Her comment piqued my curiosity about Dick Rowe.
I found the below article, and found it rather amusing.
In Defence of Dick RoweWhat is it they say about wars? That history is written by the victors? Something similar happens with pop music.
found at http://www.davidhepworth.com/radio.htm
Broadcast on Radio Four's Front Row January 2002
All it took was a couple of strokes of Brian Epstein's pen in his book A Cellarful Of Noise and Dick Rowe was doomed to wander the ages ringing a bell with a sign round his neck that announced " Yea verily, I am the man who turned down The Beatles and yes, it's true I signed Brian Poole and The Tremeloes instead. Now where would you like to kick me?"
VIDEO OF BRIAN POOLE & THE TREMELOES
SO SUPERIOR TO THOSE SILLY BEATLES, AS YOU WILL SEE
Unfortunate scrote, Dick Rowe.
Because there but for the grace of God goes anyone whose business card bears the legend talent spotter or editor or commissioning editor or publisher. All will at one time or another allow the gold to slip through their fingers. Only Dick Rowe, poor sap, became world famous for it.
It didn't matter that he signed the Rolling Stones soon afterwards, hastily and on George Harrison's advice. It was too late to arrest the swell of public indignation around his decision. The sterling work that Rowe did with Lita Roza and Dickie Valentine - heavy sarcasm here - counted for nothing against the charge that his unforgivable lack of perception had almost resulted in the cancellation of the swinging sixties, the extension of the war in Vietnam and condemned an entire generation to cruel and unusual punishment at the hands of brylcreem, Dickie Henderson and the liberty bodice.
We, the great untried, like to think that ten minutes exposure to the Beatles in their raw state and we would have known we were in the presence of greatness and not just a bunch of scallies vamping their way through Red Sails In The Sunsnet and the Sheik of Araby. Course this is tripe - when it comes to hindsight we're all regular Hubble telescopes and the fact is that George Martin, who subsequently signed Epstein's boys to Parlophone, was acting more in hope than expectation.
The most weaselly of all the weasel words in the showbiz lexicon are "the first time I set eyes on him I knew" Nobody does.
The legend of Elvis Presley's discovery by Sam Phillips holds that this young boy walked into Sam's studio, they made a record and discovered rock and roll. That night. Actually it took a whole year of fruitless pottering before Sam Phillips hit on anything he even felt like wasting tape on.
The truth is that innovation involves lots of drudgery and cold pizza, charisma is the patina left by success and money and overnight sensations aren't.
Most of us can only see the product once it's been put together. The people who make their livings picking the ingredients carry themselves with great certainty to distract our attention from the fact they've got their fingers crossed. They hope they've reeled in the new Beatles but in the still watches of the night when they snap into the foetal position in a cold sweat under the duvet they contemplate the awful possibility that what they've really got on the end of their line is Splodgenessabounds.
The truth is enshrined in the words of screenwriter William Goldman when he said "nobody knows anything".
The next big thing, for a start, doesn't look like the last big thing.
When Dick Rowe said groups of guitars were on their way out, Mr Epstein (note that patronising detail that has attached itself to the legend) he meant that the Shadows were on their way out and they were. The man wasn't an idiot but he wasn't very lucky either.
And don't forget that the Beatles didn't think they had any divine right to a record contract. Their expectations were modest. George thought they might get a couple of years out of it and enough money to put a deposit on a hairdressing salon.
Paul was relaxed enough to say that he probably wouldn't have signed the Beatles anyway on the basis of the performance they turned in that snowy morning 40 years ago in West Hampstead.
On the other hand, when somebody remarked to John Lennon that Dick Rowe must be kicking himself, John retorted "I hope he kicks himself to death".
But then he always was the sensitive kind.
Just a few Beatlepics to make everything all better (click on 'em):
"Now where th' bloody 'ell did Aspinall go?
It's his job to forge this roobish..."
Such a sweet pic!
Ringo in Japan