John Winston Ono Lennon
9 October 1940–8 December 1980
(9 December in Europe)
John Winston Ono Lennon
9 October 1940–8 December 1980
(9 December in Europe)
In which I direct my readers to a departed talent
Gwendolyn Brooks, poet and relentless voice, left us twenty years ago today. For those unfamiliar with her name on sight, she was the mastermind behind the oft-misread “We Real Cool,”
She was also:
The first Black writer (of any discipline) to win a Pulitzer Prize
A poet whose publishing legacy began at age thirteen
An industry figure who promoted and patronized Black-owned presses and businesses—even leaving her big-name publisher for one in the 1970s
An inhabitant of both deeply personal and deeply political themes
A generous public-reading giver, translating her own words into eloquent speech
A writer very much concerned with colorism (within the broad spectrum of racism)
A literary celebrity of the ‘40s, ‘50s, and ‘60s—decades with pretty drastic differences if you ask me, or better yet anyone who was actually there
A master of the line break and of subtle, half-buried rhyme
A champion of the Illinois Poets Laureate Awards and Significant Illinois Poets Awards
Re: the above, basically synonymous with the city of Chicago
Readings I recommend:
The “Anniad” (and all of Annie Allen)
“Cynthia in the Snow”
“Gay Chaps at the Bar” and “Still Do I Keep My Look, My Identity…”
“Strong Men, Riding Horses”
“To Those of My Sisters Who Kept Their Naturals”
Remember her today. Read her starting today. I promise, once you’ve started you’ll find it hard to stop.
Dedicated to Susan Gilmore, through whose eyes I first appreciated Brooks.
Image: from the National Endowment for the Humanities
In which I review a groundbreaking play
So goes the title of this slice of mid-aughts theatrical life—written by Sam Puckett, performed to intriguing effect by the playwright and her co-star Carly Shay on an episode of their equally iconic web series “iCarly.” The production is short and sweet, as was the playwright’s probable intention, consisting of one thrice-repeated exchange:
“Just gimme some soup!”
“I ain’t gonna give you no soup!”
Each repetition is so nuanced and subtle that the whole requires multiple observations to appreciate to its fullest extent. Puckett’s star turn as the wayward soup seeker is gritty, grating, and single-minded, while Shay’s mannerisms as the individual vested with the power to grant soup (for whatever reason) suggest that the very idea of a prisoner requesting soup is worthy of mockery. That both these roles are male in nature but originated by women upends any traditional notions of gender, representing—dare we say it—the forward-thinking ideals of the young generation. As for the premise, we the audience are left to puzzle over the missing pieces. What has the prisoner done to deserve his sentence? Just who is this ‘man’? Are we to presume that he would have been called a guard if he were such? And yet, if he exists unattached to the prison industrial complex, how would the prisoner have come across him? Perhaps we catch a glimpse of the pair in medias res, with some elaborate escape scheme underway at whose details we can only guess. Indeed, the beauty of this piece lies in its minimalism, leaving us with as many questions as answers.
Puckett remarked on air that the teacher who had assigned the work awarded it a D+. Grades, however, have proven wanting as arbiters of true influence. Even head tech Freddie Benson, known to share an antagonistic relationship with Puckett, was seen to be enjoying himself and the players during filming. No doubt there is a creative force here to be reckoned with, or at least to keep an eye on.
Image: Puckett (left, as portrayed by Jennette McCurdy) and Shay (Miranda Cosgrove), from Common Sense Media
In which I pose a rhetorical question
Today is the feast of St. Cecilia, patron of musicians (also poets, less relevant to the forthcoming discussion). On an unrelated-yet-related note, I listen to a podcast called Punch Up the Jam wherein the hosts and guests end each episode by offering an “unpunchable jam”—a song they feel is so good that it leaves little to no room for improvement. In comparing songs I might bring to the table were I to someday be a guest, I regularly return to the Monkees’ 1966 hit “I’m a Believer.” I bet it reminded the aforementioned saint why she got into the business in the first place.
Disclaimer 1: the Monkees actually have several potentially “unpunchable” songs, owing in my opinion to the confluence of organic and inorganic factors which went into the group. Disclaimer 2: you will not be able to accuse me of allowing my crush on Mike Nesmith to cloud my judgment, as he neither wrote nor produced nor sang lead on this track. So there.
No, the songwriter’s laurels go to Neil Diamond, as probably the jewel in the crown of his Brill Building days. Here’s the thing: I’m no great fan of Neil Diamond—“Sweet Caroline” and all that has never been my cup of tea—but his songwriting-factory output places him second only to the Goffin-King machine as far as I’m concerned. To contrast their contributions to the Monkees’ catalogue, put Neil’s “A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You” up against Carole’s “Pleasant Valley Sunday.” Not too shabby.
Anyway, old Neil hit the jackpot with this song. It‘s gotten so much cultural saturation by now that it would be almost beside the point to parse out its every component. A while back I wrote about what makes an ideal chorus, and this chorus crossed my mind for obvious reasons: major chords, sunny triads, starting and stopping, the melody rising away from the verse and then falling to get us in place for the next verse. All ingredients in a recipe for success.
Except that the chorus can’t exactly be the highlight when the whole is so strong. The verse melody is heavy on the tonic—G, because we‘re in G major—and strikes that balance of being simple enough to easily get the hang of and interesting enough to have fun singing along to. You’ve got the combination of straight and bluesy chords; you’ve got the flattened F, which then turns into F#, the leading tone to bring us back to G. For me, the call-and-response bits (the “doo-doo-doo, doo-doo’s”) seal the deal. When you’re singing along, there’s a part for everyone. You feel included; you feel you belong to something bigger than yourself. And it clocks in at just under three minutes. That’s good pop sensibility.
You could also take more than enough enjoyment from just listening to Micky Dolenz. Because he’s enjoying it a whole lot.
After all, it’s largely thanks to the Monkees for being excellent interpreters of the song, as they were of pretty much every song they recorded. In fact, it was released in late 1966 and then stayed Billboard’s number-one single for all of 1967 (and that was kind of a big year for music). Even so, it’s a sturdy composition in its own right. A well-built ship. Which explains why probably the first time I heard it was at the end of Shrek, as covered by Smash Mouth.
But you didn‘t really need me to explain any of this. You’re singing it right now, aren’t you?
Image: look at them pondering my question
In which I spotlight an entertainer who made (largely untold) history
My preexisting plan for this week’s post is serendipitously harmonious given the impending arrival of a Black woman in the White House. Because on this date in 1878, the White House welcomed its first Black musical performer, Marie Selika Williams.
Williams, née Smith, was a coloratura soprano who had been born in Natchez, Mississippi circa 1849 and traveled around mostly the western United States studying voice with the funding of some wealthy patrons. The idea of a Black artist having the support system to do this at the time is remarkable in and of itself. Especially having come out of the antebellum South. Even so, she underwent her training in “newer” areas of the country like San Francisco and Chicago and was not really received on the East Coast until after she had established herself thoroughly (and as one-half of a couple with operatic baritone Sampson Williams).
And what more thorough establishment than when she was invited to the White House to sing for President Rutherford B. Hayes and First Lady Lucy Webb Hayes. I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know much about the naming of rooms in the White House, but she performed in the Green Room, which I think nicely foreshadows the now-common term for preparatory spaces in theatres and venues. Anyway, the gig apparently went pretty well: she went on to perform up and down the East Coast, playing Philadelphia’s Academy of Music later that year and New York’s Steinway Hall the next year. She and Sampson toured Europe and the United States extensively over the following decade, even giving a concert for Queen Victoria in 1883. Personally would’ve loved to hear their rendition of “I Got You Babe.”
In all seriousness, she did end up with a signature song, E. W. Mulder’s “Polka Staccato,” which earned her the nickname “Queen of Staccato.” As any singer knows, staccato singing—particularly solo—takes exceptional strength and precision. She was obviously a distinguished talent in her day.
Which is funny, because I hadn’t heard of her until recently, say within the last few months. You’d think, in some vein of my interdisciplinary studies, that I would have come across a byte of information about an African-American woman making inroads in the fine arts, settling in a notorious social battleground like Ohio, sharing a bill with two other Black women singers at Carnegie Hall, and going into business for herself teaching private lessons in New York City in her widowhood. But no.
The one I did hear about—thanks to my family, not my formal education—was her successor Marian Anderson, who is often remembered for surmounting significant resistance and pushback to perform in certain spaces and claim legitimacy as an artist. To be fair, there is a more comprehensive body of work concerning her because of her era. I love Anderson and don’t think we even study her as much as we could. All the more true of Williams. If you also had never heard of her, here is your byte of information for the day, and your reminder that before there was Marian there was Marie.
Pass it on.
Image: photograph by African-American pianist and activist Maud Cuney-Hare
In which I take a leaf from a fictional Cece’s book and try being a little spontaneous
So in between, you know, momentous global events of late, I am in fact catching the odd episode of a show or two. Having recently finished New Girl (again), I just had to expound on what makes it a sitcom all its successors should strive to emulate and the criminally underrated classic it is.
To enumerate but a few:
1. A nuanced, sensitive, evolved depiction of male friendship that is also hilarious
2. The increased visibility of characters named Cecilia—okay, or Cecelia
3. Speaking of, Cece’s career arc from model to modeling agent
4. The principal characters’ substantial romances with people you know they aren’t going to end up with…and root for anyway
5. Schmidt efficiently (some might say ruthlessly) coaching Jess in the science of online dating
6. “I’ve never been an inspiration before. I don’t like it, it’s too much responsibility.” : Nick
7. Jamie Lee Curtis being Jess’s mom
8. Winston and the rest of Schmidt’s bachelor party singing “Alison” in a parking lot
9. The subsequent resurfacing of the song in multiple contexts
10. The Jar
11. A range of ethnicities being portrayed as attractive and desirable (but not fetishized)
12. A pair of unlikely mutuals blossoming into the Classic Winston-and-Cece Mess-Around
13. The reveal of Schmidt’s first name—a flawless moment in TV history
14. Jess getting excited about jury duty, because of course she would
15. The sponge pitch
16. The frankly very Lennon-McCartney vibe between Nick and Schmidt—Nick is lazy until finding his passion, writes a lot, and uses humor as a defense mechanism; Schmidt is ambitious, persnickety, and dramatic, and needs more hugs than Nick is comfortable giving; and they bond over having come from chaotic families
17. True American, where the rules always have a twist and no one ever truly wins
18. Coach’s absurd yet endearing self-confidence
19. The large-looming Julius Pepperwood
20. Jess’s baffled one-night stand describing Schmidt as “a stereotypical gay”
21. Various characters choosing, and feeling empowered, to leave toxic workplaces
22. Also the array of types of workplaces portrayed
23. Nick’s…admiration for Russell
24. Schmidt performing a traditional Indian dance in a spirited bid to impress Cece’s mom
25. Winston’s deep emotional connection with Furguson the cat
26. The Jewish heritage which Winston confers on Furguson, and Schmidt’s uncharacteristic willingness to go along with it
27. Multitalented enigma Robby McFerrin (yes, that’s his name)
28. Elaine reuniting with her soulmate
29. Jess and Cece’s well-intentioned but ultimately disastrous traipse across the college campuses of L.A. in an attempt to get the vote out for Hillary Clinton (whom Schmidt, a conservative who hates everyone on the ballot, refers to as “Hubbardy Bubby”)
30. The representation of local politics
31. Two women over fifty finding love
32. The episode where the whole gang catch a cold—and predict the Quarantine Age by cordoning off a “sick room” with plastic wrap
33. Winston’s impressively inept alter ego, Prank Sinatra
34. Jess hurting her eye and wearing an eyepatch to her wedding
35. Schmidt’s insistence on separating the Tahitian vanilla from the non-Tahitian
36. The fact that Jess is introduced as the quirky one, but her three roommates are proven the bona-fide weirdos by show’s end
37. “I can get a tetanus shot, but I can’t cure damaged suede.” : Schmidt
38. Gave me cookie, got you cookie
All relayed, need I add, by a stellar cast. Each of them embodies their role so perfectly—the removal of anyone would (and, occasionally, does) disrupt the balance. It’s a show where you are too focused on the things that make you laugh out loud to realize your cold heart is being steadily thawed out, your faith in humanity restored. Watching a group of such different people learn and express and accept one another’s ways of caring…if that isn’t just what the COVID-preoccupied doctor ordered.
Oh, and say what you will about Zooey Deschanel—people tend to let their preconceived notions invade everything she does—but she creates in Jessica Day, slight cutesy-ness notwithstanding, a real empathetic character with problems and needs. I like her in and out of character. And not only because I wear glasses and am a brunette with bangs and play the ukulele. Some of those are coincidences.
Image: from the finale
In which I say vote, yes
For all my talk of immigration and expatriation, I couldn’t have a more opportune moment to speak to an urgent matter in my home country:
Please, please, please, please, vote.
Tens of millions of Americans have already cast their ballots by mail, at a dropbox, or in person. At this point it is too late to vote by mail—and, as 2020’s latest red flag, false dropboxes have cropped up across the country. So the most reliable recourse left is to show up to a polling station in person between now and Tuesday evening. Neighborhood groups are mobilizing to help get bodies to the polls: do a little research to find out if you can make use of (or help out with) any such services in your area.
Once you’re there, vote down the ballot! This election is crucial for a number of reasons. It behooves us to remember that the most keenly felt policy decisions often occur at the local and even state level. Do your due diligence on those candidates. Read up on their causes, find out who aligns with what you want, and do your part to make your voice count in their favor.
After you’ve voted, try to enable someone else to cast their vote. Communities of color especially have always had limited access to voter resources and been victims of voter suppression in all its insidious forms. On top of the usual systemic issues, there has been inflammatory and foreboding talk from people currently in power, and I’m not sure to what extent outright voter intimidation will factor in. Heck, I’ll be thousands of miles away. But if you see someone struggling, reach out. That’s what makes a democracy.
There are plenty of ways “we the people” have a diminished say, or have never had a say at all, in American happenings. Voting alone is not enough. It is a necessary start. Get out and do it, however you can. Get that sticker.
In which I redouble my vain effort to mark time with a chemical interlude
“Chemical interlude” sounds like I mean drugs. LOL.
Anyway, a happy Mole Day (scientific abbreviation: mol) to all! If you thought you’d never find something non-arts/humanities-based on this blog…well, I’m a multifaceted gal, and this is a legitimate holiday.
My observation of it dates back to my wonderful high-school chemistry class. As deranged as that sentence might sound, I not only learned from it but relished it—it clearly topped my parents’ experience by a long shot. (Maybe something to do with the United States almost switching to metric in the ‘70s—the whole will-they-won’t-they must have put them off.) I first learned of the scientific community’s establishment of Mole Day from my chemistry teacher, who was cool, so I decided to get in on the fun.
Thus, here I am, celebrating the mole. But what even is it? Glad you asked. A mole is a unit of measurement approximating 6.022×10 to the 23rd power—hence day 23 of month 10, between 6:02am and 6:02pm if you want to be a stickler. Also known as the Avogadro number, or constant, named for early-nineteenth-century Italian chemist Amedeo Avogadro (#scienza!!!). The thing being measured is typically particles of a chemical compound, though you can technically have a mole of anything. One mole of bananas is probably more bananas than the world can hold at once.
What I like about Mole Day is that you don’t have to do anything for it. Just remembering that it’s there is enough. You will likely never have a mole of anything, not even seconds, so simply envisioning that amount of something may lend you some comfortingly broad perspective on the smallness of individual life.
I won’t dwell on it at length; after all, I haven’t got a mole of time. But as you go about your 23 October, remember the mole. And be sure to shout out the women you know in STEM fields. My chemistry teacher came to see me and my friends in the school musical, and my physics teacher had a Let It Be-era Beatles poster in her classroom. There’s hope for public education yet.
P.S. I would like to formally acknowledge the first anniversary of Così faccio io as of this past week. Thank you all for joining me on this journey. I hope you’ve taken as much joy, comfort, and satisfaction in it as I have—though I doubt anyone has as much as I have. *wink* Here’s to a year of further growth. Dare I say…a mole of growth… (JK that would be terrifying)
In which I, well, never mind
This week we arrive at something that has been on my mind all year: the half-century of the release of one of the most special songs in popular music. I’ll execute a smooth transition out of last week by introducing it as the song that prompted Lennon to say, “Great, that’s the first new thing that’s happened since we happened.”
I say ‘special’ because it is genuinely unlike any other very famous song I can think of. It came into the world as a B-side; it contains almost no complete sentences; it made a career—two, really. And it delights me while simultaneously irritating the hell out of me.
I grew up listening to Elton John, but not to “Your Song.” From the outset I recognized Bernie Taupin’s presence and function, though I knew nothing about him personally. The albums I heard most often were Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy and Goodbye Yellow Brick Road: the latter was so familiar that I didn’t understand people who connected “Candle in the Wind” to Princess Diana, because I wasn’t aware there was a second version. I just went around secretly baffled as to how they could mix up Princess Di and Marilyn Monroe.
Besides, my favorite track was the one about the grey seal, an early cut of which coincidentally features on the same album as “Your Song.” But that album was anathema to me. In middle school I got into Honky Château via my dad—the highlight being “I Think I’m Going to Kill Myself,” which I used in a class project on Romeo and Juliet and which remains one of my all-time favorites. (Wasn’t I the chipper twelve-year-old.) Also in middle school came my first conscious exposure to “Your Song” amidst our choir’s vast and varied repertoire.
My first unconscious exposure must have been Ewan McGregor and that opera singer guy wailing it out on the soundtrack of Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge. It was great in a stressful way. (I would react similarly to the film itself several years later.)
Back to choir. Keeping it real: I have a lot of anxious memories surrounding middle-school choir. To this day, hearing any of the songs we sang could be a trigger. It took me years to feel normal about “Walking in Memphis,” and I’m still working on this one—don’t even ask about “Wonderful Christmastime.”
Anyway, the first verse was split into a duet between me and another girl. I didn’t know if she was a newcomer to the song too, but I detected unknown variables galore. How was I supposed to interpret this first line? “It’s a little bit funny” how? Should I look at her when she sang the next line, or when we joined in unison starting at “I don’t have much money,” or ever? And the harmony on the last line was a little low for me—could I try it up the octave? Performing was, after all, my one chance to be cool. But would my choir teacher hate me for experimenting, or was he already disappointed with the lack of resonance on those low notes? I knew he counted on my vocal versatility. He seemed so chill about most things, so okay with life, which intimidated me. I wanted to impress him so bad. The situation was fraught.
All that worrying made for a solid distraction from the words being sung. So it didn’t hit me until long down the line what a scattered text it is. There are interruptions and corrections and self-putdowns, somewhat softened by an enchanting melody and a tasteful string arrangement (in E-flat major, for God’s sake—this score does not fool around). The recording sounds as if the composer-singer might even be reading the lyric cold, the way he sort of chuckles to himself at points. Like oh, typical Bernie. Or he could simply be stepping into character as an exceedingly self-conscious narrator, apparently not a far cry from his true personality. Who’s to say?
The lyrical oddities stay veiled at first, behind fairly straightforward sentiments about being unsettled by one’s own emotions and wanting to make a home with a loved one. But things start to go off the rails immediately thereafter.
If I was a sculptor—but then again, no—
Or a man who makes potions in a traveling show
I know it’s not much, but it’s the best I can do
What? What’s the best you can do? List other potential professions? Or does it refer to songwriting? Perhaps the next line—My gift is my song, and this one’s for you—is meant to be the conclusion of the thought. Even so, if he’s portraying songwriting as a humble and non-lucrative occupation, you’d think he would contrast it with some, well, lucrative occupations. A troubadour stands out more against a doctor or a lawyer than against a sculptor or a circus medicine man.
(See what I did there? Snuck in the site of Elton John’s first big-time show? It was a highlight of Rocketman. Moving on.)
Then we have the first chorus, ushering in some more substantial issues.
And you can tell everybody this is your song
It may be quite simple, but now that it’s done
Whoa, whoa, whoa, what do you mean, ‘done’? This all hardly constitutes a start! I guess it’s nice that you’ve given me a song, but in fact I can’t tell anyone about it—they’ll say, “Oh, how sweet of him to dedicate a song to you, what is it about?” and I’ll be all, “I don’t really know, honestly, listen for yourself.” And they’ll listen, and what are the odds that they’ll be able to glean an overarching message from what’s here?
Astoundingly, the Moulin Rouge rendition manages to skip the entire first verse. Which, as we’ve established, says exactly nothing. To omit it, then, leaves us with…less than nothing? How does this work? What can such a song do?
But okay, Lyricist Taupin, you get the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you actually wrote the chorus last and meant us to ascribe retroactive significance to ‘now that it’s done.’ This ‘I hope you don’t mind’ bit is the first unimpeachable section yet: you’ve written a good couplet, and your composer-singer has set it superbly.
In any event, you’re obviously about to go on; far be it from me to obstruct your way. Second verse should provide a fuller picture, right?
I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss
Well, a few of the verses, well, they’ve got me quite cross
‘A few’ seems generous, considering your output thus far, but I’ll shut up. I do commend your use of the rather uncommon ‘moss.’ Next, a nice meditation on the sun—that’s an old pop standby for a reason.
So excuse me forgetting, but these things I do—
You see I’ve forgotten if they’re green or they’re blue
Anyway, the thing is, what I really mean:
Yours are the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen
Hold it. Pardon me while I tear off my headphones and throw my phone across the room. We get three fragmented attempts to formulate this thought, only to learn that our fumbling narrator has forgotten the eye color of his addressee? This supposed beloved, for whom he would bother to craft a song? Which, with its textual meandering, is shaping up to be a non-song? That’s the last verse! There isn’t even a bridge! We have to take ‘done’ literally now!!
Think about if someone presumably close to you tried to compliment your eyes without remembering the color, and then was like, “but we’d totally live together if I could afford it!” You’d reconsider your relationship to that person. You’d think, maybe we don’t know each other as well as I thought.
And now a reprise of “I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words…” I mean, barely.
Last but not at all least, I’m befuddled by this: did Bernie write the lyric with the intention that it was for Elton? Because when Elton then sings it, it sounds like he is singing for Bernie. Was Bernie directing a song toward himself all along? Or is it addressing some unspecified other? The fundamental nature of the narrative, the truth we’re meant to take from the title, is in question.
WHOSE SONG?? WHOSE IS IT???
Part of me wonders how these lyrical shortcomings slipped by so many studio people—and then I hear that intro, which might ultimately excuse the offenses of the ensuing content. Efficiently atmospheric, winning us over then and there. A pretty extraordinary four measures. (In the same vein is the intro to Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time,” except that the rest of the song doesn’t need excusing; structural quirks aside, it has a conceit and full sentences! wow!)
I’m not asking Bernie to be Bob Dylan (in fact I would discourage anyone from trying). I don’t mean that only sophisticated texts merit success. Hell, the band America wrote a hit using two chords and lines such as “there were plants and birds and rocks and things,” and they didn’t even name the horse. But this, while not much to go on, is still more than what Bernie gave Elton and us. I wonder if he meant it to stumble as it does, or if it just turned out that way. I wonder how long he spent on it; it’s urban legend by now that Elton spent about fifteen minutes on the tune. What a testament to the strength of that tune that “Your Song” has achieved such distinction with so little to its lyric.
Come to think of it, it was originally the B-side to “Take Me to the Pilot,” another song that succeeds possibly in spite of a strange lyric. No doubt we could fill hours and volumes parsing apart Bernie’s wordsmithing motivations.
I suppose what we have here is a classic case of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. There’s something to it that makes me feel—has made me feel, ever since that neurotic twelve-year-old took it on—like all will be well in the end. Plenty of people over the past fifty years have felt that way. Maybe…you guys, maybe it’s become our song.
I’ll see myself out.
*deep breath* …how wonderful life is… *Ewan McGregor yell* while YOU’RE IN THE WOOOOOOOOOOOOOORLD
Dedicated to Haley, one of the best parts of that middle-school choir, for being a longtime friend and teaching me to chill the hell out.
Image: the captain and the kid, from Esquire
In which I renew my vows
I fell in love with John Lennon a few months after turning thirteen. This might not sound like much to people who grew up in an era when everyone and their cat classified themselves by their favorite Beatle, a question that echoes through subsequent generations. But it was pivotal in my life (literally). Despite never having been in love, I knew it when I saw it.
It grew out of a birthday present to my dad: he had requested the new 40th-anniversary edition of the White Album. I wound up listening to it as often as he did, if not more so. It piqued my interest in this quartet of clearly-defined individuals who were nevertheless attuned to one another, intent on high-caliber collaboration. Right away I wanted in. There’s a reason “Back in the USSR,” track 1 side 1 disc 1, ranks among my top five Beatles songs.
My research into their oeuvre and their lives and their essence initiated a sacred tradition, a voyage across the sea of art and artists that capture my attention, many of whom did so by being adjacent to The Beatles. This practice has sustained me ever since. It’s thanks to these men that I do the analysis and appreciation for which I am (with any luck) notorious. They were my gateway to the unknown. Somewhere in the course of that research I gravitated toward John specifically; I can’t pinpoint the precise moment, but then it was all over for me. I read about teenage concertgoers in the throes of “Lennon-induced ecstasy,” a term I hereby co-opt to describe my emotional state amid the heady rush of discovery. Gone were the days of feigning interest in the contemporary pop stars of my friends’ fantasies—I had somebody now, somebody to introduce me to that part of myself.
I, like Joan Didion, do not use “love” in a colloquial sense. Not with John. It has been a deep and consuming involvement which set me on a road that I am traveling to this day. He was the alpha; he will be the omega—not to, uh, compare him to somebody else…
As I cannot trust myself to do him justice without running the risk of rambling like a fool (on the hill), allow me to simply list a few of the traits I admire in him. One for each of his years on earth.
To think we have reached the end of an equal period of time without him…or that we will have, two months from now…that isn’t a feeling I can put into words.
He was broken, he was damaged, he often made life difficult for the people he cared about. I doubt he was ever truly happy. And yet. He is proof that, as another titanic artist said, nice is different than good.
Meanwhile, here I sit, at a loss as to how to write anything about someone who means everything. What this all amounts to is an elaborately imagined love affair that is still a constant, a comfort, a real thing. The real thing. Even if, in fact, nothing is real, of which I find new evidence daily. And he represents more besides, a larger force. To throw my lot in with him is to throw my lot in with music itself, which I’ve done without a second thought.
I’m not saying I could never love another man. I’m saying I will never love another man quite as I have loved this man. I’ve spent nearly half my life now loving him, and I would be a fraction of what I am if not for him.
Happy 80th birthday, John. It’s always you.
Image: one among my many favorite snapshots of him, 1964