“He tried to kill us”: the tour that broke The Beatles
It’s unclear whether any of The Beatles understood in the moment, but their iconic show at Shea Stadium would stand as the apex of their global conquering.
Across barely two years, The Beatles had been pulled from the Merseybeat clubs of their Liverpool hometown to unprecedented levels of world hysteria, dominating the charts on both sides of the Atlantic and ushering in the British Invasion the moment they’d first played ‘All My Loving’ on their famed The Ed Sullivan Show appearance. Once teen girls and young music fans were exposed to those four mop tops, Elvis Presley and the rock and roll revolution felt like a distant memory.
The rise and rise continued until August 1965. With their second motion picture, Help!, behind them, The Beatles took the stage at New York City’s famed open-air stadium and broke ticket sales records, pulling in as many as 55,000 screaming attendees and setting a new standard for concert revenues in the eyes of many ambitious promoters. Broadcast by the BBC and ABC networks, The Beatles at Shea Stadium captured the Fab Four’s cultural phenomenon at its feverish peak.
Yet, Beatlemania could only burn so long. Pop innocence was being tested by the countercultural winds blowing the band in a different direction. Like everyone else immersed in London’s Swinging liberation, the heady expanses of marijuana and LSD had taken their creative effect, pulling The Beatles toward sonic terrain far beyond the confines of the live four-man set-up, and lyrical ambitions too were outgrowing manager Brian Epstein’s carefully marketed image, embracing the folkcraft of Bob Dylan and Donovan for a pursuit of a mature songbook far removed from ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’.
Teases of The Beatles’ new artistic hinterland would shine on that December’s Rubber Soul, soaking up acoustic pieces and emerging sitar instrumentation around the final pop flashes of ‘Drive My Car’. But, amid the hectic swirling that was their recording and touring schedule, a sorely-needed three-month break from Beatle duties had helped set a different perspective on the mania that swirled around all things Fab.
1966 would prove to be the year that bad luck finally caught up with The Beatles. With the Revolver sessions only just behind them, an exhausted and under-rehearsed band geared up to commence a tour around West Germany, Japan, and the Philippines across June and July. The German shows went smoothly enough, but outrage was raised among the more conservative end of Japanese society, objecting to The Beatles’ five sets at Tokyo’s Nippon Budokan, site of veneration for the war dead and traditionally a sacred arena for martial arts. Despite a death threat, The Beatles played as scheduled, surrounded by tense security between the venue and ultranationalist protesters outside.
The nightmare truly began in the Philippines. Signed up for two shows at the Rizal Memorial Football Stadium on July 4th. The Beatles and their entourage’s arrival in Manila was met with little of the stately welcome typically bestowed upon the Fab Four. Once landing at the airport, the team was met by armed, plain-clothed military personal and driven to a press conference, splitting the band from Epstein and their road managers Neil Aspinall and Mal Evans.
After a disquieting spell on Filipino industrialist Manolo Elizalde’s luxury yacht – rumours abounded that such an arrangement was wrought from gang interference who stood as rivals to the concert promoters – a weary Beatles was awoken the following morning by security staff insisting on an official engagement with President Marcos’ wife, Imelda, at the royal Malacañang Palace. Prizing their much-needed day off, The Beatles insisted on turning down the First Lady of the Philippines’ offer in favour of keeping their rest day. Such a snub couldn’t have gone down any worse. Turning on the hotel television before their first matinee show, a broadcast of the First Lady expressing her disappointment with The Beatles’ no-show, coupled with distraught children driven to tears at the Fab Four let down, set an uneasy air before taking the stage.
The shows went well enough despite the tetchy circumstances, a total of 80,000 fans in attendance at the stadium across the day’s two shows, but an organised mob incensed by The Beatles’ royal offence made their presence known straight after the evening set, despite a recorded apology on the government-run Channel 5 network, but the broadcast’s audio issues rendered their feigned contrition unclear to the Marcos loyalists. Eager to flee the country, the entire entourage headed to the airport the next morning, physically manhandled by the local army personnel stationed there, and ordered to cough up the majority of their show earnings due to an ‘unpaid tax demand’.
“He tried to kill us, President Marcos,” Harrison would recall years later on NBC-TV’s Today, before dubbing the dictator an “old twat.” The Beatles’ performing commitments were hanging by a thread, aside from McCartney, who stood as the only champion of their live shows. Coupled with distaste at their Yesterday and Today US LP butchers cover, Lennon’s chance remark to the Evening Standard that The Beatles had become “more popular than Jesus” made little splash in the UK but spread like heretical wildfire across the American Bible Belt, many local radio stations refusing to play their songs and right-wing Christian groups arranging burning of Beatles records and merchandise.
Despite a pre-tour apology to the press, 14 dates were played in North America that August, with serious tension hovering over their sets at Memphis’ Mid-South Coliseum with the Ku Klux Klan making their presence known outside, and one zealot throwing lit firecrackers on the stage. Enough was enough. Once the tour had ceased, Harrison had confided to The Beatles that he would only stay on if they committed to a purely studio project, a feeling felt by various degrees across all members.
Playing their final commercial show on August 29th at San Francisco’s Candlestick Park mere weeks after Revolver’s release, the tumultuous tour that broke the band only accelerated The Beatles’ hunger to immerse themselves in the endless possibilities of the studio’s limitless canvas to realise their increasingly ambitious popcraft. Without fanfare or formal announcements, The Beatles ceased any live dates from then on, entering EMI Studios early in 1967 refreshed and energised to kickstart the Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band sessions and soundtrack the decade’s Summer of Love.
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