It’s indeed a long and winding road

I love conspiracy theories. The more outlandish the better.

That’s what made recent reports about a secret Beatles reunion in 1976 so irresistible.

As the story went, John, Paul, George and Ringo quietly came together Nov. 2, 1976 -- six years after their painful breakup -- at a recording studio right here in Los Angeles. Evidently they wanted to see if the old magic was still there.

They jammed and recorded five songs, but then the old tensions arose and the session ended with the Beatles storming out, but not before they ordered the tape erased, eliminating all proof that their attempted reunion had gone bust.

But someone managed to get hold of the tape and the box it came in, which lists the five song titles and the session participants as John, Paul, George and Rich (Ringo’s real name is Richard Starkey), the producer as “GM” (longtime Beatles producer was George Martin), and the engineer “GE” (suggesting Geoff Emerick, who worked on many Beatles recordings).

Sure, the tape is blank, but no matter, says Gary Zimet, who’s hoping to sell it for $500,000 or more on his website, which auctions celebrity memorabilia. That just proves the story.

Representatives for Paul McCartney, Yoko Ono and the owner of the recording studio issued flat-out denials. Beatles experts and associates said the timing was impossible.

After I wrote stories about this, the tape’s owner sent me what he claimed was a 1997 e-mail from the studio owner, Len Kovner. The e-mail contradicted his more recent press release, which called the reunion story “absurd.” Kovner changed his tune, Zimet says, because the all-powerful McCartney and his lawyers hushed him up.

A blank tape and an unverifiable e-mail aren’t strong evidence to me. But this Omnipotent McCartney thing. That got me thinking.

The conspiracy theory here could be so much bigger. In fact, it could be the perfect storm of pop music conspiracies: intertwining pop music’s greatest band, one of its greatest solo performers and one of its most influential producers.

Gather ‘round.

Long ago, McCartney’d been hurt, and hurt bad. Twice.

The first was when the tapes from the “Let It Be” sessions were turned over in 1970 to “wall of sound” producer Phil Spector, who slathered strings and choirs all over his beloved ballad “The Long and Winding Road” like greasy chili on fries.

Every time it came on the radio for the next three decades, it surely pained McCartney like a shiv in the ribs.

The next wound came from someone he considered a friend: Michael Jackson. Not long after the two of them harmonized on “The Girl Is Mine,” the Gloved One pulled a double-cross. He outbid McCartney for the Beatles’ publishing catalog. Then, like some musical Cal Worthington, he sold off songs that changed the world to advertise running shoes.

Flash forward to 2003, when our plot kicks in. It begins easily. McCartney puts the word out that he’ll put 50 large in the pocket of the first engineer to rub out Spector’s additions to “Let It Be.” Quicker than you can say “Sam Spade,” out comes “Let It Be ... Naked” -- “the way it was intended” is how the ad campaign went, but the subtext was “de-Spectorized.” Spector was already in hot water with the law because of the shooting death of a woman at his mansion last February. Jackson got Santa Barbara authorities on his trail again after a TV interview, broadcast -- coincidentally? -- last February. In it, he admitted sharing his bed with his young Neverland visitors.

McCartney must have dropped the dime on the target date to his legion operatives: Nov. 18. On that day, Santa Barbara authorities swarm Neverland and collect the evidence that leads to Jackson’s arrest. That very same day, Los Angeles authorities at long last file charges against Spector. Jackson claims it’s a conspiracy to thwart sales of his latest hits collection, “Number Ones,” released on, you guessed it, Nov. 18.

And what other album hits stores that very day? “Let It Be ... Naked.” In the first week it outsold “Number Ones” 2-1, trouncing Jackson on the charts.

Coincidence? Oh yeah. And Tony Soprano gets the primo tables around town because of his charity work.

Randy Lewis can be contacted at Randy.Lewis@latimes.com.