[This essay was published in Xtra! West on August 21, 1997 under the headline “Fab Four’s Founding Fag” and posted here years later as published. It has been revised for the 57th anniversary of Brian Epstein’s death–August 27, 2024]
He was a brilliant over-achiever whose creative vision and marketing savvy turned a Liverpool guitar band into the biggest rock ‘n’ roll phenomenon of all time.
He was a conflicted homosexual who never found a long-term companion and whose autobiography, A Cellarful of Noise, John Lennon once cheekily referred to as A Cellarful of Boys.
He was a relentless control queen and pill-popping workaholic whose frequent depressions and temper tantrums confounded friends and colleagues until he finally flamed out for good.
Given his historic position in twentieth century pop culture, it’s no surprise that the life and legacy of Brian Epstein, the Beatles’ manager and guiding light from 1961 to 1967, continue to fascinate.
Epstein—who died 57 years ago from an accidental overdose of sleeping pills— was one of the most enigmatic figures from the “British Invasion” that redefined the possibilities of pop music. Part of the enduring intrigue surrounds the question of whether his discovery of the Beatles and decision to manage them, despite having no previous experience in music promotion, was partly motivated by sexual attraction.
In the fall of 1961, the Beatles were playing to enthusiastic crowds at the Cavern, a popular basement club not far from the family furniture store where Epstein, the middle class son of a Jewish businessman, ran the record department. He’d read of the group’s progress in Mersey Beat but didn’t bother visiting the Cavern until a pimply-faced youth asked him for a copy of “My Bonnie,” a single featuring Tony Sheridan with the Beatles. When he finally attended a Beatles performance, the conservative 27-year-old homosexual was struck by the sight of four brash young men clad in black leather.
To Epstein, the Beatles were the embodiment of youthful exuberance and cocky male bravado, complemented by catchy, two-chord rhythms and winsome harmonies. A band with raw talent, they had recently returned from Hamburg, a permissive city where all-night jam sessions—fuelled by an endless supply of uppers, beer, and available women—had expanded their musical and sexual horizons. Back in England Epstein cleaned up their act, putting them in suits and—channeling his own thespian cred, having attended the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art—coaching them on their stage presence. Then he set about getting them a recording contract.
After many months of constant rejection, he finally secured a deal with EMI. Following producer George Martin’s complaint about the drumming, he fired Pete Best—saving Lennon and McCartney the trouble—and replaced him with Ringo Starr. Then he set up a tour and promotion schedule for Britain and Europe arranged to coincide with each record release. This built momentum for ticket and record sales, triggering the phenomenon “Beatlemania.” He also booked live appearances on the BBC and a concert before the Royal Family. Then he travelled to the U.S. to promote the Fab Four and chose the song (“I Wanna Hold Your Hand”) that would guarantee them a Number One hit on the Billboard charts—thus ensuring an appearance on the widely broadcast Ed Sullivan Show.
Once the Beatles conquered America, he brokered movie deals, TV shows and product licensing agreements. He established a worldwide touring model that culminated with the first Shea Stadium concert in 1965—at 55,000, then the largest rock audience ever. He achieved so much that it seemed a snub when Queen Elizabeth failed to include him as a Member of the British Empire (MBE) when the Beatles were awarded that honour the same year.
He achieved all these things in 1960s Britain where, despite the “peace and love” vibes of swinging London, gay men could still be jailed for sex. Up-and-coming playwright Joe Orton, after failing to secure a film deal with the Beatles because his script (titled Up Against It) was gay-themed, dismissed Epstein as a self-loathing, “thoroughly weak flaccid type.” But Epstein—the most influential promoter of his time—had far more to lose than the unknown, working-class bohemian Orton. The slightest indiscretion could have landed Epstein in jail, destroying his life and career while creating scandal for John, Paul, George, and Ringo, who were already getting bad press for their drug use.
The Beatles understood Epstein’s predicament. They knew their manager was gay but left him to his privacy and kept their distance while a procession of vacuous pretty boys and fly-by-night hustlers tried to rip him off. (Well, except for Lennon. Opening Epstein’s front door one night to a stranger, John quipped: “Have you come to blackmail him? If not, you’re the only bugger in London who hasn’t.”)
Lennon’s tender, conflicted relationship with Epstein has been the source of much speculation. The smart Beatle’s acid wit could be biting at times—during a recording session for the song “Baby You’re a Rich Man, Too,” he noticed Epstein walking by and sang “Baby You’re a Rich Fag Jew”—and Lennon’s affection for his manager was complicated by fear that he himself might be perceived as gay.
Following the two men’s trip to Barcelona in the spring of 1963, fictionalized in a sympathetic 1991 film, The Hours and Times, Lennon’s buddies couldn’t stop needling him about it. At Paul McCartney’s 21st birthday a few weeks later, he finally snapped, beating up the Cavern’s DJ, Bob Wooler, in an assault so brutal that Wooler had to be hospitalized. “He called me a bloody queer so I bashed his ribs in,” Lennon said at the time.
Internalized homophobia? Of course. But it’s important to note that Lennon named Epstein godfather to his son Julian, spent a lot of time at his apartment, and—when Epstein was recovering from exhaustion in the spring of 1967—reduced his manager to tears by sending him flowers and a get well card (“You know I love you and I really mean it, love John”).
The Beatles had stopped touring after the summer of 1966, leaving Epstein with less work to do and wondering about his future with his favourite act. By mid-August of 1967, his regular intake of sleeping pills had built up his resistance to their effects. On August 27, he washed down with alcohol enough capsules of Carbrital—nine according to the autopsy—to poison his blood stream. He was one month shy of his 33rd birthday.
His death stunned the Beatles, who learned the news while attending a weekend meditation retreat in Bangor, Wales with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Pressed for comment, they responded mostly with New Age platitudes about Epstein’s living “spirit.” But in interviews long after the Beatles breakup, both Lennon and McCartney said the group was rudderless and lost after Epstein’s death.
“If anyone was the fifth Beatle, it was Brian,” said McCartney.
Further reading:
The Man Who Made the Beatles: An Intimate Biography of Brian Epstein, by Ray Coleman (Penguin, 1990).
The Fifth Beatle: The Brian Epstein Story, a graphic novel by Vivek J. Tiwary (Dark Horse Comics, 2013)
Film:
The Hours and Times, written and directed by Christopher Münch and starring David Angus as Epstein and Ian Hart as Lennon (Good Machine, 1991)
Midas Man, directed by Joe Stephenson and starring Jacob Fortune-Lloyd (Studio POW/Trevor Beattie Films, 2024)
