BeatleBlog

I am currently reading John Lennon: The Life by Phillip Norman. I have not had my ear to the ground re: this particular book so I am not sure what's the buzz amongst Beatles experts on this author and the job he's done. My own particular opinion is that I'm not sure I can trust him or his sources. I can't quite put my finger on the exact reason but he gives off a rather biased vibe to me. It's as though either A) he had preconceived notions about the people in John's life, and set out to find "facts" that substantiated those notions, or, B) he formed an opinion quickly based on very little once he actually started researching the book. I am picking up that he's injected a lot of his own opinions into the story but is stating them as fact. And the majority of his sources are not exactly A-list, either, or didn't spend enough time with John for me to fully trust their perception of him.

The author often neglects to cite any source at all for his information, leaving me to wonder exactly where he's getting it and how reliable it is. I have to wonder, for example, about the few women he cites in the book who had illicit relationships with John. I have little respect for, and even less trust in, women who kiss and tell in regards to the Beatles. Think about it -- how many hundreds of women have stories about encounters with the Beatles? But how many do you actually hear talking about it? Most, it seems, are content to treasure their memories in private. So I do wonder about the legitimacy of the very few who have let details slip. In fact, the author seems especially fond of the more sordid or scandalous details, most of which are gleefully relayed free of cumbersome details such as source citation. It makes me wonder about his motivation, certainly.

Not only that but he has gotten several facts just plain wrong; facts that should've been easy to check for accuracy, or even things he would've already known before beginning were he even a moderately ardent fan. For example, he continually refers to "Norm" in A Hard Day's Night as the Beatles' "roadie." "Norm" is absolutely NOT their roadie; he is their manager, based (in position, not personality) on Brian Epstein! That is a very elementary fact and yet he misses it entirely, leading me to wonder if he has even seen the movie at all.

Lastly he has a very irritating fascination with a series of British books featuring a character called William. According to the author, John read these books avidly as a child, and, for some reason, Phillip Norman is obsessed with drawing parallels between John and this William character even though the connection is tenuous, at best. I am only halfway through the book but if I have to read the phrase "Richmal Crompton's William" one more time I may throw my Kindle out the window.

So, bottom line: I'm taking this one with a big ol' grain of salt. There have been some interesting tidbits that I feel are substantiated enough as to be generally believable. And I've been interested to read quotes from some of the players from whom I haven't heard much. But as for whether I buy it all as gospel? Heck no. It's certainly not a threat to become the new definitive biography of John, that's certain.

Posted by Mary at 07:12 PM | Permalink

Normally at Christmastime I get excited to hear "Happy Xmas (War is Over)" every time it comes on. For some reason, though, this year, it only makes me sad every time I hear it. I wonder why? Instead of touching me and making me think all it's doing is reminding me that John isn't here.

Posted by Mary at 12:56 PM | Permalink

Yes, I do know what day it is. And I'm trying not to think about it too much. I have not had a great week, as it is, and if I let the dam break I'm afraid I may never pull it together again.

I miss you, John.

Posted by Mary at 11:13 AM | Permalink

I had a dream two nights ago that I was at some sort of outdoor gathering on the streets of New York City. Suddenly Yoko was there and she picked me out of the crowd and handed me two pairs of John's glasses. There were people all around and reporters trying to ask me questions but all I could do was cling to the glasses and cry because I was touching something that John had touched.

I wonder what a psychoanalyst would make of that one.

Posted by Mary at 12:42 AM | Permalink

I was just browsing around Wikipedia and happened upon a page of "American Murderers." Listed was the pathetic excuse for a human being who killed John. I shouldn't have, but I clicked over to the page. There, at the top, was its mugshot and now I want to throw up. It makes me sick that that waste of oxygen's name is now inextricably linked with John's. He isn't fit to lick John's boots. And that's not me glorifying John as some kind of demi-god or something. The bastard isn't fit to lick my boots, either.

I'm pretty sure John wouldn't want anyone to go after the piece of crap if it ever gets released from prison....but I can't say if I was out, driving around, and it walked in front of my car that my foot wouldn't accidentally get stuck to the gas pedal. I'd like to say what else I'm thinking but my mom reads this blog so I won't.

Posted by Mary at 01:50 PM | Permalink

I was at the grocery store a couple days ago, looking for magazines to bring on the plane when I flew home from California. I glanced down at the bottom shelf and saw a very familiar and dear pair of eyes staring back at me. I pounced. It was a special edition of Life magazine: "Remembering John Lennon 25 Years Later." The cover photo makes me want to smile and cry all at the same time. I hadn't heard that they were putting that out so I'm glad I stumbled upon it. I'd highly recommend picking one up.

Posted by Mary at 02:27 PM | Permalink

Sometime this month a group of psychics are going to conduct a seance on pay-per-view to try to contact John. Apparently they will also be visiting various sites of importance from John's life, including the Dakota. (Advice to Yoko: have the boiling oil ready.)

I was trying to figure out exactly how this makes me feel. It goes without saying that I think it's a bunch of bunk and that any "contact" made will be manufactured for television. But there's more to it. Imagine you owned a beautiful statue, or any other art object. It sat in a place of honor in your home with a spotlight on it. Every day you looked at it and each time you were amazed by what you saw, thrilled that you posessed it and humbled by its beauty. It made you happy just to see it and know it was there. Then imagine that some people who had been shoveling manure with their bare hands came in and started pawing your statue, wiping their filthy hands all over it. Then they picked it up and started tossing it around in the air, laughing. Imagine all that, and that pretty well sums up how I feel about these people daring to try to associate themselves with John and make money off his memory. It makes me want to vomit.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Posted by Mary at 11:06 AM | Permalink

The other week I was listening to "The Beatles A-Z," a program on XM Radio's 60's station. They have interview clips mixed in with all the other things they play. One of the clips was from a 1980 interview with John and I was stunned to hear it and realize that he was starting to lose his Liverpool accent by that time. He was no longer rolling his "r"s at all; he pronounced them like an American. Which makes sense, as he'd been living in the U.S. for, what, eight or nine years by then?

I had to think for a moment why I'd never noticed this before and then it struck me that it's because that was probably the first time I'd ever heard audio of John speaking following his house-husband period. Thinking it over, I'm pretty sure all the interview clips I've ever heard/seen before now have been circa 1974 or prior. It made me sad that there were all those years where he was saying things that no one will ever hear now. I know that's strange. Also it made me sad because that was it. How he sounded in that 1980 clip, that's how he'll sound forever. There's no way we'll ever know what his voice would have sounded like in 1990 or 2000 or 2005. I hate that that's where it ends. There should be more.

Posted by Mary at 02:35 PM | Permalink

This entry was written in 2004 and posted on my original blog at Diaryland. Those entries are still available to read but I wanted to put this one here, also.

I have been putting off writing a new entry for the past day and a half, hoping that the inspiration for something witty and amusing will strike me. (But, then, since it never has before I don't know why I persist in my naive optimism.) It's not happening, though. I have something on my mind that I really want to talk about and I cannot -- will not -- be able to write anything else until I get this out of my system. I'm funny that way. So I'm just going to bite the bullet and go for it. And no one will quite "get" it, and most will probably skim it, quickly click away, and think something along the lines of, "Hoo boy, what a nut." The phrase "get a life" may even come up. Whatever. I am what I am. So here goes.

This past Saturday, October 9th, would have been John Lennon's 64th birthday. I suppose it's because of that he has been on my mind moreso than usual. He is a part of our everyday lives, here, anyway. From the framed Beatles picture to the print of the "Imagine" mosaic from Strawberry Fields to the books lining my shelves to the Beatle movies that Madalyn asks to watch just about every day -- John is always here with us and not a day goes by where we don't think of him.

But for whatever reason, the past few days he hasn't just been a fleeting thought during the course of the day. He has been a constant presence in the house, permeating my thoughts while I'm awake and while I'm dreaming.

Now here is where I cue the, "My God, lady, get a hobby," attitudes. I will save everyone the trouble. Oh, it's so weird to have such an emotional attachment to a person you've never met. There must be something lacking in your life for you to fasten onto a famous person in such a way. If he were still alive he wouldn't know you from a hole in the ground. What kind of airy-fairy wannabe are you? I think that pretty much covers it.

In answer to all those things all I can say is I don't understand it, either. I don't know why I feel the way I do about the Beatles in general but John in particular. I don't know why I would never have named my son after a family member but did name him after someone I never met and never would have known in a million years. All I know is my emotional attachment goes beyond just, "Oh yeah, John was a great musician and performer." It is so much more profound than that.

John Lennon was a beautiful person, inside and out. And I love him for it. I love a person who I never met, who didn't know I existed, and who has been dead for nearly 24 years. I am not talking about a romantic crush, here. This is not an "if John were alive today I would marry him" kind of thing. I am speaking of loving someone as a person, because of who they are -- the way you would love a family member or a best friend. Wishing you could be around them and just talk to them. NOT placing them on a pedestal -- knowing that they are human and have foibles and hangups and maybe some not-so-nice traits, acknowledging that fact, and treasuring them for what's behind those imperfections.

I make no apologies for this. It's not something I go spreading about. It's not in my nature to share something so personal. I am actually red in the face right now at the thought of my mom or my husband reading this. As if there is something of which I should be ashamed! There isn't, and I know it, but sharing things this close to my heart is just not in my nature.

I am pretty good at not letting the reality of things sink in. Things hurt me so deeply that I keep them at arm's length and don't allow my mind to wrap fully around the concept. It saves me a lot of pain. So it's easy for me to go about my business, week after week, seeing John's image around the house and half-believing that he is out there somewhere, alive and well. But then, every so often, there's a moment where I'm caught off-guard and reality slams me into the ground. And that's when I truly grasp the fact that John is dead. He is not here, he will never be here again. All he wanted was peace and for everyone to love each other and an evil, evil man shot him down in the street like a dog. And my God, that is so f*cking unfair.

And then there's the other realization, the one that he didn't die instantly. I didn't know that at first. I used to think he was shot through the heart or something and was gone in an instant. But, no, he remained upright and conscious, for a little while. He staggered up to the guard shack and said, "I'm shot." And then my Johnny bled to death in the back of a police car. And I don't understand why. I don't understand how someone could do this to that beautiful man. I want to pound my fists into the face of the person that did it and scream, "How could you? Why did you take him away from us?"

When I walk down W. 72nd Street in New York City, and I pass the Dakota, I won't walk there. I won't stand on the sidewalk where this ugly, evil thing happened. Maybe it's superstitious but I always cross the street. I don't want to touch the place where this happened.

Then there's Strawberry Fields, which is where I'm invariably headed when I take that walk. John is there. His presence is palpable. And, oddly enough, it's not sad, even though it's within shouting distance from where he was shot. It's a quiet, peaceful place. Just like John would have wanted. Someday I want to go there on John's birthday and be a part of the gathering that always takes place on that day.

So why am I writing all of this? I really don't know. It has been in my brain and would not go away. If I am embarrassed to even think of my loved ones reading this, one can imagine how I would feel about actually saying any of this to them. Usually I am content to live with my thoughts but, for some reason, at this particular time, they had to come out. Who knows...maybe it was John, himself, encouraging me to write about it. If anyone knew about writing to express one's feelings, it was he. I'd like to think that, wherever he is, he keeps tabs on what's going on in the world.

Either way, I just want to tell him "thank you."

Posted by Mary at 12:03 AM | Permalink