For years I’d known of Beatles roadie/manager Mal Evans but I never had a good look at the guy or felt more or less acquainted with his vibe and manner until I watched Peter Jackson’s The Beatles: Get Back last month.

He seemed amiable, nice enough, a decent sort. A big galumphy guy. Six-foot-six. Black-rimmed glasses. Adaptable, good natured.

As I’m not a Beatles obsessive, I somehow never read that poor Evans was shot to death by a couple of L.A. beat cops on 1.5.76. He was stoned and irate and holding a rifle and wouldn’t put it down when ordered to do so by the fuzz, so they drilled him four times. Instant cosmic consciousness, but what a weird way for a trusted friend of the Fab Four to slip this mortal coil.

I can’t recall if Evans’ bizarre death is noted in the 468-minute doc’s closing credits, but if not it seems like an odd omission. He was primarily a gofer but was also a peripheral part of the late ‘60s elite rock cosmology…peace and love and Maharishi Mahesh Yogi mysticism…all of that. And he went out like Tony Montana.