(The Praeger Singer-Songwriter Collection) Ben Urish, Ken Bielen-The Words and Music of John Lennon-Praeger (2007) (30 page)

“going home.” Further verses carry this idea forward, saying he left his heart

in England “with the girl I left behind.” The song is a little obvious in the

lyrics but very tuneful and somehow pleasant in its musical approximation of

low-key anxiousness.

“I Don’t Want To Lose You” is, according to rumor, one of the four songs

Ono gave to The Threetles for them to consider overdubbing. They report-

edly worked on it but then abandoned it. Since George Harrison’s death in

2001, there have been recurring rumors that McCartney and Starr would

complete it, and that if Harrison’s input were judged sufficient, it would be

considered a Beatles product.

The strikingly melancholic song, played on piano, opens with Lennon’s

emotionally drained voice intoning, “I know it’s true, it’s all because of you.”

The lyrics continue the thought that the singer is at the mercy of love and

would be destroyed without it. The lyrics of the chorus do not seem com-

pletely finished, but the song has a rich melody with changes in tone and

texture that mark it as potentially one of Lennon’s more sophisticated har-

monic efforts. If the surviving Beatles did indeed work on this track, it is

unfortunate that they abandoned their attempt to complete it.

Working cLass hero: the definitive Lennon

Working Class Hero
is yet another retrospective collection including Len-

non’s post-Beatles career output—the sixth to be exact, discounting the
John

Lennon Anthology
and
Wonsaponatime
because of their singular nature. This

issue is a two-CD set and was released in 2005 to celebrate what would have

been Lennon’s 65th birthday or to commemorate the quarter century mark

of his slaying.

The “definitive” part of the subtitle is certainly debatable because the bulk

of the collection consists of Lennon’s pop hits and love ballads. As expected,

none of the collaborative work with Ono or others in which Lennon was not

the primary focus is included, nor is any of his avant-garde work from the

three experimental albums.

As on
Lennon,
personal preference determines what might be included

once the canon has been covered, yet there are some questionable choices.

Among the more idiosyncratic inclusions are the only live cut being “Come

Together” from
Live in New York City
and the version of “I’m Losing You”

backed by members of Cheap Trick from the
John Lennon Anthology
instead

of the official
Double Fantasy
release. Thankfully, all of the singles (with the

understandable exception of “Every Man Has a Woman Who Loves Him”)

are here, but not the rare “Move over Ms. L” B-side. Only “New York City”

Gone from This Place 119

and “Woman Is the Nigger of the World” make it from
Sometime in New

York City,
but one of Lennon’s demos of “Real Love” did make the cut.

Fortunately, significant but less commercially oriented tracks, such as “God”

and “Give Me Some Truth,” help the collection to come closer to living up

to its full title.

the u.s. vs. John Lennon

Fall 2006 saw another Lennon compilation CD, this one the soundtrack

album for a documentary that had limited theatrical release.
The U.S. vs. John

Lennon
focused on Lennon’s immigration troubles, and the collection of

songs makes sense in the context of the film but not as a coherent album

collection on their own. A few of the numbers have Lennon’s or Ono’s voice

layered on from interviews, inadvertently creating alternate versions of the

songs when heard out of the film’s context.

Two previously unreleased recordings are included. The first is a live version

of “Attica State” from the 1971 Ann Arbor appearance in support of John

Sinclair. Lennon introduces the song and set with a joke about his musical

beginnings, “Ok, we’re playing acoustic tonight, eh, you might call us The

Quarry Men!” and then nervously adding “I haven’t done this for years!”

The performance is spirited but rough and more than a little erratic, teetering

on the edge of losing time, though Lennon aggressively pushes it through

with his forceful vocals. While ultimately a welcome release due to the pau-

city of Lennon’s post-Beatles live appearances, the recording is of marginal

interest to most. The other “new” release is a mix of “How Do You Sleep?”

with Lennon’s vocals removed. The change puts Harrison’s stellar slide gui-

tar work into sharper relief, but the ultimate result leaves large sections of the

song sounding aimlessly repetitive. While McCartney fans may welcome this

version, it creates a fear that similar karaoke-styled material might be created

and issued in the future.

“CamBridge 1969”

Remixes of Ono’s work had proven popular as electronica and dance-chart

efforts. In 2007 the album
Yes, I’m a Witch
was released. Ono’s vocals from

previous recordings (both released and alternate unreleased takes) were taken

by various artists and remixed into new versions of her songs. Lennon’s con-

tributions to those recordings were apparently not kept, with one obvious

exception.

The Flaming Lips had done a version of “Nobody Told Me” for the char-

ity album of Lennon covers
Working Class Hero
in 1995. Here, the band

tackles the live recording of Ono’s “Cambridge 1969,” and a bit of Lennon’s

feedback guitar work is retained, possibly due to the technical aspects of the

original live recording.

120 The Words and Music of John Lennon

Both Ono’s vocals and Lennon’s guitar sounds waver in and out of

prominence and are eventually subsumed to the sonic mesh the group pro-

vides. The raw vibrancy of the original and the interplay between Ono and

Lennon are buried in a musical collage that surprisingly sounds much like

the instrumental passages from George Harrison’s Beatles track “It’s All Too

Much.”

Afterword

Lennon’s violent murder casts a backward shadow over his entire life, career,

and creative output. Sometimes, it is hard to hear the fun or get through the

retroactive irony that his work has been layered with by the event. Both he and

his music deserve much better, of course. In addition, three or more decades

of his potential creative output, artistic growth, and shared commentary is

an unfathomable loss. In the years since his killing, there have been myriad

portraits of Lennon produced by those who knew him, as well as numerous

analyses of his life and work from various outsider perspectives. Many of those

documents and studies have their strengths, yet what remains the most intrigu-

ing and ultimately significant effort are the self-portraits Lennon left in his

songs. In holding the mirror up to himself and detailing what he saw for the

public, Lennon went beyond himself, both inwardly and outwardly. That was

the gift given to him as an artist, and that is the gift he gave to the public.

If Lennon had only produced what his output was as a Beatle, he would

still be considered one of the major figures in all of popular music. In fact, if

all Lennon had ever done were to produce popular music, he would still be

considered a major figure of significance. But Lennon did much more than

just create music, and he did much more than solely create music as a Beatle.

As horribly curtailed as his life was, and even with almost half a decade of his

career not professionally active, he still created a body of work that promises

to be of continuing interest and importance.

Tributes to Lennon have commonly referred to him as the “spokesperson

of his generation,” and, while that is certainly meant as high praise, it is

far too limiting. Lennon was able to transform the intensely personal into

the deeply universal (as well as the reverse), often with humor and pointed

122    Afterword

insight. His songs spoke to, for, and about, the human condition. They con-

tinue to resonate with significance and meaning for new audiences in each

succeeding generation.

At their core, Lennon’s songs are simultaneously humanistic and

transcendent. As such, they, and he, will undoubtedly continue to be relevant

as long as humans are concerned with themselves, each other, and their place

in the world.

I was working a third-shift job at a convenience store and going to gradu-

ate school. I had eagerly set an alarm so I could wake up and hear the debut

broadcast of the new John Lennon single “(Just Like) Starting Over.” A few

days later, it was on a jukebox at a local Pizza Hut and I heard it again, and

got to play Yoko’s flip side “Kiss Kiss Kiss.” Patrons were not amused, but

I relished their annoyance. John and Yoko were back, and shaking up the

complacent once again. I played both sides of the single every chance I had.

The album
Double Fantasy
came out a few weeks later and a friend and I

rushed out to buy it. I liked it more than he did. He thought Lennon’s work

wasn’t tough enough. We joked that if something bad happened to Yoko, the

anguish might spur John to write gutsier songs.

I’d had a minor car accident, and my car radio didn’t work. Usually I lis-

tened to the radio as I got ready for work, but on December 8, 1980, I over-

slept and was so rushed that I didn’t have time to turn on the radio. When I

got to my job, I was surprised to see my friend waiting for me. He said he was

there since he knew how upset I’d be about the news. What news? Hadn’t I

heard on the radio that John Lennon had been shot? I thought it was a sort

of practical joke, because he sometimes had a grim sense of humor and we

sometimes imagined elaborate practical jokes we might play on friends. In

view of our comments about Yoko, it seemed plausible to me that he might

be pulling a joke on me. I even thought a coworker and customers in the

convenience store were in on the gag until my exasperated coworker had me

go out to his car and listen to the radio. I spun the dial, and station after sta-

tion was playing Beatles and Lennon recordings.

I went back inside and asked my friend if the news had said how badly hurt

Lennon was; and where was Yoko, was she hurt, too? He seemed startled. “I

told you he’s dead!” “No,” I said, “you just said he’d been shot, you never

said he was dead.” “Well he is, he’s dead” was his blunt reply, as my coworker

nodded in assent. My friend later said it felt like he was saying Mickey Mouse

had been killed. We all knew Lennon was a real person, but he was such an

iconic figure that it was easy to lose sight of that fact—somewhat ironic in

view of Lennon’s uncanny ability to make his art so directly personal and

simultaneously so popular. Or perhaps that’s exactly why he seemed so real

as to become unreal to us.

Afterword    123

I called my girlfriend as soon as I thought she’d be home from her second-

shift job. She picked up the phone, and, without saying hello, said, “Well,

they finally got him.” Another friend came to the store and stayed for five

hours. In the morning I called my dad, a decorated Army Ranger Sharp-

shooter and had him explain just what was meant by the newspaper accounts

that said Lennon’s murderer had taken a “military crouch” to shoot at him.

A few days later I was going with my mom to some appointment, and The

Beatles’ Ed Sullivan performance of “This Boy” came on the car radio. I

flashed back to when she had explained “Strawberry Fields Forever” to me in

a similar car ride over 13 years earlier. As Lennon’s vocals reached their peak,

I burst out sobbing and told her it hurt too much to hear him scream with

such anguish and emotion.

But it was my emotions I heard in his voice.

Just like I always had.

—Ben Urish

I was sitting at the kitchen table having breakfast with my mom before I

went to work. The local New Brunswick station was on the radio. During the

eight-o’clock news, the announcer spoke of the shooting at the Dakota the

night before. John Lennon was dead. A Beatle was gone. My mother gasped.

I had not heard the news the night before.
Monday Night Football
must have

been turned off early in the house.

Stunned, I drove to work. I turned the radio dial to Dan Ingram, now the

morning show host on WABC (the W-A-Beatle-C of 1964). WABC was the

only Top-40 AM station left in New York. And I still did not have an FM radio

in my 1972 Dodge Dart. Ingram was in a somber mood. He played a special

set dedicated to John, including Neil Sedaka’s “The Immigrant,” a song about

Lennon’s problems with U.S. immigration in the 1970s. ABC was the right sta-

tion to be listening to. No flashy jingles. Just a quiet, downplayed memorial.

That night my sister Joyce and I had tickets to see Bruce Springsteen at the

Spectrum in Philadelphia. We would meet my sister Judy at the show. I was

emotional y numb as I drove down the New Jersey Turnpike. We listened to

the radio. An announcer read a police report in grisly detail explaining what had