transform his vision into a photographic image.

On August 8, 1969, The Beatles arrived at Abbey Road Studios for the crosswalk photo-shoot that would soon take place just outside the building. At approximately 11:30 am on this sunny day, a willing London policeman was asked to hold up and direct traffic on the busy Abbey Road. Iain Macmillan then positioned a step-ladder in the middle of the road, just feet away from the pedestrian crossing, hastily climbed the ladder, quickly steadied himself, and prepared to take the photographs. As The Beatles crossed Abbey Road several times, Iain Macmillan was able to snap six quick shots within a 10-minute timeframe. Once the outdoor session was completed, The Beatles entered Abbey Road Studios to record the finishing touches on the songs “Oh! Darling”, “I Want You”, and ironically, “The End”. The Abbey Road album was finally completed and released worldwide to the public on September 26, 1969, marking the end of their recording career together as “The Beatles”.

In the sequence of Abbey Road photos taken that day in 1969, Paul is first seen walking in sandals in two (2) images, and the rest barefoot. The barefoot image used on the Abbey Road album cover helped launch the notorious “Paul is Dead” conspiracy theory, which quickly became an international phenomenon. For believers of this urban legend, the Abbey Road cover photo represented a funeral procession with John as the minister, Ringo the undertaker, Paul the corpse, and George the gravedigger. On the finalized back cover design, a group of circles “appear” to form the number “3” just before the added word “Beatles”, thereby creating an additional “clue” confirming the existence of only “3 Beatles” for the theorists. Even now, pop culture continues to make occasional references to this legend.

The image from this brief photo-shoot used on The Beatles album cover has become so iconic that people take the pilgrimage to Abbey Road to stand on the zebra-striped pedestrian crossing and reenact it. There is even a 24-hour webcam of the crossing itself. To this day, artists worldwide continue to imitate the Abbey Road crosswalk photo, including Sir Paul McCartney himself! In 1993, McCartney had his photo and sheepdog digitally inserted into the famous Abbey Road photograph for a live album, titling it “Paul Is Live”, poking fun at the age-old “Paul is Dead” rumor created by the Abbey Road LP cover itself.

Over the years, Iain Macmillen personally issued only a handful of hand-signed and numbered limited edition prints of his images taken that day at Abbey Road with The Beatles, before his untimely death in 2006. These unused alternative images from the Abbey Road cover shoot are extremely rare.

Mark Lewisohn, The Complete Beatles Recording Sessions, 1988 and Heritage Auctions

Perfect Complement

For years after Lennon’s death Paul McCartney’s reputation suffered in comparison with that of his dead former colleague, due, partly, to some outspokenly barbed Lennon jabs about him in song and interviews. But, actually, those digs told us more about John than Paul.

My impression, when we were talking about music, was that Lennon admired McCartney’s melodic brilliance, and was possibly even a little jealous of it, which was silly, because they complemented each other perfectly. Neither was consistently as good after they separated. And they both knew it.

Ray Connolly, The Telegraph