The story of the '60s rock revolution cannot be fully told without acknowledging
Allen Klein's accomplishments.
Soon after John Lennon and Yoko Ono moved to New York City in 1971, Allen
Klein brought them to Newark in a limousine and showed them the Hebrew
Orphanage and Sheltering Home, in which he had grown up, and the neighborhood in which he had lived as a child.
The trip -- described in Fred Goodman's 2015 book, "Allen Klein: The Man Who
Bailed out The Beatles, Made The Stones, and Transformed Rock & Roll"
(Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 320 pp.) -- was not unusual for Klein. As Goodman
writes, even though Klein worked in New York, "Any new acquaintance or
business associate could count on a trip to Newark, where the guided tour included the former site of the orphanage, the old playgrounds in Weequahic and the cemetery where his family members were scattered." Also, sometimes, an Italian hot dog meal at Jimmy Buff's. And Klein kept doing this, Goodman reports, until shortly before his death, in 2009, at the age of 77.
Though Klein -- "blunt-featured and barrel-chested with a full head of dramatically dark, pomaded hair," in Goodman's words -- never lost touch with his roots, he rose as high in the entertainment industry as a businessman could, especially in the '60s and '70s. And he transformed the music business as few have, before or after.
An accountant with a degree from the now-defunct Upsala College in East Orange, Klein had a revelation in the early '60s: Pop and rock musicians were routinely being swindled by their record companies, and by auditing the books and threatening to sue, he could make big money for them -- and take a percentage for himself.
He was coarse and aggressive; he delighted in stepping on toes and steamrolling weak business rivals. But his tactics almost always worked. He made more money for artists such as Sam Cooke, Bobby Vinton, Lloyd Price and The Animals than they ever dreamed possible, eventually working himself up the ladder to The Rolling Stones, and then -- a prize he coveted for several years before attaining it -- The Beatles.
What Klein did wasn't just a matter of dollars and cents. By helping make popular musicians more than just pawns to be pushed around by their bosses, he played an essential role in giving them more control over their careers. And once they had that, everything changed.
The story of the '60s rock revolution cannot be fully told without acknowledging
Klein's accomplishments.
He will always be most associated with The Beatles -- and, for most fans, not in a good way. He became The Fab Four's business manager in early 1969 and cleaned up their messy finances. But he also helped drive a wedge between them and, very possibly, sped up their breakup.
Klein won over Lennon first. Goodman writes that Lennon "listened to Allen's
stories about the orphanage and the painful indifference of his father and his
childhood on the streets of Newark, and he saw himself: the underdog who had
proven to be the leader of the pack, the everyman who'd had the temerity to
become extraordinary."
In January 1969, Lennon brought Klein to the rest of the group, who had been
managerless since their original manager, Brian Epstein, died in August 1967.
Paul McCartney had been pushing for Lee and John Eastman, the father and
brother of his then-girlfriend Linda (soon to be his wife), to become the band's
co-managers, and fought against Klein from the start. But George Harrison and
Ringo Starr sided with Lennon, so McCartney was outvoted.
Goodman writes that Starr, like Lennon, liked Klein immediately and Harrison was reluctant to give McCartney more power. By 1969, Lennon was concentrating on his relationship with Yoko Ono and also dealing with his heroin addiction, and had, by all accounts, let McCartney become the band's leader. And McCartney could be overbearing. "I thought, well, if that's the choice, I'll go with Klein because John's with him," Goodman quotes Harrison as saying.
McCartney and Klein continued to fight in The Beatles' final months, and not just on business matters. McCartney was furious, over the role Klein played in bringing Phil Spector in as producer of the "Let It Be" album.
Though Lennon was the first to tell the other Beatles he was quitting, McCartney
was the first to announce the breakup, via a news release (in interview form)
included with his April 1970 debut solo album, "McCartney." Part of the release
read:
"Q: What is your relationship with Klein?
A: It isn't. I am not in contact with him, and he does not represent me in ANY way."
After the band broke up, Klein remained in the business, but the next few decades were anticlimactic for him. They were also filled with lawsuits that pitted him against the Stones and all the ex-Beatles, who came to feel that Klein, although helpful in some ways, had made himself too rich, at their expense. In 1980, he spent two months in prison for making false statements on a tax return.
"I think Klein was a brilliant guy," says Goodman, a former Rolling Stone writer and editor whose previous books include "The Mansion on the Hill: Dylan, Young,
Geffen, Springsteen and the Head-on Collision of Rock and Commerce" and
"Fortune's Fool: Edgar Bronfman Jr., Warner Music, and an Industry in Crisis."
"But though I would want his advice, I certainly wouldn't want him as my business manager," says Goodman. "I think the book is pretty clear: It's a devil's bargain when you get with this guy."
Lennon's spiteful 1974 song "Steel and Glass" is widely considered to be about
Klein.
"You can't pull strings if your hands are tied," Lennon scolds at one point in the
song.
"Your mother left you when you were small/But you're gonna wish you wasn't born at all," he seethes in another.
Goodman met Klein only once, briefly. But after Klein died, his son, Jody, made a proposal. Jody felt that a lot of the obituaries got his father's story wrong and said that if Goodman wanted to try to write the definitive book, he would give him access to contracts, personal correspondence and whatever else he needed.
It was an offer Goodman couldn't refuse.
"If somebody said to you, we're going to open our files to you, and our files include all the recording contracts, and our communications about our lawsuits with The Beatles and The Rolling Stones ... I think, to me, as someone who's covered that beat, it's like, 'I'm about to go to the school nobody goes to.'
"What I was hoping to get from reading these things, and what I tried to convey in the book, is what people like The Beatles and The Rolling Stones talked about
when the door was closed, and the conversation is, 'What do we do about our
careers? How do we manage our business? Which part of it is business, which part of it is art? How do we sort through these things?' "
As part of his research, Goodman, who lives in New York, visited Newark with
members of Klein's family -- and even ate at Jimmy Buff's in West Orange.
Klein "would make (Newark) so much a part of his persona and legend," says
Goodman. "It's so interesting to me, that here's this guy who's got a chip on his
shoulder, and an inferiority complex because he was put in an orphanage. He's a bit of an outsider, who wants to be an insider. And he uses that so brilliantly, at the same time, with somebody like John Lennon. He recognized that his weakness could be a strength."
Goodman says Klein stumbled on this strategy during a stint in the Army (he served during the Korean War, but never saw battle).
"He happened to be assigned for a while to a medical unit on Governors Island, and was working with a lot of doctors and feeling like, 'All these guys went to medical school and Ivy League schools, and they know stuff that I don't know.' But when he started talking to them about the orphanage, they were all fascinated by this sort of Dickensian childhood he had in Newark.
"So once he recognized that this had some appeal, he used it. Because he was the kind of guy who used whatever he had at his fingertips."
MORE FROM INSIDE JERSEY MAGAZINE
Follow Inside Jersey on Twitter. Find Inside Jersey on Facebook and Google+