The Soho Logo
How a Soho music store shaped the sound - and the identity - of The Beatles
London, April 1963.
Rain drummed steadily against the windows of the small shop on Rupert Street. Inside, the owner leaned over the counter, sorting a stack of invoices. He paused now and then to glance through the guitars that lined the window, watching the wet street beyond. Across the room, his assistant spoke quietly with a customer, their low conversation blending with the soft patter of rain. Then the phone rang.
He glanced up, noting his assistant’s hands carefully demonstrating the fretwork on a cherry-red Fender Stratocaster. With a resigned sigh, he set his pen down and reached for the receiver.
"Sound City, Ivor Arbiter speaking," he said, his tone clipped but polite.
On the other end, a familiar voice answered, tight with tension. Gerry Evans, the store manager at Drum City—his other shop, just five minutes away on Shaftesbury Avenue.
"Ivor," Gerry began, voice hurried, "we’ve got a bit of a situation here. Two blokes just came in asking for the new Ludwig drum kit. They’re saying they want it today, but—here’s the thing—they’re not planning on paying for it. Say they want to cut a deal."
Ivor frowned, his grip tightening on the receiver. "Not planning on paying?" His voice dropped into a sceptical drawl. "Who exactly are they?"
There was a pause, long enough for the rain to fill the silence. Then Gerry said, "Well… one of them’s sharp-looking. Suit, tie, well-spoken, polite. The other one’s shorter, long-haired—bit quieter. A Scouser, I think. They’re not causing a scene or anything, but… Figured you’d want to handle this one yourself."
"I’ll be right there," Ivor said, already reaching for his coat. He hung up, grabbed his umbrella, and paused just long enough to glance at the invoices strewn across his desk. They could wait.
As he stepped out into the rain, his mind worked at the problem. Ludwig kits weren’t cheap, and they didn’t exactly fly out the door, no matter how good the sales pitch. Who were these men who thought they could just waltz in and take one? And why did he already have a nagging feeling that this was the start of something bigger than an unpaid drum kit?
The music man
Ivor Arbiter’s father played sax in big bands which had sparked his interest as a boy — less in playing, and more in the mechanics of the instrument. In 1943, he was taken on as an apprentice saxophone repairer at a small workshop in Soho Street. Surrounded by the theatres and music halls of central London, there was a steady demand for instrument repairs. This increased in post-war London, giving him the impetus to strike out on his own. He was sixteen when he set up his own musical instrument repair business in a tiny Kingly Street basement that he found tucked behind Regent Street. Basements in that part of Soho were not only small and affordable, but they were also ideal for testing brass instruments without disturbing the neighbours.
His repair business made steady progress. This enabled him to expand into buying and selling brass and woodwind instruments from an outlet on Shaftesbury Avenue in 1957. Skiffle, jazz, and budding rock ‘n’ roll groups were springing up everywhere, and Ivan saw an opportunity. By 1961, drums were leading the way in the rock and roll boom, and Ivan made the bold move to open Drum City, specialising in percussion at 114 Shaftesbury Avenue. He’d later describe it as “the moment we stopped being a backstreet business and became something bigger.” His Sound City guitar and amp shop at 24 Rupert Street followed a year later.
The shop was nestled in a terrace built in 1728, located on the northern edge of the Earl of St Albans’ former farm estate. Oscar Wilde not only gave the street a fleeting mention in The Picture of Dorian Gray but was also known to frequent its male brothels. Whether number 24 specifically played a role in Rupert Street’s storied history of decadent bohemianism is something that will likely remain a mystery.
In October 1962, Brian Jones walked in off the street to buy a guitar for the group he’d just formed — The Rollin’ Stones. Sound City was one of the first stores to cater for this burgeoning market, with many others following. In the sixties and seventies Shaftesbury Avenue and Charing Cross Road, along with Denmark Street, were full of music stores. Each offered its own distinctive range of instruments and equipment. And each had its own distinctive character created by their founders and staff. Together they shared a collective passion for music, and the people who created it. Every store had its own backstory and its own very particular contribution to our musical culture.
A question of identity
1963 had been relentless for The Beatles, and there was no sign of it letting up. By April, the group had scored their first number one single, with another hit—From Me to You—climbing the charts. Their debut album was well on its way to the top spot, where it would remain for thirty weeks before being replaced by their second album. The year saw them embark on four major tours, punctuated by relentless studio work and an increasing presence on radio and television. They were quickly mastering the art of live performance for both small studios and national broadcasts, becoming regulars at the BBC and ITV. By now, they were also honing a distinct skill: the art of the interview. With their wit, charm, and natural charisma, they became as captivating offstage as on it, winning over cameras, microphones, and newspaper front pages alike. By the end of 1963, Beatlemania would sweep the nation, but in April, they were still on the brink of that cultural explosion.
This was also the year when The Beatles—four lads from Liverpool—began to establish themselves as Londoners. With manager Brian Epstein’s office now set up on Montague Street, a short walk from Soho, the group often found themselves in the heart of the capital’s music scene. In many ways, The Beatles were becoming a Soho band. But for Ringo Starr, mid-April brought more immediate concerns: his drum kit was knackered.
Ringo’s aging Premier kit had taken a beating from constant touring. On a rare day off from recording and performing, he and Epstein hastened through the showers to Drum City on Shaftesbury Avenue. In the shop window sat the object of Ringo’s desire: a sleek Ludwig drum kit with a black oyster pearl finish. Its polished sheen and distinctive tone set it apart.
But the new Ludwig kit offered more than just an upgrade in sound and style. It also presented a solution to an ongoing issue for the band: the display of their name on the bass drum.
When Ringo joined The Beatles in August 1962, his Premier bass drum featured his own name, taped prominently in black letters. By February 1963, with their first major UK tour supporting Helen Shapiro approaching, the group realised the focus had to shift from the drummer’s name to the band’s. Paul McCartney quickly sketched a design, styling the letter "B" to resemble a beetle. The concept was passed to Liverpool artist Tex O’Hara, who refined the design and painted it onto a linen sash stretched across the drumhead. It made its debut during The Beatles’ appearance on ATV’s Thank Your Lucky Stars on 23 February. While functional, it didn’t quite achieve the iconic look they were after.
Now, as chart-toppers and rising stars, Epstein saw an opportunity. If Drum City’s owner, Ivor Arbiter, agreed to a trade-in—Ringo’s battered Premier kit in exchange for a brand-new Ludwig set—Epstein promised to put significant business Arbiter’s way. But there was one key condition: the new drum kit had to feature a professionally designed logo that reflected the band’s rising stature.
Cutting a deal
When Ivor Arbiter arrived at the shop, Epstein explained his terms: a trade of Ringo’s battered Premier kit for the Ludwig set, and a new logo to boot. Ivor hesitated. The Beatles were promising, but plenty of groups with one hit fizzled out. Still, as Ludwig’s sole agent in London, he understood the opportunity.
“I’ll take the old kit,” Ivor said, after a moment’s thought. “But there’s one condition: the Ludwig name stays on the bass drum, above the group’s name.”
Epstein hesitated, but eventually nodded. “Fine. But the group’s name has to stand out.”
Grabbing a scrap of paper, Ivor quickly sketched an idea: blocky, capital letters, with a stretched “T” to give the design balance. It was simple, but bold—a perfect fit for a band whose sound was growing louder with each passing week. Epstein handed over a five-pound note to pay a local signwriter, Eddie Stokes, to paint the logo on the drumhead. And that was how the most recognisable logo in popular music history was created.
Weeks later, the Ludwig kit made its debut at Abbey Road Studios during the recording of "She Loves You." The song’s thunderous drum intro and contagious “yeah, yeah, yeah” refrain became the defining anthem of Beatlemania—and the new drumhead logo made its first steps toward iconic status.
Designed around customers
Sound City rapidly outgrew its Rupert Street premises, and in 1964 moved closer to Drum City occupying a prominent corner site just a few doors down at 124 Shaftesbury Avenue. With a repair department and a range of instruments, equipment and accessories that included their own fuzzbox - the Fuzz Face - Sound City provided the sound for the golden age of the electric guitar.
Just days after first arriving in London in 1966, Jimi Hendrix walked out of Sound City with his new Fuzz Face and began his reinvention of what a guitar should sound like. A few months later Eric Clapton bought a used Stratocaster guitar at the store which he used most notably on his 1970 hit Layla. Musicians and roadies provided regular business for Sound City’s repair department, and the ideal location attracted an endless stream of professional, amateur and aspiring musicians.
In the wake of Sound City, other stores such as Selmers, around the corner on Charing Cross Road, built on this model of the guitar shop. If Selmer’s customers were impressive - Peter Green, Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, Jimmy Page and Steve Howe - so too were their staff, which at various times included Paul Kossoff and John McLaughlin.
But it was Sound City and Drum City where the template for the music store was created. Far more than retail outlets, these stores became a vital part of Soho’s music culture. They were hubs for music making and consuming communities, where musicians would meet, gigs could be publicised, playing opportunities shared and deals struck. They were centres of craft knowledge and innovation: where instruments could be repaired and where innovations such as Fuzz Face were born. They were where the passion and skill of making music could be passed on: where aspiring players could be advised by experts on the instrument that was right for them.
In 1975, a liquidity crisis led to the closure of Arbiter’s two shops. As he explains: “Whilst I was very ambitious, had some foresight and loved the business, I was probably quite weak in terms of balance sheets and control in running a business.” He went on to develop new business ventures, and became a pioneer in supplying karaoke machines in the 1980s. But his key contribution was defining what a music store should be: “I think really we created the guitar shop image, which sounds silly, but I think we were the first, even before anybody in the States, to get into a guitar shop complex… we’re no longer a small, back-street piano business. We thought, "Let's present ourselves nicely, let's try and design the establishments around our customers."
Taking centre stage
The logo, born from a quick sketch in a busy Soho shop, became one of the most recognizable symbols in music history. As much as the sharp suits, mop-top haircuts, and McCartney’s Höfner bass, the drop-T Beatles logo helped define the group’s identity.
Over time, the logo underwent subtle changes. By November 1963, after months of relentless touring, the Ludwig sticker at the top of Ringo’s drumhead began to peel, leaving only the letters “Lu.” This became a running joke among the band, with John Lennon seizing every opportunity to turn it into a toilet pun when introducing Ringo. During their Christmas break, Epstein had Eddie Stokes hand-paint the Ludwig logo directly onto the drumhead to replace the worn-out sticker.
In his diary, Beatles roadie Mal Evans recalls Thursday, 6 February 1964, spent roaming the music shops of Soho—mainly Drum City, Sound City, and Selmers—picking up last-minute items for the band’s first trip to America. Ringo’s Ludwig kit wasn’t making the journey, as Ludwig would provide a new one on arrival in New York, but Arbiter had arranged for Eddie Stokes to rework the logo for a fresh 20” drumhead. This version featured a larger, bolder rendition of the drop-T Beatles logo, stretching edge to edge, with a heavier typeface than before. The Ludwig logo, now hand-painted lower on the drumhead, was also made larger and more prominent at Arbiter’s request.
Three days later, on 9 February 1964, when The Beatles made their debut on The Ed Sullivan Show, Ringo’s Ludwig drum kit—complete with its newly repainted drumhead—took centre stage. Broadcast to over 73 million viewers, the bold black-and-white logo became as much a part of the band’s image as their music. For many, it was the visual embodiment of The Beatles’ infectious energy and cultural revolution, stamping their identity into the hearts of a generation.
For Ivor Arbiter, the deal with Brian Epstein was just one chapter in Soho’s vibrant music scene. Sound City and Drum City became more than music stores—they were hubs of innovation, where new sounds were born, collaborations sparked, and dreams forged. Musicians like Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, and countless others passed through their doors, discovering not just instruments but the tools to shape their legacies.
These Soho shops weren’t just retail outlets—they were creative epicentres, fuelled by passion and the belief that the right instrument, placed in the right hands, could change the world. And in a way, they did. The streets of Soho gave rise to some of the most transformative moments in music history, with Ivor Arbiter’s sketch of the drop-T Beatles logo becoming a timeless symbol—not just of a band, but of the cultural revolution they unleashed.
Authors’ notes
We have substantially revised an earlier version of this story with additional research and an entire rewrite.
this is fab and excellent research, too. I will always be awestruck by the amount of sheer syncronicity in the story -- had the logo been developed more thoughtfully and deliberately, it likely would have been a hash.
I also appreciate the mention of Paul's artistic contribution with the original logo. John is always presented as the "artist" Beatle, but Paul was as much of an active artist as John was, as you know -- sketching out album covers and concepts, etc. That gets lost sometimes, so thank you for highlighting it.
Wow! Thanks so much guys, for a fantastic and inspiring dive into SoHo music history! Every corner of SoHo has a story to tell, and you guys are the best placed to do it! You are uncovering nuggets essential to our generations ….