The Beatles Stormed America in 1964. I Was With Them, Day and Night
January 14, 1964, London
I was ready to head to Kenya in the morning. Then the phone rang. It was my boss, Frank Spooner, the picture editor of the Daily Express. “I’m taking you off the Africa assignment,” he said. “We’d like you to go to Paris. The Beatles are on tour there.”
My heart sank. Yes, I’d heard of the Beatles. They were getting bigger—hit song after hit song. But, at 31, I considered myself a serious journalist. As a staff photographer for London’s leading daily paper, I’d covered the rise of the Berlin Wall and broken stories in Egypt, Northern Rhodesia, and Russia. I was more interested in Kenya’s new government than in following around some rock-and-roll group.
“Frank, I’m supposed to go to Africa tomorrow,” I told him. “I’ve had all my shots.” Spooner heard me out and rang off. And I thought, Great, I dodged a bullet. At the Express, I’d built my reputation on hard news. And no place was more cutthroat than London’s Fleet Street, where staff photographers like me fought for scoops, tooth and nail, against guys on rival papers. I knew that once they put you on a music story, you’d be pegged as a show business photographer.
The phone rang again. Spooner had spoken with the top editor. “You’re going to Paris,” he said. “We think you’re perfect for the job. You’re presentable. None of our other photographers are good-looking.” And that was that. I was off to photograph the Beatles.
January 15, Paris
I met John, Paul, and George at the airport in London. Ringo would join us later. They were friendly and polite and sharp. Barely into their 20s, they joked around a lot and were quite mischievous, which I liked.
Source: Harry Benson/vanityfair.com
