May 1969

Olympic Studios was tucked away in an unassuming brick building on a quiet residential street in south London. The only giveaway that it was one of the finest recording studios in Europe was the small white sign above the door and the muted thump of drums escaping every so often. Otherwise, it blended seamlessly into the surrounding buildings.

Except when The Beatles showed up. Or when they even thought about showing up.

No one could sort out how the Apple Scruffs always seemed to know where the boys would be. There was a day back in '67 when George Harrison couldn't remember if they were recording at Trident or EMI. Unable to reach Neil, he'd finally walked over to the front gate and asked the girls. Sure enough, they knew.

On the day in question, a group of six girls loitered by the entrance whispering eagerly amongst themselves. They picked at a pile of chips from a nearby shop and grasped copies of The Beatles tightly against their sides. One was wearing a black-and-white plaid uniform, clearly having skived off from school. Two others were decked out in the latest threads from Zarby as if they had spent all their cash just to impress one of the lads. The others somehow managed to blend into the background.

As Glyn Johns climbed out of his bright red Fiat, the girls paused all activity and looked over expectantly. While he did look a bit dreamy with his newly-grown beard and Janis Joplin sunglasses, he wasn't a Beatle and thus wasn't worthy of their attention. Glyn glanced at them as he hauled the heavy bag out of the boot of the car, wondering how long they'd been standing there.

The side door leading to the tiny car park opened as a scruffy session musician -- still not a Beatle -- ducked out to have a smoke. He paused when he saw the girls, shook his head slightly, and began to head back inside when he saw Glyn. He glanced again at the girls before holding the door open wider for the producer to slip through.

"The Beatles are recording today?" the musician asked, both annoyed that even more girls would soon flock to the studio entrance and excited that maybe one of them would pop in on his recording session. How groovy would it be for Ringo to lend a drum fill? Or, better yet, Paul to make a small but exceedingly clever suggestion that would turn what he knew was a middling tune into a #1 hit?

Glyn shook his head. "Just listening to some mixes today."

The musician gave a low whistle. "They reserved Studio 1 to listen to playback?"

Studio 1 was Olympic's crown jewel. It had a distinctive arched roof that was a sound engineer's dream because it maintained the crispness of the music while rounding off the jagged edges. The angled sections prevented hot spots or weird canceled-out notes that would be troublesome in pretty much any other studio. In short, it just made everything sound bigger and richer but kept the snap and clarity.

It was high on the list of Glyn's top ten places in the world.

And, yes, it was a bit odd to use that particular studio just to sit in the booth and listen to mixes, but Paul and Ringo had a thing for the architecture so that's the way it was.

Glyn unlocked the door to the control room, his smile widening as he took in the familiar wraparound mixing console. It was custom-made for Olympic and was angled higher than a run-of-the-mill console, meaning it was easier for engineers to operate. On the other side of the room were Ampex tape machines, a pair of 4-tracks, an 8-track, and various mics.

"You look like you want to marry the mixing board."

Glyn turned his head to see Ringo leaning against the door frame with a good-natured smirk on his face. His shaggy hair reached his shoulders and he looked a bit more stressed than the last time Glyn had seen him.

"I don't know why you lot bother with EMI," Glyn admitted. "Olympic's so much better."

Ringo flashed a lopsided grin. "I heard you nearly had a fit when you saw what Alex had done at Apple."

Glyn's eyes widened. "There were 8 small speakers on the wall... each the size of ham sandwiches, like... because he thought an 8-track needed 8 speakers. I-- I didn't even know what to think, to be honest."

Ringo was about to respond when John poked his head beneath his arm and peered up angelically. His scruffy beard and long hair made him look like a cross between a San Francisco hippie and Jesus.

"'Ello, Glynis!" he said cheerfully. "'Ello, Rings."

Ringo pushed off the door frame to allow John to enter with Yoko close behind. He wore a slightly wrinkled white button-down shirt, hanging loose and untucked over striped trousers. Yoko sported one of her trademark all-black ensembles, the only splash of color was a bright red carnation pinned jauntily to her waistcoat.

"Thought Mal and Nell would be here already," John commented as he walked to the glass separating the control room from the recording studio. He stared down at the thick black curtains lining the walls to dampen the room's natural reverberation.

"Traffic," Glyn replied. "They left word with reception."

The four of them sat around for a while talking about Rolling Stone magazine's take on the latest Moody Blues album. It had been a rave review, which was surprisingly because the music critic, Theo Dormer, never liked anything. He had an impossibly high bar, in Glyn's opinion. But he'd heard that Theo had just gotten married, so perhaps he was on an adrenaline rush from that.

George wandered in a few minutes later and sat cross-legged on a stool. He wore a brown and orange checked flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his bare forearms. Around his neck hung an assortment of beaded necklaces and pendants, which jangled every time he gestured.

Mal arrived next, full of apologies, and then Neil.

"Where's Macca?" John finally asked, looking once again down into the recording studio as if Paul had been hiding there the entire time.

"He's taking the bus," Neil explained and there was a collective groan.

"He's gotta stop with that," George complained. "He's always late."

"Makes him feel like a normal person," Ringo countered.

"Perhaps he was up all night with Louise," Yoko offered quietly from her perch next to John.

"She's colicky," Mal added helpfully. "It's been a devil trying to find the proper formula for her. She spits them all up."

They all turned to look at Mal for a long moment. Yoko was thinking that he really did need a pay rise, while Glyn was hoping that his child -- who was due any day -- wouldn't be colicky because that sounded like a nightmare. John and George, meanwhile, didn't seem impressed by a colicky baby and they wondered if it wasn't karmic payback for Paul making their lives more complicated for months.

John made a scoffing sound and was about to make a no-doubt cutting remark when the door opened and Paul burst in. His dark brown hair fell messily around his forehead and it looked like it could use a good wash. The lines under his eyes were pronounced and he looked, in a word, knackered. Despite his apparent exhaustion, he'd taken the time to put on a bold purple velvet jacket with floral embroidery on the lapels and slim gray trousers that flared slightly over his brown leather boots.

"Sorry," he muttered as he walked into the room, looking slightly flustered. His usual affable expression was strained as if he'd used the last bit of Beatle goodwill on the girls outside and all that was left was an exhausted shell of a new dad.

"Get a driver, man," John said pointedly.

"Did you change your telephone number?" George asked. "I tried ringing you yesterday, and it was out of service."

Paul paused and stared blankly at the wall as he scratched the back of his head. There was an awkwardness as if he hadn't wanted anyone to realize what he'd done.

"Er, yeah," he said finally. "Too many people had it. The ringing kept waking Lou."

Something about the delivery fell flat and the others looked amongst each other as if wondering why none of them had the new number. Glyn watched their furtive glances, wondering why Paul suddenly wanted to be unreachable, even to his best mates.

He'd find out soon enough.

"Well... write it down, would you?" George said, sliding one of Glyn's open notebooks toward him. Paul stared at the blank page for a moment before picking up a pen and scribbling down his number. He slid it back to George and ran a hand through his hair again.

"Got a contract for you to sign as well," John said in a tone that bordered on teasing and not-at-all teasing. "Lawyers went to your place but said no one answered the door."

Paul ran a hand through his hair for a third time and shifted his weight from one leg to another. "Yeah, we took Lou out for a walk."

He glanced around the room before walking over to clap Glyn on the shoulder. "That's a happening shirt. How's the missus?"

Before Glyn could form a coherent response, Paul clapped his hands together with faux cheerfulness. "Can't wait to hear the tracks, man."

Months ago, Glyn had pitched the idea of releasing the Get Back sessions as a live-in-the-studio sort of thing. The Beatles had been too preoccupied to focus on it, but Paul had called the producer eight weeks later to see if he still wanted to do it. At first, Glyn had been flattered that they were into his idea. But about an hour later, he'd realized that they didn't think his idea was marvelous, they just didn't give a shit anymore and wanted the project to be done.

"Let's have a listen, then," Paul said, apparently eager to move away from talking about his unlisted number or the contract he needed to sign.

The seven of them sat around listening to the mixes that Glyn had been working on painstakingly for the past week. He didn't think they'd dig them, but it had been worth a try. The tracks were filled with studio banter and Glyn had left them sounding slightly unvarnished, which was the entire point.

They were several songs in when the criticism began to roll in.

"I feel a bit like you caught us with our trousers down," John said. "Suppose people don't want to hear seven false starts to each song."

"Oh," Glyn replied, unperturbed. "Those can easily be edited out. I was playing around with the idea, but yeah, when you play them back-to-back it's a bit much."

"The vocals seem quiet," George commented after the next track. "Why do the drums sound like that?"

Glyn nodded toward the studio beyond the glass partition, where an imaginary drum kit might be set up. "I put the snare and hi-hat on the right channel... and the bass drum on the left... it's to mimic what it sounds like in the control room."

"A bit what it sounds like in my head, too," Ringo mused, though it wasn't clear if that was a good or a bad thing.

Paul didn't comment, just leaned his head against the closest wall and stared blankly ahead while he listened. His foot tapped a beat on the floor, the only sign that he hadn't fallen asleep with his eyes open.

"Is it a bit too indulgent?" George asked in the middle of 'I've Got A Feeling'. "You know, like people think we've stopped trying-- like we think anything we do is good enough."

"Like we just release our rehearsal recordings and call it an album and expect people to pay money for it," John said and Yoko hummed in agreement.

"I dunno," Paul countered. "'Across The Universe' was quite nice. I think the concept overall is a groove."

Glyn squinted at the bass player because there was no way in hell he liked the mix. He had the same look on his face he'd had at Twickenham when he was trying to be polite but hated whatever was being played. No, he wasn't defending the mixes because he liked them. It was almost like he just wasn't in the mood to agree with the others.

The studio door slammed unexpectedly loudly as Mal walked in, causing them all to startle. He looked chagrined and walked over to his seat, hunching his back a bit like he was trying to make himself scarce.

"Allen's at the airport," he said to no one in particular. "Flight to New York is on time"

Paul slumped a bit and his hands unclenched a bit as if he was relieved. Glyn had heard from Mick that The Beatles had taken a liking to Klein. Which was strange because Glyn couldn't imagine anything liking the strange fellow, much less four of the smartest men he'd ever met. Still, they were The Beatles and he wasn't, so perhaps they knew something he didn't.

They listened to a few more tracks and, as expected, said they wanted to go in a different direction with the project. There was no offer for Glyn to try again, which was just fine because he didn't want to listen to any of the songs ever again. Still, a producer credit on a Beatles album wouldn't have been a bad thing.

It seemed like they were about to pack up and leave when John piped up.

"A lawyer brought the contract over," he said to Paul. "Yesterday while you were taking a walk or whatever. Anyway, we've all signed so it's just you who needs to."

Paul ran a hand through his hair and Glyn began to suspect that the constant hair-mussing explained why it looked like it could use a wash.

"Yeah, sure," Paul replied. "I'll have my lawyers look at it on Monday."

"Or you could sign now," John countered. "Since we already have."

Paul picked up a sheath of paper and made a show of flipping through it.

"It's 8 o'clock on a Friday, man," he replied once he'd spent sufficient time shuffling through the pages. "I'll have them look at it on Monday morning. What's the rush?"

"Klein's headed back to New York for an ABKCO board meeting... needs to take it with him to be ratified," George offered.

Paul's brow furrowed. "What board? It's him and his wife. There's no fucking board."

"Just fucking sign it, man," John said, exasperated, like this wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation. "You didn't have an issue with it two days ago when all the lawyers -- including yours, I might add -- were present. And now you have a new number and can't answer your door?"

Paul didn't answer, just stared down at the paper in front of him. His tired eyes quickly skimmed the words and he stretched out his back like he'd spent too many nights perched uncomfortably in a rocking chair.

"I dunno," he replied finally. "Twenty percent? Really? We're not a two-bit band looking for their big break. I bet he'd take 15."

There was a collective groan from the other three Beatles.

"You always fucking do this, man," George said, exasperated, as he tilted his head back to stare upward at the ceiling.

"Do what?" Paul asked defiantly. "All I'm saying is that I want my lawyer to look it over on Monday morning. During business hours. It's the weekend and there's no bloody ABCKO board meeting, I can tell you that. Fucking hell, Klein's got you wrapped around his--"

Glyn made eye contact with Neil across the room and the two of them quickly muttered something about getting a cuppa. As the door shut behind them, the Beatles' voices were getting louder and more heated.

"Oh, fuck off--"

"Why do you have your own lawyer anyway?"

"Every bloody time, man."

Olympic Studios didn't have a proper canteen, just a rolling metal cart shoved in a corner upon which perched a tatty electric kettle and a pile of dingy mugs. The two men avoided eye contact while they made a pot of lukewarm tea, splashing too much milk into the cup just to give themselves something to do.

"How is the missus?" Neil finally asked.

Glyn launched into an overly detailed account of all of his wife's pre-labor pains and the color they'd painted the nursery. Neither of them cared, but it was a safer topic than the row currently underway in Studio 1.

While he rattled off the various paint colors that Sylvia had considered, all he could think about was the fact that maybe the rumors he'd heard for months were true. Maybe The Beatles were going to split up. Because surely the hostility and defensiveness he'd just witnessed weren't simply because of a contract.

The door to the control room opened as John marched out, looking furious. Yoko was just behind him, seeming like she'd rather be anywhere else in the world. Next came George and Ringo, who looked more annoyed than angry.

Neil slurped down the rest of the tea and looked at Glyn apologetically before peeling off to join the lads. John said something about phoning the airport, his words floating away as they got further away. A moment later, Mal walked out of the control room with a pained expression. He clapped Glyn on the back as he hurried toward the reception area.

Glyn stared at the bottom of the cup for a long while, wondering what he was meant to do. Finally, he put down the cup and walked slowly toward the control room. He opened the door, surprised to see Paul with headphones on, fiddling around on the mixing board.

He looked up when he heard the door open. "I've worked out what we need on 'Get Back.' Come have a listen."

After a beat, the producer nodded and walked over to stand next to Paul. He picked up a pair of headphones and listened to the bass track, which Paul had turned all the way up.

Paul pulled the headphones around his neck, running a hand through his hair for the fifth time.

"I didn't bring my guitar. Think anyone would lend me one?"

"I don't think that'll be a problem," Glyn replied lightly.

Fifteen minutes later, Paul was seated in the studio on a rickety metal chair with a studio musician's instrument in his hands. He'd long discarded his violet jacket and had rolled up the sleeves on his shirt. The harsh overhead lighting should have washed him out, but he somehow seemed to glow from within.

"Glyn, I know you don't believe in overdubbing," he called out as he finished tuning the guitar. "But we're going to do just that."

Glyn chuckled and leaned into the mic. "It's not that I don't believe in it. It's that I think overdubs interrupt the flow of the song. It's meant to be a conversation, not a one-way street."

Paul grinned up at him. "This'll make the song a two-way street, you'll see."

He began to play a chord progression that was slightly different from what John and George had played months ago in the studio. Glyn closed his eyes for a moment and nodded, hearing what Paul had heard: if they layered all three parts together, it would be sublime.

"That's a cracking idea," he said into the mic as soon as Paul was finished. "Who would've thought--"

He was interrupted by the bang of the studio door, which hit the opposite wall and slammed shut again. Paul's eyebrows shot up and his mouth fell open in surprise as Allen Klein stormed into the studio. Glyn's fingertips froze on the mixing console as the stocky New Yorker moved toward Paul in an almost menacing way. He flinched for a split second, but he quickly schooled his face and managed to look simultaneously cocky and calm.

"That's a bit dramatic, Allen," Paul said, placing the guitar in its holder carefully before he stood to face his manager. "Barging in here like you own the place."

Klein stopped a few feet short of Paul, looking so angry that he was nearly out of breath. They stared at each other for a moment before he exhaled loudly.

"Sign the fucking contract," he said in a low voice. "I've been repping you for months."

"You've been repping Apple for months," Paul corrected. "Not me."

They went back and forth for a few minutes with Klein wildly gesticulating, his face red and contorted and Paul's arms crossed defensively over his chest. Glyn could make out the escalating tones even through the bulky headphones, which he had since long unplugged from the board.

Finally, Paul had had enough.

"I'm working, man," he said in a low voice. "And you're meant to be on a flight out of here."

He ran a hand through his hair for the millionth time, muttering you twat.

There was a moment of silence before all hell broke loose.

Klein started to shout at Paul, sending Glyn scrambling to cut off the studio mics and ensure that the tape wasn't rolling. The control room was well insulated to prevent sounds from bleeding into the studio, but even still, Glyn could hear the harsh Brooklyn accent berating Paul. At one point he worried it would come to blows and debated the merits of getting reinforcements from the studio next door.

It was extremely unpleasant to witness.

Then, just as suddenly as he barged in, Klein marched out. Glyn peered down at Paul, who stared at the door for a long while, blinking a bit too rapidly. A tense silence permeated the studio as the producer once again debated what to do. Should he sneak out and pretend he hadn't witnessed any of it? Go on a rant about what a tosser Klein was?

He watched as the anger and embarrassment on Paul's face gave way to indignant defiance. After a moment, he picked up the guitar and looked up at the booth.

"Can you stick around for a bit? Do a few more takes?"

Glyn nodded. He'd heard stories about how Paul compartmentalized everything, but this was something beyond. He'd had his bandmates yell at him, followed by verbal abuse from a man who was supposed to work for him. But all he wanted to do was get a chord down on tape?

Celebrity really fucked with the brain.

The pair worked for another half-hour until Paul came into the booth to listen to the playback. He tapped his foot throughout the bridge and, when the song was over, he let out a little sigh that sounded like contentment. Like all was right in some part of the world.

After a moment, he glanced over looking almost--but not quite-- embarrassed.

"Sorry 'bout that."

Oh," Glyn replied, momentarily flustered. "No-- that was-- I didn't--"

"He's a nutter," Paul said matter-of-factly. "A fucking nutter."

After a moment, Glyn nodded. "He's an odd duck."

"I think Mick and Keith fobbed him off on us."

"Probably," Glyn replied with a chuckle. "Wouldn't put it past them."

They both stared through the glass into the empty studio for a long while.

"How's the baby?" Glyn finally asked. "Louise, yeah?"

Paul nodded, his eyes brightening for a moment. "She's great. Really great, man. Already her own person, know what I mean?"

He continued without waiting for the producer to reply. "It's--- well, someone told Alice that these first few months are the longest shortest time. Something like that. Like it's bloody awful when you're in it -- not sleeping and all that -- but then it's over and you wish you had it back. Except I'm not sure Liss will wish she had it back... she said she wants to skip straight to the 5-year-old phase."

Glyn opened his mouth to reply, but Paul kept going.

"My only regret is that all this bollocks with the lads -- with Klein, I mean -- is overshadowing it. Fuck-ing nut-ter."

"Fucking nutter," Glyn repeated with a nod. Paul stared down at the studio and, for the last time that night, ran a hand distractedly through his hair.

"Fucking nutter," he said to himself.

Glyn looked back toward the control room door, considering his next move. Then:

"I think Steve Miller's recording in Studio 2. Wanna join in?"

Paul perked up immediately. "Think he'd mind?"

Glyn laughed lightly. "I think he'd be alright with it."

The two of them practically ran to the studio next door where Steve Miller was indeed recording and didn't mind at all if Beatle Paul joined in. Hunched on a stool behind the kit, he pounded the drums with reckless abandon. After a series of particularly aggressive drum fills, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment like this was the only place he could escape the bullshit that surrounded him.

"What's the tune called?" Paul asked during one of the breaks, raising a hand to wipe sweat off his brow.

"My Dark Hour," Steve replied with a lazy grin.

The corner of Paul's mouth lifted as he caught Glyn's eye from across the room where he was sprawled on a sofa, half asleep. When their gazes met, Paul let out a little chuckle.

"That's fitting," he said to Steve. "Alright, let's do it again?"

They left the studio at half-three, each going their separate way.

Paul took a taxi to Cavendish, where two birds were still standing outside his gate. He admonished them to go home and then, feeling more depleted than he'd ever been in his life, he slowly climbed the stairs and fell into bed next to his sleeping wife.

Glyn lived close to the studio, so was home within ten minutes. His wife, Sylvia, was still up because she'd been having increasingly strong Braxton-Hicks contractions. A few hours later, they decided the contractions were real. A few hours after that, his son was born.

The following month, Steve Allen released The Dark Hour. The groovy red-and-orange vinyl read THE STEVE MILLER BAND WITH SPECIAL THANKS TO PAUL RAMON.

By the time it hit the charts, Paul had nearly forgotten that he'd played on it. Because, by that time, life as he knew it was spiraling out of control.