The Rolling Stone Interview: John Lennon: Rolling Stone

The Rolling Stone Interview: John Lennon

JONATHAN COTT

Posted Nov 23, 1968 2:26 PM

The interview took place at John Lennon's and Yoko Ono's temporary basement
flat

in London — a flat where Jimi Hendrix, Ringo Star, and William Burroughs,
among

others, have stayed. But the flat seemed as much John's and Yoko's as the
Indian

incense which took over the living room. The walls were covered with photos of

John, of Yoko, a giant Sgt. Pepper ensign, Richard Chamberlain's poster collage

of news clippings of the Stones bust, the Time magazine cover of the Beatles.

We arrived at five on the afternoon of September 17, said hello to Robert

Fraser, who arranged the interview, to John and Yoko, sitting together, looking

"tres bien ensemble." We sat down around a simple wooden table, covered
with
magazines, newspapers, sketch paper, boxes, drawings, a beaded necklace
shaped

in the form of a pentangle.

John said he had to be at a recording session in a half hour, so we talked for a

while about John's show at the Fraser gallery. John wrote some reminders to

himself in the wonderfully intense and absorbed way that a kid has painting the

sun for the first time. As a philosopher once remarked: "Were art to redeem
man,

it could do so only by saving him from the seriousness of life and restoring him

to an unexpected boyishness."

When we arrived the next afternoon, Sept. 18, John was walking around the
room,

humming what sounded like "Hold Me Tight" — just singing the song to the air.

Old '50's forty-fives were scattered about the floor, and John played Rosie and

the Originals' version of "Give Me Love." We talked about the lyrics of Gene

Vincent's "Woman Love." In spite of having slept only two hours, John asked us

to sit down on the floor and begin the interview.

Any suspicions that John would be ornery, mean, cruel, or brutish — feelings

attributed to him and imagined by press reports and various paranoic

personalities — never arose even for the purpose of being pressed down. As
John

said simply about the interview: "There's nothing more fun than talking about

your own songs and your own records. I mean you can't help it; it's your bit,

really. We talk about them together. Remember that."

It's impossible to recapture in print John's inflections and pronunciations of

words like "ahppens," for example. Wish you had been there.

— Jonathan Cott
(c) 1968 Rolling Stone Magazine

I've listed a group of songs that I associate with you, in terms of what you are

or what you were, songs that struck me as embodying you a little bit: "You've

Got to Hide Your Love Away," "Strawberry Fields," "It's Only Love," "She Said

She Said," "Lucy in the Sky," "I'm Only Sleeping," "Run for Your Life," "I am

the Walrus," "All You Need Is Love," "Rain," "Girl."

Ah, yeh! I agree with some of them, you see. Things like "Hide Your Love
Away,"

right, I'd just discovered Dylan really. "It's Only Love" — I was always ashamed

of that 'cause of the abominable lyrics you know — they're probably all right.

George just came and talked about it last night. He said, remember we always

used to cringe when the guitar bit came on, when we did that blamm blam

blam-blam-blam, we liked it but there was something wrong.

And "She Said She Said" — yeh, I dug that cause I was going through a bad
time

writing then and so I couldn't hear it, but then I heard it and so I dug it.

"Lucy in the Sky," all right. "Sleeping," it's like that. "Run for Your Life" I

always hated, you know. "Walrus," yeah, "Girl," yeah, "All You Need Is Love" —

hah, you know that's sort of natural.

The ones that really meant something to me — look, I don't know about "Hide
Your

Love Away," that's so long ago — probably "Strawberry Fields," "She Said,"

"Walrus," "Rain," "Girl," there are just one or two others, "Day Tripper,"
"Paperback Writer," even. "Ticket to Ride" was one more, I remember that. It
was

a definite sort of change..."Norwegian Wood" — that was the sitar bit.

Definitely, I consider them moods or moments.

I feel you in these songs more than in a song like "Michelle," for example.

Yeh, right, they're me touch. Well the thing is, I don't know how they'd work

out if I recorded them with other people, it would be entirely different. But

it's my music with my band when it's me singing it, and it's Paul's music with

his band. Sometimes it's halvey-halvey you know. When we write them
together,

they're together. But I'm not proud of all of my songs. "Walrus," "Strawberry

Fields," you know — I'll sort of stick my name on them, the others are a bit...I

think they're more powerful.

I heard that "Strawberry Fields" was written when you were sitting on a beach

alone.

Yeh, in Spain, filming How I Won the War. I was going through a big scene
about

song writing again you know — I seem to go through it now and then, and it
took

me a long time to write it. See, I was writing all bits and bits. I wanted the

lyrics to be like conversation. It didn't work, that one verse was sort of

ludicrous really, I just wanted it to be like [John sing-talks] "we're talking

and I just happen to be singing" — like that. And it was very quiet. But it was

written in this big Spanish house, part of it, and then finished on the beach.

It was really romantic — singing it too — I don't know who was there.

Don't you find something special about the song?

Oh yes, definitely yes. It was a big scene, like I'd say "Ticket to Ride" was a
big scene, "Rain" was, not so much, but because of the backwards, you know.
That

was the time I discovered backwards accidentally.

It was the first time I discovered it. On the end of "Rain" you hear me singing

it backwards. We'd done the main thing at EMI and the habit was then to take
the

songs home and see what you thought a little extra gimmick or what the guitar

piece would be.

So I got home about five in the morning, stoned out of me head, I staggered up

to me tape recorder and I put it on, but it came out backwards, and I was in a

trance in the earphones, what is it — what is it? It's too much, you know, and I

really wanted the whole song backwards almost, and that was it. So we tagged
it

on the end. I just happened to have the tape the wrong way round, it just came

out backwards, it just blew me mind. The voice sounds like old Indian.

There have been a lot of philosophical analyses written about your songs,

"Strawberry Fields" in particular...

Well, they can take them apart. They can take anything apart. I mean I hit it on

all levels, you know. We write lyrics, and I write lyrics that you don't realize

what they mean till after. Especially some of the better songs or some of the

more flowing ones, like "Walrus." The whole first verse was written without any

knowledge. And "Tomorrow Never Knows" — I didn't know what I was saying,
and you

just find out later, that's why these people are good on them. I know that when

there are some lyrics I dig I know that somewhere people will be looking at

them, and with the rest of the songs it doesn't matter cause they work on all

levels. Anything. I don't mind what they do. And I dig the people that notice
that I have a sort of strange rhythm scene, because I've never been able to
keep

rhythm on the stage. I always used to get lost. It's me double off-beats.

In "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," what about an image like "newspaper
taxis"?

That was a Paul line, I think. In a lot of them you'll get so far. You've

lumbered yourself with a set of images and it's an effort to keep it up.

Pop analysts are often trying to read something into songs that isn't there.

It is there. It's like abstract art really. It's just the same really. It's just

that when you have to think about it to write it, it just means that you labored

at it. But when you just say it, man, you know you're saying it, it's a

continuous flow. The same as when you're recording or just playing, you come
out

of a thing and you know "I've been there" and it was nothing, it was just pure,

and that's what we're looking for all the time, really.

What is Strawberry Fields?

It's a name, it's a nice name. When I was writing "In My Life" — I was trying

"Penny Lane" at that time — we were trying to write about Liverpool, and I just

listed all the nice sounding names just arbitrarily. Strawberry Fields was a

place near us that happened to be a Salvation Army home. But Strawberry

Fields —

I mean I have visions of Strawberry Fields. And there was Penny Lane, the Cast

Iron Shore which I've just got in some song now, and they were just good
names,

just groovy names. Just good sounding. Because Strawberry Fields is anywhere
you

want to go. Actually I've just written a song which goes "I told you about

Strawberry Fields/And you heard about the Walrus and me/Told you about the
Fool
on the Hill...," it's amazing.

How much do you think the songs go towards building up a myth of a state of

mind?

I don't know. I mean we got a bit pretentious. Like everybody we had our phase

and now it's a little change over to trying to be more natural, less "newspaper

taxis," say. I mean we're just changing. I don't know what we're doing at all, I

just write them. Really, I just like rock and roll. I mean these [pointing to a

pile of '50's records] are the records I dug then, I dig them now and I'm still

trying to reproduce "Some Other Guy" sometimes or "Be-Bop-A-Lula," whatever

it

is, it's the same bit for me, it's really just the sound.

What's the flip side of "Angel Baby" called — the song you played before we

started the interview?

"Give Me Love" by Rosie and the Originals. An amazing record. It's one of the

greatest strange records, it's all just out of beat and everybody misses it —

they knocked off the B side in ten minutes. I talk Yoko's leg off telling her

this is it, this is what it's all about. There's just one line in this Miracles'

record — "I've Been Good to You" — where it goes "You got me Cry-y-y-yeying"
—

no breath, a beautiful little piece, I always love to hear it. I think he's

[Smokey Robinson] got the most perfect voice, you know, I just think the
group's

got into such a samey groove that it spoils it really.

In "Penny Lane," you have the lines: "A pretty nurse is selling poppies from a

tray/And though she thinks she's in a play/She is anyway." Aside from the little
kid's quality of these lines, isn't this what you've been saying recently?

Paul had the main bit of that, but I remember working on those lines. It's

always been a bit of "She's in a play, she is anyway heh heh" because you're

saying that again and again, it's a game, man, it's a game, but because you
mean

it, it's all right, it's ok. There's all that in it. To us it's just Penny Lane

cause we lived there.

The Beatles seem to be one of the only groups who ever made a distinction

between friends and lovers. For instance, there's the "baby" who can drive your

car. But when it comes to "We Can Work it Out," you talk about "my friend." In

most other groups' songs, calling someone "baby" is a bit demeaning

compared to

your distinction.

Yeh, I don't know why. It's Paul's bit that — "Buy you a diamond ring, my

friend" — it's an alternative to baby. You can take it logically the way you

took it. See, I don't know really. Yours is as true a way of looking at it as

any other way. In "Baby, Your'e a Rich Man" the point was, stop moaning,
you're

a rich man and we're all rich men, heh heh, baby!

It's a bit of a mocking song, then?

Well they all get like that a bit, cause there is all that in it, that's the

point. As we write them or as we sing them that happens you know. And in

different takes just the inclination of your voice will change the meaning of

the lyrics, and that's why it's after we've done them that we really see what

they are. By that time the weight's on it.

I once heard a twelve year old girl singing along with "All You Need Is Love,"

and she substituted the word "hate" for "love" as she sang.

Could be right, you know. Well, it's like the old Peter Sellers gag — "If only I
had the Latin" — meaning, if I had the breaks, you know, all you need is love. I

just meant it, I felt it, that's what you needed. Of course when I'm down it

doesn't work at all, but I believe it in the songs. That's the thing about

writing the songs — you say, well, all you need is love, there you go, and it's

a bit of a statement, but you've got to do it. You can't live up to it, that's

the thing.

I've felt your other mood recently: "Here I stand head in hand" in "Hide Your

Love Away" and "When I was a boy, everything was right" in "She Said She
said."

Yeh, right. That was pure. That was what I meant alright. You see when I wrote

that I had the "She said she said," but it was just meaning nothing, it was just

vaguely to do with someone that had said something like he knew what it was
like

to be dead and then it was just a sound. And then I wanted a middle-eight. The

beginning had been around for days and days and so I wrote the first thing that

came into my head and it was "When I was a boy," in a different beat, but it
was

real because it just happened.

It's funny, because while we're recording we're all aware and listening to our

old records and we say, we'll do one like "The Word" — make it like that — it

never does turn out like that, but we're always comparing and talking about
the

old albums — just checking up, what is it? like swatting up for the exam — just

listening to everything.

Yet people think that you're trying to get away from the old records.

But I'd like to make a record like "Some Other Guy." I haven't done one that

satisfies me as much as that satisfied me. Or "Be-Bop-A-Lula" or "Heartbreak

Hotel" or "Good Golly, Miss Molly" or "Whole Lot of Shakin." I'm not being
modest. I mean we're still trying it. We sit there in the studio and we say, how

did it go, how did it go? come on, let's do that. Like what Fats Domino has done

with "Lady Madonna" — "See how they ruhhnnn."

Are there any other versions of your songs you like?

Well, Ray Charles' version of "Yesterday" — that's beautiful. And "Eleanor

Rigby" is a groove. I just dig the strings on that. Like Thirties strings. Jose

Feliciano does great things to "Help" and "Day Tripper."

"Got to Get You Into My Life" — sure, we were doing our Tamla Motown bit. You

see we're influenced by whatever's going. Even if we're not influenced, we're

all going that way at a certain time. If we played a Stones record now — and a

Beatles record — and we've been way apart — you'd find a lot of similarities.

We're all heavy. Just heavy. How did we ever do anything light? We did country

music early because that was Ringo's bit. His song on the new album just
happens

to be country and we got this old fiddler in. But we weren't aware of the

country kick coming in. But there we go, so it's all right. On the new album

we've done a blues.

What we're trying to do is rock and roll, with less of your philosorock is what

we're saying to ourselves and get on with rocking because rockers is what we

really are. You can give me a guitar, stand me up in front of a few people. Even

in the studio if I'm getting into it I'm just doing my old bit, you know, not

quite doing Elvis Legs, but doing my equivalent — it's just natural. Everybody

says we must do this and that, but our thing is just rocking — you know, the

usual gig. That's what this new record is about. Definitely rocking. What we
were doing on Pepper was rocking — and not rocking.

"A Day in the Life Of" — that was something. I dug it. It was a good piece of

work between Paul and me. I had the "I read the news today" bit, and it turned

Paul on, because now and then we really turn each other on with a bit of song,

and he just said "yeah" — bang bang, like that. It just sort of happened

beautifully, and we arranged it and rehearsed it, which we don't often do, the

afternoon before. So we all knew what we were playing, we all got into it. It

was a real groove, the whole scene on that one. Paul sang half of it and I sang

half. I needed a middle-eight for it, but that would have been forcing it, all

the rest had come out smooth, flowing, no trouble, and to write a middle-eight

would have been to write a middle-eight, but instead Paul already had one
there.

It's a bit of a 2001, you know.

A critic has written about "A Day in the Life Of" as a kind of miniature "Waste

Land."

Miniature what?

Eliot's "The Waste Land."

I don't know that. Not very hip on me culture you know.

So you don't see that song as a peak?

No, I don't. I think whatever we're doing now is past what we were doing then.

Even if there is no song comparable to it, say. It's just not the scene now. It

was only a song and it turned out well and it was a groove — it did do all that

— but there's plenty more.

Songs like "Good Morning, Good Morning" and "Penny Lane" convey a child's

feeling of the world.

We write about our past. "Good Morning, Good Morning, I was never proud of it.
I
just knocked it off to do a song. But it was writing about my past so it does

get the kids because it was me at school, my whole bit. The same with "Penny

Lane." We really got into the groove of imagining Penny Lane — the bank as

there, and that was where the tram sheds were and people waiting and the

inspector stood there, the fire engines were down there. It was just re-living

childhood.

You really had a place where you grew up.

Oh, yeah. Didn't you?

Well, Manhattan isn't Liverpool.

Well, you could write about your local bus station.

In Manhattan?

Sure, why not? Everywhere is somewhere.

In "Hey, Jude," as in one of your first songs, "She Loves You," you're singing

to someone else and yet, you might as well be singing to yourself. Do you find

that as well?

Oh, yeah. Well when Paul first sang "Hey, Jude" to me — or played me the little

tape he'd made of it — I took it very personally. Ah, it's me! I said. It's me.

He says, no it's me. I said "Check, we're going through the same bit." So we all

are. Whoever is going through that bit with us is going through it, that's the

groove.

Was "Hey, Jude" influenced — perhaps unconsciously — by mantras?

No, it's nothing conscious — you mean the repeat at the end? I never thought
of

that, but it's all valid, you see. I mean we'd just come back from India. But I

always related it to some early Drifters song or "You'd Better Move On" or Sam

Cooke's "Bring It On Home To Me" or "Send Me Some Loving" — it has that

feeling.
Does "Tell Me What You See" have the same singing-to-myself feeling to you?

Not consciously, no. I can't remember, it's way back. As soon as you mention

that I just remember running down the stairs at EMI and we went into the

middle-eight, because there wasn't one — that's the picture I get. I'd have to

hear it to get the rest of it. Otherwise it's just an image of the day I worked

on it, what I went through, what I was going through at the time.

Probably paranoia.

It usually is the case — lost paranoias.

In the Magical Mystery Tour theme song you say "The Magical Mystery Tour is

waiting to take you away." In Sgt. Pepper you sing "We'd like to take you home

with us." How do you relate this embracing, come-sit-on-my-lawn feeling in the

songs with your need for everyday privacy?

I take a narrower concept of it, like whoever was around at the time wanting to

talk to them talked to me, but of course it does have that wider aspect to it.

The concept is very good and I went through it and said, "Well, ok, let them sit

on my lawn." But of course it doesn't work. People climbed in the house and

smashed things up, and then you think, "That's no good, that doesn't work." So

actually you're saying," don't talk to me," really.

We're all trying to say nice things like that, but most of the time we can't

make it — 90% of the time — and the odd time we do make it, when we do it,

together as people. You can say it in a song: "Well, whatever I did say to you

that day about getting out of the garden, part of me said that, but really —

Continued on Next Page — Continued from Preceding Page in my heart of

hearts I'd
like to have it right and talk to you and communicate. "Unfortunately we're

human, you know — it doesn't seem to work.

How do you feel now about your first couple of albums?

Depends what track it is. I was listening to the very first albums a few weeks

back, and it's embarrassing. It was embarrassing then because we wanted to

be

like this. We knew what we wanted to be, but we didn't know how to do it, in
the

studio. We didn't have the knowledeg or experience. But still some of the
album

is sweet, it's all right.

Wasn't it about the time of Rubber Soul that you moved away from the old
records

to something quite different?

Yes, yes, we got involved completely in ourselves then. I think it was Rubber

Soul when we did all our own numbers. Something just happened. We
controlled it

a bit, whatever it was we were putting over, we just tried to control it a bit.

Do you feel free to put anything in a song?

Yes. In the early days I'd — well, we all did — we'd take things out for being

banal, cliches, even chords we wouldn't use because we thought they were

cliches. And even just this year there's been a great release for all of us,

going right back to the basics, like on "Revolution" I'm playing the guitar and

I haven't improved since I was last playing. But I dug it. It sounds the way I

wanted it to sound.

It's a pity I can't do better — the fingering, you know — but I couldn't have

done that last year, I'd have been too paranoic. I couldn't play dddddddddddd,

George must play or somebody better. My playing has probably improved a

little
bit on this session because I've been playing a little. I was aways the rhythm

guy anyway, but I always just fiddled about in the background, I didn't actually

want to play rhythm. We all sort of wanted to be lead — as in most groups —

but

it's a groove now, and so are the cliches. We've gone past those days when we

wouldn't have used words because they didn't make sense, or what we thought
was

sense.

But of course Dylan taught us a lot in this respect.

Another thing is, I used to write a book or stories on one hand and write songs

on the other. And I'd be writing completely free form in a book or just on a bit

of paper, but when I'd start to write a song I'd be thinking dee duh dee duh do

doo do de do de doo. And it took Dylan and all that was going on then to say,

oh, come on now, that's the same bit, I'm just singing the words.

With "I Am A Walrus," I had "I am here as you are here as we are all together."

I had just these two lines on the typewriter, and then about two weeks later I

ran through and wrote another two lines, and then when I saw something after

about four lines I just knocked the rest of it off. Then I had the whole verse

or verse and a half and then sang it. I had this idea of doing a song that was a

police siren, but it didn't work in the end [sings like a siren]:

"I-am-here-as-you-are-here-as..." You couldn't really sing the police siren.

Do you write your music with instruments or in your head?

On piano or guitar. Most of this session has been written on guitar cause we

were in India writing and only had our guitars there. They have a different feel

about them. I missed the piano a bit because you just write differently. My

piano plaiyng is even worse than me guitar. I hardly know what the chords are,

so it's good to have a slightly limited palette, heh heh.

What did you think of Dylan's "version" of "Norwegian Wood"? ("Fourth time

around").

I was very paranoid about that. I remember he played it to me when he was in

London. He said, what do you think? I said, I don't like it. I didn't like it. I

was very paranoid. I just didn't like what I felt I was feeling — I thought it

was an out and out skit, you know, but it wasn't. It was great. I mean he wasn't

playing any tricks on me. I was just going through the bit.

How do you feel about his new music?

It's fine, you know. I'm just a bit bored with the backing, that's all. But he's

right what he's doing because he usually is. I've only heard the "Landlord"

album. I haven't heard the acetate, I keep hearing about it. That's something

else, you know.

Is there anybody else you've gotten something from musically?

Oh millions. All those I mentioned before — Little Richard, Presley.

Anyone contemporary?

Are they dead? Well, nobody sustains it. I've been buzzed by the Stones and

other groups, but none of them can sustain the buzz for me continually through
a

whole album or through three singles even.

You and Dylan are often thought of together in some way.

Yeh? Yeh, well we were for a bit, but I couldn't make it. Too paranoic. I always

saw him when he was in London. He first turned us on in New York actually. He

thought "I Want To Hold Your Hand" — when it goes "I can't hide" — he thought
we
were singing "I get high" — so he turns up with AlAronowitz and turns us on,
and

we had the biggest laugh all night — forever. Fantastic. We've got a lot to

thank him for.

Do you ever see him anymore?

No, cause he's living his cozy little life, doing that bit. If I was in New

York, he'd be the person I'd most like to see. I've grown up enough to

communicate with him. Both of us were always uptight, you know, and of
course I

wouldn't know whether he was uptight, because I was so uptight, and then
when he

wasn't uptight, I was — all that bit. But we just sat it out because we just

liked being together.

What about the new desire to return to a more natural environment? Dylan's

return to country music?

Dylan broke his neck and we went to India. Everybody did their bit. And now

we're all just coming out, coming out of a shell, in a new way, kind of saying:

remember what it was like to play.

Do you feel better now?

Yes...And worse.

What do you feel about India now?

I've got no regrets at all, cause it was a groove and I had some great

experiences, meditating eight hours a day — some amazing things, some

amazing

trips — it was great. And I still meditate off and on. George is doing it

regularly. And I believe implicitly in the whole bit. It's just that it's

difficult to continue it. I lost the rosy glasses. And I'm like that, I'm very

idealistic. So I can't really manage my exercises when I've lost that. I mean I
don't want to be a boxer so much. It's just that a few things happened, or

didn't happen, I don't know, but something happened. It was sort of like a

[click] and we just left and I don't know what went on, it's too near — I don't

really know what happened.

You just showed me what might be the front and back album photos for the
record

you're putting out of the music you and Yoko composed for your film Two
Virgins

. The photos have the simplicity of a daguerreotype....

Well, that's because I took it, I'm a ham photographer, you know. It's me Nikon

what I was given by a commercially minded Japanese when we were in Japan,

along

with me Pentax, me Canon, me boom - boom and all the others. So I just set it
up

and did it.

For the cover, there's a photo of you and Yoko standing naked facing the
camera.

And on the backside are your backsides. At your "For Yoko" show at the Fraser

Gallery you just said, "You are here," showed some things that were there, and

then people got the horrors. What do you think they're going to think of the

cover?

Well, we've got that to come. The thing is, I started it with a pure...it was

the truth, and it was only after I'd got into it and done it and looked at it

that I'd realized what kind of scene I was going to create. And then suddenly

there it was, and then suddenly you show it to people and then you know what
the

world's going to do to you, or try to do. But you have no knowledge of it when

you conceive it or make it.

Originally, I was going to record Yoko, and I thought that the best picture of
her for an album would be her naked. I was just going to record her as an

artist, we were only on those kind of terms then. So after that, when we got

together it just seemed natural for us, if we made an album together, for both

of us to be naked.

Of course I've never seen me prick on an album or on a photo before:

"Whatnearth, there's a fellow with his prick out." And that was the first time I

realized me prick was out, you know. I mean you can see it on the photo itself
—

we're naked in front of a camera — that comes over in the eyes, just for a

minute you go!! I mean you're not used to it, being naked, but it's got to come

out.

How do you face the fact that people are going to mutilate you?

Well, I can take that as long as we can get the cover out. And I really don't

know what the chances are of that.

You don't worry about the nuts across the street?

No, no. I know it won't be very comfortable walking around with all the lorry

drivers whistling and that, but it'll all die. Next year it'll be nothing, like

mini-skirts or bare tits, it isn't anything. We're all naked really. When people

attack Yoko and me, we know they're paranoic, we don't worry too much. It's
the

ones that don't know and you know they don't know — they're just going round
in

a blue fuzz. The thing is, the album also says: look, lay off will you, it's two

people — what have we done?

Lenny Bruce once compared himself to a doctor, saying that if people weren't

sick, there wouldn't be any need for him.

That's the bit, isn't it? Since we started being more natural in public — the

four of us — we've really had a lot of knocking. I mean we're always natural, I
mean you can't help it, we couldn't have been where we are if we hadn't done

that. We wouldn't have been us either. And it took four of us to enable us to do

it, we couldn't have done it alone and kept that up. I don't know why I get

knocked more often, I seem to open me mouth more often, something

happens, I

forget what I am till it all happens again. I mean we just get knocked — from

the underground, the pop world — me personally. They're all doing it. They've

got to stop soon.

Tony Palmer, in an article for The Observer, wrote how he had been predicting

the Beatles' failure ever since The Cavern days. All he did was recall the

various times he's predicted your failure. And then when he ended this article,

he predicted it again. How does he feel?

I just got a letter from him saying he feels fine. Such a lot of mistakes and

lies in the article, saying it was Yoko's show and just some very nasty bits

about Yoko, just cruel, you know. I don't know what they think we are. They

really do think that we're very hard people. I mean they must be hard to do
what

they do. You just hold your breath and wait.

Couldn't you go off to your own community and not be bothered with all of
this?

Well, it's just the same there, you see. Cause I mean India was a bit of that,

it was a taste of it — it's the same. So there's a small community, it's the

same gig, it's relative. There's no escape.

Your show at the Fraser Gallery gave critics a chance to take a swipe at you.

Oh right, but putting it on was taking a swipe at them in a way. I mean that's

what it was about. What they couldn't understand was that — a lot of them
were

saying, well, if it hadn't been for John Lennon nobody would have gone to it,
but as it was, it was me doing it. And if it had been Sam Bloggs it would have

been nice. But the point of it was — it was me. And they're using that as a

reason to say why it didn't work. Work as what?

Do you think Yoko's film of you smiling would work if it were just anyone

smiling?

Yes, it works with somebody else smiling, but she went through all this. It

originally started out that she wanted a million people all over the world to

send in a snapshot of themselves smiling, and then it got down to lots of

people

smiling, and then maybe one or two and then me smiling as a symbol of today

smiling — and that's what I am, whatever that means. And so it's me smiling,
and

that's the hang-up of course because it's me again. But I mean they've got to

see it someday — it's only me. I don't mind if people go to the film to see me

smiling because you see it doesn't matter, it's not harmful. The people that

really dig the film...The idea of the film won't really be dug for another fifty

or a hundred years probably. That's what it's all about. I just happen to be

that face.

It's too bad people can't come down here individually to see how you're living.

Well, that's it. I didn't see Ringo and his wife for about a month when I first

got together with Yoko, and there were rumors going around about the film and

all that. Maureen was saying she really had some strange ideas about where
we

were at and what we were up to. And there were some strange reactions from
all

me friends and at Apple about Yoko and me and what we were doing — "Have
they

gone mad?" But of course it was just us, you know, and if they are puzzled or
reacting strangely to us two being together and doing what we're doing, it's not

hard to visualize the rest of the world really having some amazing image.

International Times recently published an interview with Jean-Luc Godard...

Oh yeah, right, he said we should do something. Now that's sour grapes from a

man who couldn't get us to be in his film [One Plus One in which the Stones

appear], and I don't expect it from people like that. Dear Mr. Godard, just

because we didn't want to be in the film with you, it doesn't mean to say that

we aren't doing any more than you. We should do whatever we're all doing.

But Godard put it in activist political terms. He said that people with

influence and money should be trying to blow up the establishment and that
you

weren't.

What's he think we're doing? He wants to stop looking at his own films and look

around.

Time magazine came out and said, look, the Beatles say "no" to destruction.

There's no point in dropping out, because it's the same there and it's got to

change. But I think it all comes down to changing your head, and sure, I know

that's a cliche.

What would you tell a black power guy who's changed his head and then finds
a

wall there all the time?

Well I can't tell him anything cause he's got to do it himself. If destruction's

the only way he can do it, there's nothing I can say that could influence him

cause that's where he's at, really. We've all got that in us, too, and that's

why I did the "Out and In" bit on a few takes and in the TV version of

"Revolution" — "Destruction, well, you know, you can count me out, and in,"
like

Yin and Yang.

I prefer "out." But we've got the other bit in us. I don't know what I'd be

doing if I was in his position. I don't think I'd be so meek and mild. I just

don't know. From Issue 22 — November 23, 1968

The Lost John Lennon Interview - Power To The People

The Lost John Lennon Interview

By TARIQ ALI and ROBIN BLACKBURN

Lennon recounts about how he and George Harrison bucked their

handlers and went on record against the Vietnam War, discusses class

politics in an engaging manner, defends country and western music

and the blues, suggests Dylan's best songs stem from revolutionary

Irish and Scottish ballads and dissects his three versions of

"Revolution". The interview ran in The Red Mole, a Trotskyist sheet

put out by the British arm of the Fourth International. As you'll

see, those were different days. The interview is included in Tariq

Ali's Streetfighting Years, recently published by Verso.

Tariq Ali: Your latest record and your recent public statements,

especially the interviews in Rolling Stone magazine, suggest that

your views are becoming increasingly radical and political. When did

this start to happen?

John Lennon: I've always been politically minded, you know, and

against the status quo. It's pretty basic when you're brought up,
like I was, to hate and fear the police as a natural enemy and to

despise the army as something that takes everybody away and leaves

them dead somewhere.

I mean, it's just a basic working class thing, though it begins to

wear off when you get older, get a family and get swallowed up in

the system.

In my case I've never not been political, though religion tended to

overshadow it in my acid days; that would be around '65 or '66. And

that religion was directly the result of all that superstar

shit--religion was an outlet for my repression. I thought, 'Well,

there's something else to life, isn't there? This isn't it, surely?'

But I was always political in a way, you know. In the two books I

wrote, even though they were written in a sort of Joycean

gobbledegook, there's many knocks at religion and there is a play

about a worker and a capitalist. I've been satirising the system

since my childhood. I used to write magazines in school and hand

them around.

I was very conscious of class, they would say with a chip on my

shoulder, because I knew what happened to me and I knew about the

class repression coming down on us--it was a fucking fact but in the

hurricane Beatle world it got left out, I got farther away from

reality for a time.

TA: What did you think was the reason for the success of your sort

of music?

JL: Well, at the time it was thought that the workers had broken

through, but I realise in retrospect that it's the same phoney deal
they gave the blacks, it was just like they allowed blacks to be

runners or boxers or entertainers. That's the choice they allow

you--now the outlet is being a pop star, which is really what I'm

saying on the album in 'Working class hero'. As I told Rolling

Stone, it's the same people who have the power, the class system

didn't change one little bit.

Of course, there are a lot of people walking around with long hair

now and some trendy middle class kids in pretty clothes. But nothing

changed except that we all dressed up a bit, leaving the same

bastards running everything.

Robin Blackburn: Of course, class is something the American rock

groups haven't tackled yet.

JL: Because they're all middle class and bourgeois and they don't

want to show it. They're scared of the workers, actually, because

the workers seem mainly right-wing in America, clinging on to their

goods. But if these middle class groups realise what's happening,

and what the class system has done, it's up to them to repatriate

the people and to get out of all that bourgeois shit.

TA: When did you start breaking out of the role imposed on you as a

Beatle?

JL: Even during the Beatle heyday I tried to go against it, so did

George. We went to America a few times and Epstein always tried to

waffle on at us about saying nothing about Vietnam. So there came a

time when George and I said 'Listen, when they ask next time, we're

going to say we don't like that war and we think they should get

right out.' That's what we did. At that time this was a pretty
radical thing to do, especially for the 'Fab Four'. It was the first

opportunity I personally took to wave the flag a bit.

But you've got to remember that I'd always felt repressed. We were

all so pressurised that there was hardly any chance of expressing

ourselves, especially working at that rate, touring continually and

always kept in a cocoon of myths and dreams. It's pretty hard when

you are Caesar and everyone is saying how wonderful you are and they

are giving you all the goodies and the girls, it's pretty hard to

break out of that, to say 'Well, I don't want to be king, I want to

be real.' So in its way the second political thing I did was to say

'The Beatles are bigger than Jesus.' That really broke the scene, I

nearly got shot in America for that. It was a big trauma for all the

kids that were following us. Up to then there was this unspoken

policy of not answering delicate questions, though I always read the

papers, you know, the political bits.

The continual awareness of what was going on made me feel ashamed I

wasn't saying anything. I burst out because I could no longer play

that game any more, it was just too much for me. Of course, going to

America increased the build up on me, especially as the war was

going on there. In a way we'd turned out to be a Trojan horse. The

'Fab Four' moved right to the top and then sang about drugs and sex

and then I got into more and more heavy stuff and that's when they

started dropping us.

RB: Wasn't there a double charge to what you were doing right from

the beginning?

Yoko Ono: You were always very direct.

JL: Yes, well, the first thing we did was to proclaim our

Liverpoolness to the world, and say 'It's all right to come from

Liverpool and talk like this'. Before, anybody from Liverpool who

made it, like Ted Ray, Tommy Handley, Arthur Askey, had to lose

their accent to get on the BBC. They were only comedians but that's

what came out of Liverpool before us. We refused to play that game.

After The Beatles came on the scene everyone started putting on a

Liverpudlian accent.

TA: In a way you were even thinking about politics when you seemed

to be knocking revolution?

JL: Ah, sure, 'Revolution' . There were two versions of that song

but the underground left only picked up on the one that said 'count

me out'. The original version which ends up on the LP said 'count me

in' too; I put in both because I wasn't sure. There was a third

version that was just abstract, musique concrete, kind of loops and

that, people screaming. I thought I was painting in sound a picture

of revolution--but I made a mistake, you know. The mistake was that

it was anti-revolution.

On the version released as a single I said 'when you talk about

destruction you can count me out'. I didn't want to get killed. I

didn't really know that much about the Maoists, but I just knew that

they seemed to be so few and yet they painted themselves green and

stood in front of the police waiting to get picked off. I just

thought it was unsubtle, you know. I thought the original Communist

revolutionaries coordinated themselves a bit better and didn't go

around shouting about it. That was how I felt--I was really asking a
question. As someone from the working class I was always interested

in Russia and China and everything that related to the working

class, even though I was playing the capitalist game.

At one time I was so much involved in the religious bullshit that I

used to go around calling myself a Christian Communist, but as Janov

says, religion is legalised madness. It was therapy that stripped

away all that and made me feel my own pain.

RB: This analyst you went to, what's his name. ..

JL: Janov ...

RB: His ideas seem to have something in common with Laing in that he

doesn't want to reconcile people to their misery, to adjust them to

the world but rather to make them face up to its causes?

JL: Well, his thing is to feel the pain that's accumulated inside

you ever since your childhood. I had to do it to really kill off all

the religious myths. In the therapy you really feel every painful

moment of your life--it's excruciating, you are forced to realise

that your pain, the kind that makes you wake up afraid with your

heart pounding, is really yours and not the result of somebody up in

the sky. It's the result of your parents and your environment.

As I realised this it all started to fall into place. This therapy

forced me to have done with all the God shit. All of us growing up

have come to terms with too much pain. Although we repress it, it's

still there. The worst pain is that of not being wanted, of

realising your parents do not need you in the way you need them.

When I was a child I experienced moments of not wanting to see the

ugliness, not wanting to see not being wanted. This lack of love
went into my eyes and into my mind. Janov doesn't just talk to you

about this but makes you feel it--once you've allowed yourself to

feel again, you do most of the work yourself.

When you wake up and your heart is going like the clappers or your

back feels strained, or you develop some other hang-up, you should

let your mind go to the pain and the pain itself will regurgitate

the memory which originally caused you to suppress it in your body.

In this way the pain goes to the right channel instead of being

repressed again, as it is if you take a pill or a bath, saying

'Well, I'll get over it'. Most people channel their pain into God or

masturbation or some dream of making it.

The therapy is like a very slow acid trip which happens naturally in

your body. It is hard to talk about, you know, because--you feel 'I

am pain' and it sounds sort of arbitrary, but pain to me now has a

different meaning because of having physically felt all these

extraordinary repressions. It was like taking gloves off, and

feeling your own skin for the first time.

It's a bit of a drag to say so, but I don't think you can understand

this unless you've gone through it--though I try to put some of it

over on the album. But for me at any rate it was all part of

dissolving the God trip or father-figure trip. Facing up to reality

instead of always looking for some kind of heaven.

RB: Do you see the family in general as the source of these

repressions?

JL: Mine is an extreme case, you know. My father and mother split

and I never saw my father until I was 20, nor did I see much more of
my mother. But Yoko had her parents there and it was the same....

YO: Perhaps one feels more pain when parents are there. It's like

when you're hungry, you know, it's worse to get a symbol of a

cheeseburger than no cheeseburger at all. It doesn't do you any

good, you know. I often wish my mother had died so that at least I

could get some people's sympathy. But there she was, a perfectly

beautiful mother.

JL: And Yoko's family were middle-class Japanese but it's all the

same repression. Though I think middle-class people have the biggest

trauma if they have nice imagey parents, all smiling and dolled up.

They are the ones who have the biggest struggle to say, 'Goodbye

mummy, goodbye daddy'.

TA: What relation to your music has all this got?

JL: Art is only a way of expressing pain. I mean the reason Yoko

does such far out stuff is that it's a far out kind of pain she went

through.

RB: A lot of Beatle songs used to be about childhood...

JL: Yeah, that would mostly be me...

RB: Though they were very good there was always a missing element...

JL: That would be reality, that would be the missing element.

Because I was never really wanted. The only reason I am a star is

because of my repression. Nothing else would have driven me through

all that if I was 'normal'...

YO: ... and happy...

JL: The only reason I went for that goal is that I wanted to say:

'Now, mummy-daddy, will you love me?'

TA: But then you had success beyond most people's wildest dreams...

JL: Oh, Jesus Christ, it was a complete oppression. I mean we had to

go through humiliation upon humiliation with the middle classes and

showbiz and Lord Mayors and all that. They were so condescending and

stupid. Everybody trying to use us. It was a special humiliation for

me because I could never keep my mouth shut and I'd always have to

be drunk or pilled to counteract this pressure. It was really

hell...

YO: It was depriving him of any real experience, you know...

JL: It was very miserable. I mean apart from the first flush of

making it--the thrill of the first number one record, the first trip

to America. At first we had some sort of objective like being as big

as Elvis--moving forward was the great thing, but actually attaining

it was the big let-down. I found I was having continually to please

the sort of people I'd always hated when I was a child. This began

to bring me back to reality.

I began to realise that we are all oppressed which is why I would

like to do something about it, though I'm not sure where my place is.

RB: Well, in any case, politics and culture are linked, aren't they?

I mean, workers are repressed by culture not guns at the moment ...

JL: ... they're doped...

RB: And the culture that's doping them is one the artist can make or

break...

JL: That's what I'm trying to do on my albums and in these

interviews. What I'm trying to do is to influence all the people I

can influence. All those who are still under the dream and just put

a big question mark in their mind. The acid dream is over, that is

what I'm trying to tell them.

RB: Even in the past, you know, people would use Beatle songs and

give them new words. 'Yellow submarine' , for instance, had a number

of versions. One that strikers used to sing began 'We all live on

bread and margarine' ; at LSE we had a version that began 'We all

live in a Red LSE'.

JL: I like that. And I enjoyed it when football crowds in the early

days would sing 'All together now'--that was another one. I was also

pleased when the movement in America took up 'Give peace a chance'

because I had written it with that in mind really. I hoped that

instead of singing 'We shall overcome' from 1800 or something, they

would have something contemporary. I felt an obligation even then to

write a song that people would sing in the pub or on a

demonstration. That is why I would like to compose songs for the

revolution now...

RB: We only have a few revolutionary songs and they were composed in

the 19th century. Do you find anything in our musical traditions

which could be used for revolutionary songs?

JL: When I started, rock and roll itself was the basic revolution to

people of my age and situation. We needed something loud and clear

to break through all the unfeeling and repression that had been

coming down on us kids. We were a bit conscious to begin with of

being imitation Americans. But we delved into the music and found

that it was half white country and western and half black rhythm and
blues. Most of the songs came from Europe and Africa and now they

were coming back to us. Many of Dylan's best songs came from

Scotland, Ireland or England. It was a sort of cultural exchange.

Though I must say the more interesting songs to me were the black

ones because they were more simple. They sort of saidshake your

arse, or your prick, which was an innovation really. And then there

were the field songs mainly expressing the pain they were in. They

couldn't express themselves intellectually so they had to say in a

very few words what was happening to them. And then there was the

city blues and a lot of that was about sex and fighting.

A lot of this was self-_expression but only in the last few years

have they expressed themselves completely with Black Power, like

Edwin Starr making war records. Before that many black singers were

still labouring under that problem of God; it was often 'God will

save us'. But right through the blacks were singing directly and

immediately about their pain and also about sex, which is why I like

it.

RB: You say country and western music derived from European folk

songs. Aren't these folk songs sometimes pretty dreadful stuff, all

about losing and being defeated?

JL: As kids we were all opposed to folk songs because they were so

middle-class. It was all college students with big scarfs and a pint

of beer in their hands singing folk songs in what we call la-di-da

voices-'I worked in a mine in New-cast-le' and all that shit. There

were very few real folk singers you know, though I liked Dominic

Behan a bit and there was some good stuff to be heard in Liverpool.
 Just occasionally you hear very old records on the radio or TV of

real workers in Ireland or somewhere singing these songs and the

power of them is fantastic.

But mostly folk music is people with fruity voices trying to keep

alive something old and dead. It's all a bit boring, like ballet: a

minority thing kept going by a minority group. Today's folk song is

rock and roll. Although it happened to emanate from America, that's

not really important in the end because we wrote our own music and

that changed everything.

RB: Your album, Yoko, seems to fuse avant-garde modern music with

rock. I'd like to put an idea to you I got from listening to it. You

integrate everyday sounds, like that of a train, into a musical

pattern. This seems to demand an aesthetic measure of everyday life,

to insist that art should not be imprisoned in the museums and

galleries, doesn't it?

YO: Exactly. I want to incite people to loosen their oppression by

giving them something to work with, to build on. They shouldn't be

frightened of creating themselves--that's why I make things very

open, with things for people to do, like in my book [Grapefruit].

Because basically there are two types of people in the world: people

who are confident because they know they have the ability to create,

and then people who have been demoralised, who have no confidence
in

themselves because they have been told they have no creative

ability, but must just take orders. The Establishment likes people

who take no responsibility and cannot respect themselves.

RB: I suppose workers' control is about that...

 JL: Haven't they tried out something like that in Yugoslavia; they

are free of the Russians. I'd like to go there and see how it works.

TA: Well, they have; they did try to break with the Stalinist

pattern. But instead of allowing uninhibited workers' control, they

added a strong dose of political bureaucracy. It tended to smother

the initiative of the workers and they also regulated the whole

system by a market mechanism which bred new inequalities between

one

region and another.

JL: It seems that all revolutions end up with a personality

cult--even the Chinese seem to need a father-figure. I expect this

happens in Cuba too, with Che and Fidel. In Western-style Communism

we would have to create an almost imaginary workers' image of

themselves as the father-figure.

RB: That's a pretty cool idea--the Working Class becomes its own

Hero. As long as it was not a new comforting illusion, as long as

there was a real workers' power. If a capitalist or bureaucrat is

running your life then you need to compensate with illusions.

YO: The people have got to trust in themselves.

TA: That's the vital point. The working class must be instilled with

a feeling of confidence in itself. This can't be done just by

propaganda--the workers must move, take over their own factories and

tell the capitalists to bugger off. This is what began to happen in

May 1968 in France...the workers began to feel their own strength.

JL: But the Communist Party wasn't up to that, was it?

RB: No, they weren't. With 10 million workers on strike they could

have led one of those huge demonstrations that occurred in the

centre of Paris into a massive occupation of all government

buildings and installations, replacing de Gaulle with a new

institution of popular power like the Commune or the original

Soviets--that would have begun a real revolution but the French C.P.

was scared of it. They preferred to deal at the top instead of

encouraging the workers to take the initiative themselves...

JL: Great, but there's a problem about that here you know. All the

revolutions have happened when a Fidel or Marx or Lenin or whatever,

who were intellectuals, were able to get through to the workers.

They got a good pocket of people together and the workers seemed to

understand that they were in a repressed state. They haven't woken

up yet here, they still believe that cars and tellies are the

answer. You should get these left-wing students out to talk with the

workers; you should get the school-kids involved with The Red Mole.

TA: You're quite right, we have been trying to do that and we should

do more. This new Industrial Relations Bill the Government is trying

to introduce is making more and more workers realise what is

happening...

JL: I don't think that Bill can work. I don't think they can enforce

it. I don't think the workers will co-operate with it. I thought the

Wilson Government was a big let-down but this Heath lot are worse.

The underground is being harrassed, the black militants can't even

live in their own homes now, and they're selling more arms to the

South Africans. Like Richard Neville said, there may be only an inch

of difference between Wilson and Heath but it's in that inch that we

live....
TA: I don't know about that; Labour brought in racialist immigration

policies, supported the Vietnam war and were hoping to bring in new

legislation against the unions.

RB: It may be true that we live in the Inch of difference between

Labour and Conservative but so long as we do we'll be impotent and

unable to change anything. If Heath is forcing us out of that inch

maybe he's doing us a good turn without meaning to...

JL: Yes, I've thought about that, too. This putting us in a corner

so we have to find out what is coming down on other people. I keep

on reading the Morning Star [the Communist newspaper] to see if

there's any hope, but it seems to be in the 19th century; it seems

to be written for dropped-out, middle-aged liberals.

We should be trying to reach the young workers because that's when

you're most idealistic and have least fear.

Somehow the revolutionaries must approach the workers because the

workers won't approach them. But it's difficult to know where to

start; we've all got a finger in the dam. The problem for me is that

as I have become more real, I've grown away from most working-class

people--you know what they like is Engelbert Humperdinck. It's the

students who are buying us now, and that's the problem. Now The

Beatles are four separate people, we don't have the impact we had

when we were together...

RB: Now you're trying to swim against the stream of bourgeois

society, which is much more difficult.

JL: Yes, they own all the newspapers and they control all

distribution and promotion. When we came along there was only Decca,
Philips and EMI who could really produce a record for you. You had

to go through the whole bureaucracy to get into the recording

studio. You were in such a humble position, you didn't have more

than 12 hours to make a whole album, which is what we did in the

early days.

Even now it's the same; if you're an unknown artist you're lucky to

get an hour in a studio--it's a hierarchy and if you don't have

hits, you don't get recorded again. And they control distribution.

We tried to change that with Apple but in the end we were defeated.

They still control everything. EMI killed our album Two Virgins

because they didn't like it. With the last record they've censored

the words of the songs printed on the record sleeve. Fucking

ridiculous and hypocritical--they have to let me sing it but they

don't dare let you read it. Insanity.

RB: Though you reach fewer people now, perhaps the effect can be

more concentrated.

JL: Yes, I think that could be true. To begin with, working class

people reacted against our openness about sex. They are frightened

of nudity, they're repressed in that way as well as others. Perhaps

they thought 'Paul is a good lad, he doesn't make trouble'.

Also when Yoko and I got married, we got terrible racialist

letters--you know, warning me that she would slit my throat. Those

mainly came from Army people living in Aldershot. Officers.

Now workers are more friendly to us, so perhaps it's changing. It

seems to me that the students are now half-awake enough to try and

wake up their brother workers. If you don't pass on your own

awareness then it closes down again. That is why the basic need is

for the students to get in with the workers and convince them that

they are not talking gobbledegook. And of course it's difficult to

know what the workers are really thinking because the capitalist

press always only quotes mouthpieces like Vic Feather* anyway. [Ed.

Note: Vic Feather 1908-76 was General Secretary of the TUC from

1969-73.]

So the only thing is to talk to them directly, especially the young

workers. We've got to start with them because they know they're up

against it. That's why I talk about school on the album. I'd like to

incite people to break the framework, to be disobedient in school,

to stick their tongues out, to keep insulting authority.

YO: We are very lucky really, because we can create our own reality,

John and me, but we know the important thing is to communicate with

other people.

JL: The more reality we face, the more we realise that unreality is

the main programme of the day. The more real we become, the more

abuse we take, so it does radicalise us in a way, like being put in

a corner. But it would be better if there were more of us.

YO: We mustn't be traditional in the way we communicate with

people--especially with the Establishment. We should surprise people

by saying new things in an entirely new way. Communication of that

sort can have a fantastic power so long as you don't do only what

they expect you to do.

RB: Communication is vital for building a movement, but in the end

it's powerless unless you also develop popular force.

YO: I get very sad when I think about Vietnam where there seems to

be no choice but violence. This violence goes on for centuries

perpetuating itself. In the present age when communication is so

rapid, we should create a different tradition, traditions are

created everyday. Five years now is like 100 years before. We are

living in a society that has no history. There's no precedent for

this kind of society so we can break the old patterns.

TA: No ruling class in the whole of history has given up power

voluntarily and I don't see that changing.

YO: But violence isn't just a conceptual thing, you know. I saw a

programme about this kid who had come back from Vietnam--he'd lost

his body from the waist down. He was just a lump of meat, and he

said, 'Well, I guess it was a good experience.'

JL: He didn't want to face the truth, he didn't want to think it had

all been a waste...

YO: But think of the violence, it could happen to your kids ...

RB: But Yoko, people who struggle against oppression find themselves

attacked by those who have a vested interest in nothing changing,

those who want to protect their power and wealth. Look at the people

in Bogside and Falls Road in Northern Ireland; they were mercilessly

attacked by the special police because they began demonstrating for

their rights. On one night in August 1969, seven people were shot

and thousands driven from their homes. Didn't they have a right to

defend themselves?

YO: That's why one should try to tackle these problems before a

situation like that happens.

JL: Yes, but what do you do when it does happen, what do you do?

<--- (c) beatlesnumber9.com ---> RB: Popular violence against their

oppressors is always justified. It cannot be avoided.

YO: But in a way the new music showed things could be transformed by

new channels of communication.

JL: Yes, but as I said, nothing really changed.

YO: Well, something changed and it was for the better. All I'm

saying is that perhaps we can make a revolution without violence.

JL: But you can't take power without a struggle...

TA: That's the crucial thing.

JL: Because, when it comes to the nitty-gritty, they won't let the

people have any power; they'll give all the rights to perform and to

dance for them, but no real power...

YO: The thing is, even after the revolution, if people don't have

any trust in themselves, they'll get new problems.

JL: After the revolution you have the problem of keeping things

going, of sorting out all the different views. It's quite natural

that revolutionaries should have different solutions that they

should split into different groups and then reform, that's the

dialectic, isn't it--but at the same time they need to be united

against the enemy, to solidify a new order. I don't know what the

answer is; obviously Mao is aware of this problem and keeps the ball

moving.

RB: The danger is that once a revolutionary state has been created,

a new conservative bureaucracy tends to form around it. This danger

tends to increase if the revolution is isolated by imperialism and

there is material scarcity.

JL: Once the new power has taken over they have to establish a new

status quo just to keep the factories and trains running.

RB: Yes, but a repressive bureaucracy doesn't necessarily run the

factories or trains any better than the workers could under a system

of revolutionary democracy.

JL: Yes, but we all have bourgeois instincts within us, we all get

tired and feel the need to relax a bit. How do you keep everything

going and keep up revolutionary fervour after you've achieved what

you set out to achieve? Of course Mao has kept them up to it in

China, but what happens after Mao goes? Also he uses a personality

cult. Perhaps that's necessary; like I said, everybody seems to need

a father figure.

But I've been reading Khrushchev Remembers. I know he's a bit of a

lad himself--but he seemed to think that making a religion out of an

individual was bad; that doesn't seem to be part of the basic

Communist idea. Still people are people, that's the difficulty.

If we took over Britain, then we'd have the job of cleaning up the

bourgeoisie and keeping people in a revolutionary state of mind.

RB: ...In Britain unless we can create a new popular power-and here

that would basically mean workers' power--really controlled by, and

answerable to, the masses, then we couldn't make the revolution in

the first place. Only a really deep-rooted workers' power could

destroy the bourgeois state.

YO: That's why it will be different when the younger generation

takes over.
JL: I think it wouldn't take much to get the youth here really

going. You'd have to give them free rein to attack the local

councils or to destroy the school authorities, like the students who

break up the repression in the universities. It's already happening,

though people have got to get together more.

And the women are very important too, we can't have a revolution

that doesn't involve and liberate women. It's so subtle the way

you're taught male superiority.

It took me quite a long time to realise that my maleness was cutting

off certain areas for Yoko. She's a red hot liberationistand was

quick to show me where I was going wrong, even though it seemed to

me that I was just acting naturally. That's why I'm always

interested to know how people who claim to be radical treat women.

RB: There's always been at least as much male chauvinism on the left

as anywhere else--though the rise of women's liberation is helping

to sort that out.

JL: It's ridiculous. How can you talk about power to the people

unless you realise the people is both sexes.

YO: You can't love someone unless you are in an equal position with

them. A lot of women have to cling to men out of fear or insecurity,

and that's not love--basically that's why women hate men...

JL: ... and viceversa...

YO: So if you have a slave around the house how can you expect to

make a revolution outside it? The problem for women is that if we

try to be free, then we naturally become lonely, because so many

women are willing to become slaves, and men usually prefer that. So
you always have to take the chance: 'Am I going to lose my man?'

It's very sad.

JL: Of course, Yoko was well into liberation before I met her. She'd

had to fight her way through a man's world--the art world is

completely dominated by men--so she was full of revolutionary zeal

when we met. There was never any question about it: we had to have a

50-50 relationship or there was no relationship, I was quick to

learn. She did an article about women in Nova more than two years

back in which she said, 'Woman is the nigger of the world' .

RB: Of course we all live in an imperialist country that is

exploiting the Third World, and even our culture is involved in

this. There was a time when Beatle music was plugged on Voice of

America....

JL: The Russians put it out that we were capitalist robots, which we

were I suppose...

RB: They were pretty stupid not to see it was something different.

YO: Let' s face it, Beatles was 20th-century folksong in the

framework of capitalism; they couldn't do anything different if they

wanted to communicate within that framework.

RB: I was working in Cuba when Sgt Pepper was released and that's

when they first started playing rock music on the radio.

JL: Well hope they see that rock and roll is not the same as

Coca-Cola. As we get beyond the dream this should be easier: that's

why I'm putting out more heavy statements now and trying to shake

off the teeny-bopper image.

I want to get through to the right people, and I want to make what I
have to say very simple and direct.

RB: Your latest album sounds very simple to begin with, but the

lyrics, tempo and melody build up into a complexity one only

gradually becomes aware of. Like the track 'My mummy's dead' echoes

the nursery song 'Three blind mice' and it's about a childhood

trauma.

JL: The tune does; it was that sort of feeling, almost like a Haiku

poem. I recently got into Haiku in Japan and I just think it's

fantastic. Obviously, when you get rid of a whole section of

illusion in your mind you're left with great precision.

Yoko was showing me some of these Haiku in the original. The

difference between them and Long fellow is immense. Instead of a

long flowery poem the Haiku would say 'Yellow flower in white bowl

on wooden table' which gives you the whole picture, really....

TA: How do you think we can destroy the capitalist system here in

Britain, John?

JL: I think only by making the workers aware of the really unhappy

position they are in, breaking the dream they are surrounded by.

They think they are in a wonderful, free-speaking country. They've

got cars and tellies and they don't want to think there's anything

more to life. They are prepared to let the bosses run them, to see

their children fucked up in school. They're dreaming someone else's

dream, it's not even their own. They should realise that the blacks

and the Irish are being harassed and repressed and that they will be

next.

As soon as they start being aware of all that, we can really begin
 to do something. The workers can start to take over. Like Marx said:

'To each according to his need'. I think that would work well here.

But we'd also have to infiltrate the army too, because they are well

trained to kill us all.

We've got to start all this from where we ourselves are oppressed. I

think it's false, shallow, to be giving to others when your own need

is great. The idea is not to comfort people, not to make them feel

better but to make them feel worse, to constantly put before them

the degradations and humiliations they go through to get what they

call a living wage.

*Tariq Ali is author of the recently released Street Fighting Years

(new edition) and, with David Barsamian, Speaking of Empires &

Resistance. He can be reached at: [email protected]

*Robin Blackburn, a frequent contributor to CounterPunch, is the

former editor of The New Left Review and author of the excellent

history of the slave trade, The Making of New World Slavery and the

new book from Verso Banking on Death: the Future of Pensions.

John Lennon Interview: Rolling Stone 6/5/1975

ABOUT THIS INTERVIEW:

Journalist Pete Hamill spoke with John Lennon for an interview that

was published in Rolling Stone Magazine's June 5th 1975 issue. John

speaks of his recent separation and reconciliation with Yoko Ono and

the recent Beatles legal settlement.

With a refreshing perspective on his past, Lennon also speaks

positively on the possibility of a Beatles reunion. Other topics

include his own recent solo albums, his pending immigration case,

and working with Phil Spector, Elton John and Harry Nilsson.

- Jay Spangler, Beatles

Ultimate Experience

A Long Night's Journey into Day:

A Conversation with John Lennon

Article ©1975 Rolling Stone

There is John Lennon: thin bare arms, a rumpled T-shirt, bare feet,

delicate fingers curled around a brown-papered cigarette, reaching

for a cup of steaming coffee. A pale winter sun streams into the

seventh-floor apartment in the Dakota, an expensive apartment house

that stands like a pile of nineteenth-century memories on the corner

of Seventy-second Street and Central Park West. Earlier, the Irish

doorman had expressed surprise when I asked for John, because this

is where Yoko Ono had lived alone for a year and a half. The

building, with its gargoyles and vaulted stone turrets, has seen a

lot, and has housed everyone from Lauren Bacall and Rex Reed to
Rosemary's baby. There is certainly room for Dr. Winston O'Boogie.

And now John Lennon is talking in a soft, becalmed voice, the old

jagged angers gone for now, while the drilling jangle of the New

York streets drifts into the room. He has been back with Yoko for

three days, after a wild, painful year and a half away, and there is

a gray morning feel of hangover in the clean, bright room. Against a

wall, a white piano stands like an invitation to begin again; a tree

is framed by one window, a plant by another, both in an attitude of

Zen-like simplicity, full of spaces. I think of Harold Pinter's

words: 'When true silence falls we are still left with echo but are

nearer nakedness.' There is, of course, always echo when you are

with John Lennon, an echo of the loudest, grandest, gaudiest noise

made in our time. But John Lennon is more than simply a Beatle,

retired or in exile, more than just an echo. At thirty-four, he is

moving into full maturity as a man and an artist and seems less

afraid than ever before of nakedness.

We talked only briefly about the Beatles. A few years ago, John told

everybody how the Beatles were more popular than Jesus Christ and

for a couple of weeks that summer most of the Western world seemed

to go into an uproar. Was the world really that innocent so short a

time ago? No. It was just that John Lennon was explaining that the

world had changed and the newspapers had to catch up; we were not

going to have any more aw-shucks heroes. So we could all run in the

endless emptiness of the rugby field in A Hard Day's Night, rising

and falling, in slow motion or fast, but sooner or later we would

have to grow up. The Beatles were custodians of childhood. They

could not last.

And yet... and yet, it seemed when it was finally over, when they

had all gone their separate ways, when Brian Epstein lay dead and

Apple was some terrible mess and the lawyers and the agents and the

money men had come in to paw the remains, it often seemed that John

was the only one whose heart was truly broken. Cynthia Lennon said

it best, when all of them were still together: 'They seem to need

you less than you need them.' From some corner of his broken heart,

John gave the most bitter interviews, full of hurt and resentment,

covered over with the language of violence.

We only know a small part of what really has happened to him in the

years since he met Yoko Ono. The details belong to John Lennon

alone. But we know how the other Beatles stood in judgment ('like a

jury') on Yoko. We know how viciously the press in England sneered

at them and attacked them. Yoko saw the artist in him: 'John is like

a frail wind..." But reviewers were already saying that Yoko had

ruined his art. People started to write him off. His records were

selling but it wasn't like the Beatles, it wasn't even like the

other Beatles. John was the one Who Had Gone Too Far.

A year and a half ago, he and Yoko split up and some people cheered.

We live in strange times. And then, as if from nowhere, came Walls

and Bridges. John had a big hit single with 'Whatever Gets You Thru

The Night.' And the music was wonderful: full of invention,

tenderness, remorse, more personal than anything he had written

before; the music clearly showing the effects of his time with Yoko.

More than anything else, though, the songs were essays in

autobiography, the words and music of a man trying to understand a

huge part of his life. 'I've been across to the other side / I've

shown you everything, I've got nothing to hide...'

What follows is the result of two long talks with John Lennon at the

end of a difficult year. As an interview, it is far from definitive,

but nothing with ever be definitive in John Lennon's life: He is the

sort of artist who is always in the process of becoming. I think of

this as a kind of interim report from one of the bravest human

beings I know. Oh, yes. He looked happy.

Q: "What's your life like right now?"

JOHN: "Well, life... It's '75 now, isn't it? Well, I've just settled

the Beatles settlement. It must've happened in the last month. Took

three years. (pause) And on this day that you've come here, I seem

to have moved back in here. In the last three days. By the time this

goes out, I don't know... That's a big change. Maybe that's why I'm

sleeping funny. As a friend says, I went out for coffee and some

papers and I didn't come back. (chuckles) Or vice versa. It's always

written that way, y'know. All of us. You know, the guy walked. It's

never that simple."

Q: "What did happen with you and Yoko? Who broke it up and how did

you end up back together again?"

JOHN: "Well, it's not a matter of who broke it up. It broke up. And

why did we end up back together? (pompous voice) 'We ended up

together again because it was diplomatically viable...' Come on. We

got back together because we love each other."

Q: "I loved your line: 'The separation didn't work out.'"

JOHN: "That's it. It didn't work out. And the reaction to the

breakup was all that madness. I was like a chicken without a head."

Q: "What was the final Beatles settlement?"

JOHN: "In a nutshell, what was arranged was that everybody gets

their own individual monies. Even up till this year, till the

settlement was signed, all the monies were going into one pot. All

individual records, mine, Ringo's, Paul's - all into one big pot. It

had to go through this big machinery and then come out to us,

eventually. So now, even the old Beatle royalties, everything goes

into four separate accounts instead of one big pot all the time.

That's that. The rest of it was ground rules. Everybody said the

Beatles've signed this paper, that means they're no longer tied in

any way. That's bullshit. We still own this thing called Apple.

Which, you can explain, is a bank. A bank the money goes into. But

there's still the entity itself known as the Beatles. The product,

the name, the likeness, the Apple thing itself, which still exists,

and we still have to communicate on it and make decisions on it and

decide who's to run Apple and who's to do what. It's not as cut and

dried as the papers said."

Q: "Do the old Beatles records still go in a pot?"

JOHN: "No one of us can say to EMI, 'Here's a new package of Beatle

material.' We still have to okay everything together, you know,

'cause that's the way we want it anyway."

Q: "There's still a good feeling among the guys?"

JOHN: "Yeah, yeah. I talked to Ringo and George yesterday. I didn't

talk to Paul 'cause he was asleep. George and Paul are talkin' to

each other in L.A. now. There's nothin' going down between us. It's

all in people's heads."

Q: "You went to one of George's concerts, what are your thoughts on

his tour?"

JOHN: "It wasn't the greatest thing in history. The guy went through

some kind of mill. It was probably his turn to get smacked. When we

were all together there was periods when the Beatles were in, the

Beatles were out, no matter what we were doing. Now it's always the

Beatles were great or the Beatles weren't great, whatever opinion

people hold. There's a sort of illusion about it. But the actual

fact was the Beatles were in for eight months, the Beatles were out

for eight months. The public, including the media, are sometimes a

bit sheeplike and if the ball starts rolling, well, it's just that

somebody's in, somebody's out. George is out for the moment. And I

think it didn't matter what he did on tour."

Q: "George told Rolling Stone that if you wanted the Beatles, go

listen to Wings. It seemed a bit of a putdown."

JOHN: "I didn't see what George said, so I really don't have any

comment. (pause) Band on the Run is a great album. Wings is almost

as conceptual a group as Plastic Ono Band. Plastic Ono was a

conceptual group, meaning whoever was playing was the band. And

Wings keeps changing all the time. It's conceptual. I mean, they're

backup men for Paul. It doesn't matter who's playing. You can call

them Wings, but it's Paul McCartney music. And it's good stuff. It's

good Paul music and I don't really see the connection."

Q: "What do you think of Richard Perry's work with Ringo?"

JOHN: "I think it's great. Perry's great, Ringo's great, I think the

combination was great and look how well they did together. There's

no complaints if you're Number One."

Q: "George said at his press conference that he could play with you

again but not with Paul. How do you feel?"

JOHN: "I could play with all of them. George is entitled to say

that, and he'll probably change his mind by Friday. You know, we're

all human. We can all change our minds. So I don't take any of my

statements or any of their statements as the last word on whether we

will. And if we do, the newspapers will learn about it after the

fact. If we're gonna play, we're just gonna play."

Q: "In retrospect, what do you think of the whole "Lennon Remembers"

episode?"

JOHN: "Well, the other guys, their reaction was public. Ringo made

some sort of comment that was funny, which I can't remember,

something like, 'You've gone too far this time, Johnnie.' Paul said

(stuffy voice), 'Well, that's his problem.' I can't remember what

George said. I mean, they don't care, they've been with me for

fifteen or twenty years, they know damn well what I'm like. It just

so happens it was in the press. I mean, they know what I'm like. I'm

not ashamed of it at all. I don't really like hurting people, but

Jann Wenner questioned me when I was almost still in therapy and you

can't play games. You're opened up. It was like he got me on an acid

trip. Things come out. I got both reactions from that article. A lot

of people thought it was right on. My only upset was Jann insisted
on making a book out of it."

Q: "'Walls and Bridges' has an undertone of regret to it. Did you

sit down consciously to make an album like that?"

JOHN: "No, well... Let's say this last year has been an

extraordinary year for me personally. And I'm almost amazed that I

could get anything out. But I enjoyed doing Walls and Bridges and it

wasn't hard when I had the whole thing to go into the studio and do

it. I'm surprised it wasn't just all bluuuugggghhhh. (pause) I had

the most peculiar year. And... I'm just glad that something came

out. It's describing the year, in a way, but it's not as sort of

schizophrenic as the year really was. I think I got such a shock

during that year that the impact hasn't come through. It isn't all

on Walls and Bridges though. There's a hint of it there. It has to

do with age and God knows what else. But only the surface has been

touched on Walls and Bridges, you know?"

Q: "What was it about the year? Do you want to try talking about it?"

JOHN: "Well, you can't put your finger on it. It started, somehow,

at the end of '73, goin' to do this Rock 'n' Roll album (with Phil

Spector). It had quite a lot to do with Yoko and I, whether I knew

it or not, and then, suddenly, I was out on me own. Next thing I'd

be waking up, drunk, in strange places or reading about meself in

the paper, doin' extraordinary things, half of which I'd done and

half of which I hadn't done. But you know the game anyway. And find

meself sort of in a mad dream for a year. I'd been in many mad

dreams, but this... It was pretty wild. And then I tried to recover

from that. And (long pause) meanwhile life was going on, the Beatles
settlement was going on, other things, life was still going on and

it wouldn't let you sit with your hangover, in whatever form that

took. It was like something, probably me-self, kept hitting me while

I was trying to do something. I was still trying to do something. I

was still trying to carry on a normal life and the whip never let up

- for eight months. So... that's what was going on. Incidents: You

can put it down to which night with which bottle or which night in

which town. It was just sort of a mad year like that... And it was

just probably fear, and being out on me own, and gettin' old, and

are ye gonna make it in the charts? Are ye not gonna make it? All

that crap, y'know. All the garbage that y'really know is not the

be-all and end-all of your life, but if other things are goin'

funny, that's gonna hit you. If you're gonna feel sorry for

yourself, you're gonna feel sorry for everything. What it's really

to do with is probably the same thing that it's always been to do

with all your life: whatever your own personal problems really are,

you know? So it was a year that manifested itself (switches to deep

actor's voice) in most peculiar fashion. But I'm through it and it's

'75 now and I feel better and I'm sittin' here and not lyin' in some

weird place with a hangover."

Q: "Why do you feel better?"

JOHN: "Because I feel like I've been on Sinbad's voyage, you know,

and I've battled all those monsters and I've got back. (long pause)

Weird."

Q: "Tell me about the Rock 'n' Roll album."

JOHN: "It started in '73 with Phil and fell apart. I ended up as
part of mad, drunk scenes in Los Angeles and I finally finished it

off on me own. And there was still problems with it up to the minute

it came out. I can't begin to say, it's just barmy, there's a jinx

on that album. And I've just started writing a new one. Got maybe

half of it written..."

Q: "What about the stories that Spector's working habits are a

little odd? For example, that he either showed off or shot off guns

in the studios?"

JOHN: "I don't like to tell tales out of school, y'know. But I do

know there was an awful loud noise in the toilet of the Record Plant

West."

Q: "What actually did happen those nights at the Troubadour when you

heckled the Smothers Brothers and went walking around with a Kotex

on your head asking the waitress, 'Do you know who I am?'"

JOHN: "Ah, y'want the juice... If I'd said, 'Do you know who I am?'

I'd have said it in a joke. Because I know who I am, and I know she

knew, because I musta been wearing a Kotex on me head, right? I

picked up a Kotex in a restaurant, in the toilet, and it was clean

and just for a gag I came back to the table with it on me head. And

'cause it stuck there with sweat, just stayed there, I didn't have

to keep it on. It just stayed there till it fell off. And the

waitress said, 'Yeah, you're an asshole with a Kotex on,' and I

think it's a good remark and so what? Tommy Smothers was a

completely different night and has been covered a million times. It

was my first night on Brandy Alexanders and my last (laughs). And I

was with Harry Nilsson, who was no help at all (laughs)."

Q: "What's your relationship with Nilsson? Some critics say that

he's been heavily influenced, maybe even badly screwed up by you."

JOHN: "Oh, that's bullshit."

Q: "...and that you've also been influenced by him."

JOHN: "That's bullshit, too. I haven't been influenced by Harry,

only that I had a lot of hangovers whenever I was with him (laughs).

I love him. He's a great guy and I count him as one of me friends.

He hasn't influenced me musically. And there's an illusion going

around about my production of Harry's album. That he was trying to

imitate me on his album."

Q: "You mean that he'd gone into his primal period..."

JOHN: "That's it. They're so sheeplike - put this in - and childlike

about trying to put a tag on what's going on. They use these

expressions like 'primal' for anything that's a scream. Brackets:

Yoko was screaming before Janov was ever even heard of-- that was

her stint, usin' her voice like an instrument. She was screamin'

when Janov was still jackin' off to Freud. But nowadays, everything

that's got a scream in it is called primal. I know what they're

talkin' about. The very powerful emotional pitch that Harry reaches

at the end of 'Many Rivers to Cross' on the album I produced for him

(Pussy Cats). It's there, simply enough, because when you get to a

certain point with your vocals, there ain't nowhere else to go. Was

Little Richard primaling before each sax solo? That's what I want

know. Was my imitation Little Richard screams I used to put on all

the Beatles records before the solo - we all used to do it, we'd go

aaaarrrrgggghhhh! Was that primaling? Right?"

Q: "Richard Perry has described you as a superb producer but maybe

in too much of a hurry."

JOHN: "That's true [laughs]."

Q: "But supposedly, when making the Beatles records, you were

painstaking and slow."

JOHN: "No, I was never painstaking and slow. I produced 'I Am the

Walrus' at the same speed I produced 'Whatever Gets You Thru the

Night.' I would be painstaking on some things, as I am now. If

there's a quality that occasionally gets in the way of my talent,

it's that I get bored quick unless it's done quick. But 'I Am the

Walrus' sounds like a wonderful production. 'Strawberry Fields'

sounds like a big production. But I do them as quick as I possibly

can, without losing (a) the feel and (b) where I'm going. The

longest track I personally spent time on was 'Revolution 9,' which

was an abstract track where I used a lot of tape loops and things

like that. I still did it in one session. But I accept that

criticism and I have it of myself. But I don't want to make myself

so painstaking that it's boring. But I should (pause) maybe t'ink a

little more. Maybe. But on the other hand I think my criticism of

somebody like Richard Perry would be that he's great but he's too

painstaking. It gets too slick and somewhere in between that is

where I'd like to go. I keep finding out all the time - what I'm

missing that I want to get out of it."

Q: "Is there anybody that you'd like to produce? For example, Dylan?"

JOHN: "Dylan would be interesting because I think he made a great

album in Blood on the Tracks but I'm still not keen on the backings.
I think I could produce him great. And Presley. I'd like to

resurrect Elvis. But I'd be so scared of him I don't know whether I

could do it. But I'd like to do it. Dylan, I could do, but Presley

would make me nervous. But Dylan or Presley, somebody up there... I

know what I'd do with Presley. Make a rock & roll album. Dylan

doesn't need material. I'd just make him some good backings. So if

you're reading this, Bob, you know..."

Q: "Elton John has revived 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.' How do

you feel about him as an artist?"

JOHN: "Elton sort of popped in on the session for Walls and Bridges

and sort of zapped in and played the piano and ended up singing

'Whatever Gets You Thru the Night' with me. Which was a great shot

in the arm. I'd done three quarters of it, 'Now what do we do?'

Should we put a camel on it or a xylophone? That sort of thing. And

he came in and said, 'Hey, ah'll play some piano!' Then I heard he

was doing 'Lucy' and I heard from a friend - 'cause he was shy -

would I be there when he cut 'Lucy'? Maybe not play on it but just

be there? So I went along. And I sang in the chorus and contributed

the reggae in the middle. And then, again through a mutual friend,

he asked if it got to be Number One, would I appear onstage with

him, and I said sure, not thinkin' in a million years it was gonna

get to Number One. Al Coury or no Al Coury, the promotion man at

Capitol. And there I was. Onstage."

Q: "I read somewhere that you were very moved by the whole thing."

JOHN: "I was moved by it, but everybody else was in tears. I felt

guilty 'cause I wasn't in tears. I just went up and did a few

numbers. But the emotional thing was me and Elton together. Elton

had been working in Dick James's office when we used to send our

demos in and there's a long sort of relationship musically with

Elton that people don't really know about. He has this sort of

Beatle thing from way back. He'd take the demos home and play them

and... well, it meant a lot to me and it mean a hell of a lot to

Elton, and he was in tears. It was a great high night, a really high

night... Yoko and I met backstage. And somebody said, 'Well, there's

two people in love.' That was before we got back together. But

that's probably when we felt something. It was very weird. She came

backstage and I didn't know she was there, 'cause if I'd known she

was there I'd've been too nervous to go on, you know, I would have

been terrified. She was backstage afterward, and there was just that

moment when we saw each other and like, it's like in the movies, you

know, when time stands still? And there was silence, everything went

silent, y'know, and we were just sort of lookin' at each other

and... oh, hello. I knew she'd sent Elton and I a flower each, and

we were wearin' them onstage, but I didn't know she was there and

then everybody was around us and flash flash flash. But there was

that moment of silence. And somebody observed it and told me later

on, after we were back together again, and said, "A friend of mine

saw you backstage and thought if ever there was two in love, it's

those two." And I thought, well, it's weird somebody noticed it...

So it was a great night."

Q: "There seems to be a lot of generosity among the artists now."

JOHN: "It was around before. It's harder when you're on the make, to
be generous, 'cause you're all competing. But once you're sort of up

there, wherever it is... The rock papers love to write about the

jet-setting rock stars and they dig it and we dig it in a way. The

fact is that, yeah, I see Mick, I see Paul, I see Elton, they're all

my contemporaries and I've known the other Beatles, of course, for

years, and Mick for ten years, and we've been hangin' around since

Rock Dreams. And suddenly it's written up as

they're-here-they're-there-they're-everywhere bit, and it looks like

we're trying to form a club. But we always were a club. We always

knew each other. It just so happens that it looks more dramatic in

the paper."

Q: "How do you relate to what we might call the rock stars of the

Seventies? Do you think of yourself as an uncle figure, a father

figure, an old gunfighter?"

JOHN: "It depends who they are. If it's Mick or the Old Guard, as I

call them, yeah, they're the Old Guard. Elton, David are the newies.

I don't feel like an old uncle, dear, 'cause I'm not that much older

than half of 'em, heh heh. But... yeah, I'm interested in the new

people. I'm interested in new people in America but I get a kick out

of the new Britons. I remember hearing Elton John's 'Your Song,'

heard it in America - it was one of Elton's first big hits - and

remember thinking, 'Great, that's the first new thing that's

happened since we happened.' It was a step forward. There was

something about his vocals that was an improvement on all of the

English vocals until then. I was pleased with it. And I was pleased

with Bowie's thing and I hadn't even heard him. I just got this
feeling from the image and the projections that were coming out of

England of him, well, you could feel it."

Q: "Do you think of New York as home now?"

JOHN: "Yeah, this is the longest I've ever been away from England.

I've almost lived here as long as I've lived in London. I was in

London from, let's see, '64, '65, '66, '67, actually in London

'cause then it was your Beatlemania bit and we all ended up like a

lot of rock & rollers end up, living an hour away from London in the

country, the drivin'-in-from-the-big-estate bit. 'Cause you couldn't

live in London, 'cause people just bugged the ass off you. So I've

lived in New York longer than I actually lived in London."

Q: "In view of the immigration case, is one reason you've stayed

here so long because if you left, they'd pull a Charlie Chaplin on

you and not let you back in?"

JOHN: "You bet. There's no way they would let me back. And... it's

worth it to me. I can last out, without leaving here, another ten

years, if that's the way they want to play it. I'll earn enough to

keep paying them. I'm really getting blackmailed. I'm paying to

stay. Paying takes, on one hand, about a half million dollars, and

I've hardly worked very hard for that. I mean, that's with sittin'

on me arse and I've paid a half million in taxes. So I'm paying them

to attack me and keep me busy and harass me, on one hand, while on

the other hand I've got to pay me own lawyers. Some people think I'm

here just to make the American dollars. But I don't have to be here

to make the dollars. I could earn American dollars just sittin' in a

recording studio in Hong Kong. Wherever I am, the money follows me.
It's gonna come out of America whether they like it or not."

Q: "Right. And the government doesn't choose that John Lennon makes

money. The people who buy your music do that."

JOHN: "The implication that John Lennon wants to come to the land of

milk and honey 'cause it's easier to pick up the money, so I can

pick it up directly instead of waiting for it to arrive in England.

Or Brazil. Or wherever I decide to do it. I resent the implication,

especially as I'm payin' through the nose. I don't mind paying

taxes, either, which is strange. I never did. I don't like 'em using

it for bombs and that. But I don't think I could do a Joan Baez. I

don't have that kind of gut. I did never complain in England either,

because, well, it's buying people teeth... I'm sick of gettin' sick

about taxes. Taxes is what seems to be it, and there's nothin' to be

done about it unless you choose to make a crusade about it. And I'm

sick of being in crusades because I always get nailed up before I'm

even in the crusade. They get me in the queue while I'm readin' the

pages about it: 'Oh, there's a crusade on, I wonder should I...' I

mean, I get caught before I've ever done anything about it."

Q: "You went through a period of really heavy involvement in radical

causes. Lately you seem to have gone back to your art in a more

direct way. What happened?"

JOHN: "I'll tell you what happened literally. I got off the boat,

only it was an airplane, and landed in New York, and the first

people who got in touch with me was Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman.

It's as simple as that. It's those two famous guys from America

who's callin': 'Hey, yeah, what's happenin', what's goin' on?' And
the next thing you know, I'm doin' John Sinclair benefits and one

thing and another. I'm pretty movable, as an artist, you know. They

almost greeted me off the plane and the next minute I'm involved,

you know."

Q: "How did all of this affect your work?"

JOHN: "It almost ruined it, in a way. It became journalism and not

poetry. And I basically feel that I'm a poet. Even if it does go

ba-deeble, eedle, eedle, it, da-deedle, deedle, it. I'm not a

formalized poet, I have no education, so I have to write in the

simplest forms usually. And I realized that over a period of time -

and not just 'cause I met Jerry Rubin off the plane - but that was

like a culmination. I realized that we were poets but we were really

folk poets, and rock & roll was folk poetry - I've always felt that.

Rock & roll was folk music. Then I began to take it seriously on

another level, saying, "Well, I am reflecting what is going on,

right?" And then I was making an effort to reflect what was going

on. Well, it doesn't work like that. It doesn't work as pop music or

what I want to do. It just doesn't make sense. You get into that bit

where you can't talk about trees, 'cause, y'know, y'gotta talk about

'Corruption on Fifty-fourth Street'! It's nothing to do with that.

It's a bit larger than that. It's the usual lesson that I've learned

in me little thirty-four years: As soon as you've clutched onto

something, you think - you're always clutchin' at straws - this is

what life is all about. I think artists are lucky because the straws

are always blowin' out of their hands. But the unfortunate thing is

that most people find the straw hat and hang on to it, like your
best friend that got the job at the bank when he was fifteen and

looked twenty-eight before he was twenty. 'Oh, this is it! Now I

know what I'm doing! Right? Down this road for the next hundred

years...' and it ain't never that. Whether it's a religious hat or a

political hat or a no-political hat: whatever hat is was, always

looking for these straw hats. I think I found out it's a waste of

time. There is no hat to wear. Just keep moving around and changing

clothes is the best. That's all that goes on: change."

"At one time I thought, well, I'm avoidin' that thing called the Age

Thing, whether it hits you at twenty-one, when you take your first

job - I always keep referrin' to that because it has nothing to do,

virtually, with your physical age. I mean, we all know the guys who

took the jobs when we left school, the straight jobs, they all look

like old guys within six weeks. You'd meet them and they'd be

lookin' like Well, I've Settled Down Now. So I never want to settle

down, in that respect. I always want to be immature in that respect.

But then I felt that if I keep bangin' my head on the wall it'll

stop me from gettin' that kind of age in the head. By keeping

creating, consciously or unconsciously, extraordinary situations

which in the end you'd write about. But maybe it has nothin' to do

with it. I'm still mullin' that over. Still mullin' over last year

now. Maybe that was it. I was still trying to avoid somethin' but

doin' it the wrong way 'round. Whether it's called age or whatever."

Q: "Is it called growing up?"

JOHN: "I don't want to grow up but I'm sick of not growing up - that

way. I'll find a different way of not growing up. There's a better
way of doing it than torturing your body. And then your mind. The

guilt! It's just so dumb. And it makes me furious to be dumb because

I don't like dumb people. And there I am, doing the dumbest

things... I seem to do the things that I despise the most, almost.

All of that to - what? - avoid being normal. I have this great fear

of this normal thing. You know, the ones that passed their exams,

the ones that went to their jobs, the ones that didn't become rock &

rollers, the ones that settle for it, settled for it, settled for

the deal! That's what I'm trying to avoid. But I'm sick of avoiding

it with violence, you know? I've gotta do it some other way. I think

I will. I think just the fact that I've realized it is a good step

forward. Alive in '75 is my new motto. I've just made it up. That's

the one. I've decided I want to live. I'd decided I wanted to live

before, but I didn't know what it meant, really. It's taken however

many years and I want to have a go at it."

Q: "Do you think much of yourself as an artist at fifty or sixty?"

JOHN: "I never see meself as not an artist. I never let meself

believe that an artist can run dry. I've always had this vision of

bein' sixty and writing children's books. I don't know why. It'd be

a strange thing for a person who doesn't really have much to do with

children. I've always had that feeling of giving what Wind in the

Willows and Alice in Wonderland and Treasure Island gave to me at

age seven and eight. The books that really opened my whole being."

Q: "Is there anything left to say about the immigration case?"

JOHN: "People get bored with hearin' about Lennon's immigration

case. I'm bored with hearin' about it. The only interesting thing is
when I read these articles people write that were not instigated by

me. I learn things I didn't know anything about. I didn't know about

Strom Thurmond. I had no idea - I mean I knew something was going

on, but I didn't have any names. I'm just left in the position of

just what am I supposed to do? There doesn't seem to be anything I

can do about it. It's just... bloody crazy. Terry Southern put it in

a nice sort of way. He said, 'Well, look, y'keep 'em all happy, ya

see? The conservatives are happy 'cause they're doin' somethin'

about ya and the liberals are happy 'cause they haven't thrown you

out. So everybody's happy! (pause) Except you!' (laughter) I'm happy

I'm still here. I must say that. And I ain't going. There's no way

they're gonna get me out. No way. They're not gonna drag me in

chains, right? So I'm just gonna have to keep paying. It's bloody

ridiculous. It's just... beyond belief."

Q: "So nothing has changed with the departure of Nixon."

JOHN: "I'm even nervous about commenting on politics. They've got me

that jumpy these days. But it's a bit of an illusion to think 'cause

Old Nick went that it's all changed. If it's changed, prove it, show

me the change."

Q: "Does the case get in the way of your work?"

JOHN: "It did. It did. There's no denying it. In '72, it was really

gettin' to me. Not only was I physically having to appear in court

cases, it just seemed like a toothache that wouldn't go away. Now I

just accept it. I just have a permanent toothache. But there was a

period where I just couldn't function, you know? I was so paranoid

from them tappin' the phone and followin' me. How could I prove that
they were tappin' me phone? There was a period when I was hangin'

out with a group called Elephant's Memory. And I was ready to go on

the road for pure fun. I didn't want to go on the road for money.

That was the time when I was standing up in the Apollo with a guitar

at the Attica relatives' benefit or ending up on the stage at the

John Sinclair rally. I felt like going on the road and playing

music. And whatever excuse - charity or whatever - would have done

me. But they kept pullin' me back into court! I had the group

hangin' 'round, but I finally had to say, 'Hey, you better get on

with your lives.' Now, the last thing on earth I want to do is

perform. That's a direct result of the immigration thing. In '71,

'72, I wanted to go out and rock my balls off onstage and I just

stopped."

Q: "Have you made any kind of flat decision not to ever go on the

road again?"

JOHN: "No. I've stopped making flat decisions. I change me mind a

lot. My idea of heaven is not going on the road."

Q: "Will you ever be free of the fact that you were once a Beatle?"

JOHN: "I've got used to the fact - just about - that whatever I do

is going to be compared to the other Beatles. If I took up ballet

dancing, my ballet dancing would be compared with Paul's bowling. So

that I'll have to live with. But I've come to learn something big

this past year. I cannot let the Top Ten dominate my art. If my

worth is only to be judged by whether I'm in the Top Ten or not,

then I'd better give up. Because if I let the Top Ten dominate my

art, then the art will die. And then whether I'm in the Top Ten is a
 moot point. I do think now in terms of long term. I'm an artist. I

have to express myself. I can't be dominated by gold records. As I

said, I'm thirty-four going on sixty. The art is more important than

the thing and sometimes I have to remind meself of it. Because

there's a danger there, for all of us, for everyone who's involved

in whatever art they're in, of needing that love so badly that... In

my business, that's manifested in the Top Ten."

Q: "So this last year, in some ways, was a year of deciding whether

you wanted to be an artist or a pop star?"

JOHN: "Yeah. What is it I'm doing. What am I doing? Meanwhile, I was

still putting out the work. But in the back of me head it was that:

What do you want to be? What are you lookin' for? And that's about

it. I'm a freakin' artist, man, not a fuckin' racehorse."

John Lennon Interview: Newsweek, 9/29/1980

Lennon Interview: Newsweek,

9/29/1980

ABOUT THIS INTERVIEW:

The September 29th 1980 issue of Newsweek featured an exclusive

interview with John Lennon. Newsweek's conversation with Lennon,

 appearing in the music section of the magazine, is much shorter in

length than his more famous 1980 interview in Playboy just a few

months later. However the Newsweek article, entitled 'The Real John

Lennon,' is an interesting and refreshing read. While there are no

topics discussed here that are not covered in the Playboy interview,

it is a bit more insight with a slightly different clarifying edge

-- another welcome glimpse into Lennon's last year, just months

before his death.

Barbara Graustark and John Lennon discuss his five-year break from

the music scene, being a househusband, Paul McCartney, Yoko's

influence on the Beatles break-up, and the upcoming 'Double Fantasy'

album.

Double Fantasy would be released on November 17th 1980. Lennon

would

be tragically slain by the gunshots of a mentally-disturbed fan on

December 8th.

- Jay Spangler, Beatles

Article ©1980 Newsweek Magazine

In the nine years since the Beatles broke up, John Lennon, their

most brilliant and controversial member, has had a turbulent coming

of age. After a flurry of post-Beatle albums of wildly uneven

quality, a four-year fight with the Immigration Service to stay in

the United States, a fifteen-month separation from his wife Yoko

Ono, and the birth of their son Sean, Lennon disappeared from public

view in 1975. Now on the eve of his 40th birthday, he is reemerging

with the most eagerly awaited album of the year. Called 'Double

Fantasy,' it is a 'Scenes From A Marriage' in fourteen songs - seven

by Lennon, seven by Ono. Wide-ranging in style - from the rockin'

boogie of Lennon's '(Just Like) Starting Over,' to Ono's

gospel-tinged 'Hard Times Are Over,' from his starry-eyed 'Beautiful

Boy' to her acid-tongued rock-disco 'Kiss, Kiss, Kiss' - the

forthcoming album is full of unaffected gusto and is likely to

appeal to the broadest tastes.

A few years ago, the couple switched roles: Lennon became a

househusband - babysitting and baking bread, while Ono became the

family's business manager. Their real-estate holdings are extensive

- five cooperatives in Manhatten's legendary Dakota apartment house,

half a dozen residences scattered from Palm Beach, Fla., to a

mountain retreat in upstate New York, and four dairy farms.

Recently Lennon and Ono sat down with Newsweek's Barbara Graystark

for his first major interview in five years. Whippet-thin in Levis

and work shirt, smoking French cigarettes and nibbling sushi, the

ex-Beatle talked expansively about himself, showing no sign of the

inner demons that once haunted his songs.

Q: "Why did you go underground in 1975? Were you tired of making

music, or of the business itself?"

JOHN: "It was a bit of both. I'd been under contract since I was 22
and I was always 'supposed to.' I was supposed to write a hundred

songs by Friday, supposed to have a single out by Saturday, supposed

to do this or that. I became an artist because I cherished freedom -

I couldn't fit into a classroom or office. Freedom was the plus for

all the minuses of being an oddball! But suddenly I was obliged to

the media, obilged to the public. It wasn't free at all!

I've withdrawn many times. Part of me is a monk, and part a

performing flea! The fear in the music business is that you don't

exist if you're not at Xenon with Andy Warhol. As I found out, life

doesn't end when you stop subscribing to Billboard."

Q: "Why five years?"

JOHN: "If you know your history, it took us a long time to have a

live baby. And I wanted to give five solid years to Sean. I hadn't

seen Julian, my first son (by ex-wife Cynthia), grow up at all. And

now there's a 17-year-old man on the phone talkin' about motorbikes.

I'm an avid reader, mainly history, archeology and anthropology. In

other cultures, children don't leave the mother's back until 2. I

think most schools are prisons - A child's thing is wide open and to

narrow it down and make him compete in the classroom is a joke. I

sent Sean to kindergarten. When I realized I was sending him there

to get rid of him, I let him come home... If I don't give him

attention at 5, then I'm gonna have to give him double doses of it

in his teenage years. It's owed."

Q: "Paul McCartney's theory is that you became a recluse because

you'd done everything - but be yourself."

JOHN: "What the hell does that mean? Paul didn't know what I was
doing - he was as curious as everyone else. It's ten years since I

really communicated with him. I know as much about him as he does

about me, which is zilch. About two years ago, he turned up at the

door. I said, 'Look, do you mind ringin' first? I've just had a hard

day with the baby. I'm worn out and you're walkin' in with a damn

guitar!"

Q: "Give me a typical day in the life of John and Yoko."

JOHN: "Yoko became the breadwinner, taking care of the bankers and

deals. And I became the housewife. It was like one of those reversal

comedies! I'd say (mincingly), 'Well, how was it at the office

today, dear? Do you want a cocktail? I didn't get your slippers and

your shirts aren't back from the laundry.' To all housewives, I say

I now understand what you're screaming about. My life was built

around Sean's meals. 'Am I limiting his diet too much?' (The Lennons

maintain a macrobiotic lifestyle, eschewing dairy products, liquor

and meat.) 'Is SHE gonna talk business when she comes home from

work?' I'm a rich housewife - but it still involves caring."

Q: "Yoko, why did you decide to take over as business manager?"

YOKO: "There's a song by John on the album called 'Clean-up Time' -

and it really was that for us. Being connected to Apple (the

Beatles' corporation) and all the lawyers and managers who had a

piece of us, we weren't financially independent - we didn't even

know how much money we had. We still don't! Now we are selling our

shares (25 percent) of Apple stock to free our energy for other

things. People advised us to invest in stocks and oil but we didn't

believe in it. You have to invest in things you love. Like cows,
which are sacred animals in India. Buying houses was a practical

decision - John was starting to feel stuck in the Dakota and we get

bothered in hotels. Each house that we've bought was chosen because

it was a landmark that needed restoring."

Q: "John, how hard was it not to be doing something musical?"

JOHN: "At first, it was very hard. But musically my mind was just a

clutter. It was apparent in 'Walls And Bridges' (his 1974 solo

album), which was the work of a semisick craftsman. There was no

inspiration, and it gave off an aura of misery. I couldn't hear the

music for the noise in my own head. By turning away, I began to hear

it again. It's like Newton, who never would have conceived of what

the apple falling meant had he not been daydreaming under a tree.

That's what I'm living for... the joy of having the apple fall on my

head once every five years."

Q: "Did you just stop listening to music?"

JOHN: "I listened mostly to classical or Muzak. I'm not interested

in other people's work - only so much as it affects me. I have the

great honor of never having been to Studio 54 and I've never been to

any rock clubs. It's like asking Picasso, has he been to the museum

lately."

Q: "Why did you decide to record again?"

JOHN: "Because this housewife would like to have a career for a bit!

On Oct. 9, I'll be 40 and Sean will be 5 and I can afford to say

'Daddy does something else as well.' He's not accustomed to it - in

five years I hardly picked up a guitar. Last Christmas our neighbors

showed him 'Yellow Submarine' and he came running in, saying,

 'Daddy, you were singing... were you a Beatle?' I said, 'Well, yes.

Right.'"

Q: "Why did you collaborate with Yoko on this LP?"

JOHN: "It's like a play and we're acting in it. It's John and Yoko -

you can take it or leave it. Otherwise (laughing) it's cows and

cheese, my dear! Being with Yoko makes me whole. I don't want to

sing if she's not there. We're like spitiual advisors. When I first

got out of the Beatles, I thought, 'Oh great. I don't have to listen

to Paul and Ringo and George.' But it's boring yodeling by yourself

in a studio. I don't need all that space anymore."

Q: "You've come a long way from the man who wrote, at 23, 'Women

should be obscene rather than heard.' How did this happen?"

JOHN: "I was a working-class macho guy who was used to being served

and Yoko didn't buy that. From the day I met her, she demanded equal

time, equal space, equal rights. I said, 'Don't expect me to change

in any way. Don't impinge on my space.' She answered, 'Then I can't

be here. Because there is no space where you are. Everything

revolves around you and I can't breathe in that atmosphere.' I'm

thankful to her for the education."

Q: "People have blamed Yoko for wrenching you away from the band
and

destroying the Beatles. How did it really end?"

JOHN: "I was always waiting for a reason to get out of the Beatles

from the day I filmed 'How I Won The War' (in 1966). I just didn't

have the guts to do it. The seed was planted when the Beatles

stopped touring and I couldn't deal with not being onstage. But I

was too frightened to step out of the palace. That's what killed
(Elvis) Presley. The king is always killed by his courtiers. He is

overfed, overindulged, overdrunk to keep him tied to his throne.

Most people in the position never wake up. Yoko showed me what it

was to be Elvis Beatle, and to be surrounded by sycophant slaves

only interested in keeping the situation as it was - a kind of

death. And that's how the Beatles ended - not because she 'split'

the Beatles, but because she said to me, 'You've got no clothes on.'

Q: "How do you look back on your political radicalism in the early

'70's?"

JOHN: "That radicalism was phony, really, because it was out of

guilt. I'd always felt guilty that I made money, so I had to give it

away or lose it. I don't mean I was a hypocrite. When I believe, I

believe right down to the roots. But being a chameleon, I became

whoever I was with. When you stop and think, what the hell was I

doing fighting the American Government just because Jerry Rubin

couldn't get what he always wanted - a nice cushy job."

Q: "Do you ever yearn for the good old days?"

JOHN: "Nah! Whatever made the Beatles the Beatles also made the 60's

the 60's. And anybody who thinks that if John and Paul got together

with George and Ringo, the Beatles would exist, is out of their

skulls. The Beatles gave everything they had to give, and more. The

four guys who used to be that group can never ever be that group

again even if they wanted to be. What if Paul and I got together? It

would be boring. Whether George or Ringo joined in is irrelevant

because Paul and I created the music. OK? There are many Beatle

tracks that I would redo - they were never the way I wanted them to
 be. But going back to the Beatles would be like going back to

school... I was never one for reunions. It's all over."

Q: "Of all the new songs, only 'I'm Losing You' seems to harbor the

famous Lennon demons. How did you come to write it?"

JOHN: "It came out of an overwhelming feeling of loss that went

right back to the womb. One night, I couldn't get through to Yoko on

the telephone and I felt completely disconnected... I think that's

what the last five years were all about - to reestablish me for

meself. The actual moment of awareness when I remembered who I

was

came in a room in Hong Kong because Yoko had sent me around the

world to be by meself. I hadn't done anything by meself since I was

20. I didn't know how to check into a hotel... if someone reads this

they'll think, 'These bloody popstars!' They don't understand the

pain of being a freak. Whenever I got nervous about it I took a

bath, and in Hong Kong I'd had about 40 baths. I was looking out

over the bay when something rang a bell. It was the recognition -

'My God! This relaxed person is me from way back. HE knew how to do

things. It doesn't rely on any adulation or hit record. Wow!' So I

called Yoko and said, 'Guess who. It's me!'

I wandered around Hong Kong at dawn, alone, and it was a thrill. It

was rediscovering a feeling that I once had as a younster walking

the mountains of Scotland with an Auntie. The heather, the mist... I

thought - aha! THIS is the feeling that makes you write or paint...

It was with me all my life! And that's why I'm free of the Beatles,

because I took time to discover that I was John Lennon before the

Beatles, and will be after the Beatles. And so be it."

John Lennon Interview: Playboy 1980

Playboy Interview with John Lennon and Yoko Ono:

Interviewed by David Sheff

Article ©1980 Playboy Press

PLAYBOY: "The word is out: John Lennon and Yoko Ono are back in the

studio, recording again for the first time since 1975, when they

vanished from public view. Let's start with you, John. What have you

been doing?"

LENNON: "I've been baking bread and looking after the baby."

PLAYBOY: "With what secret projects going on in the basement?"

LENNON: "That's like what everyone else who has asked me that

question over the last few years says. 'But what else have you been

doing?' To which I say, 'Are you kidding?' Because bread and babies,

as every housewife knows, is a full-time job. After I made the

loaves, I felt like I had conquered something. But as I watched the

bread being eaten, I thought, Well, Jesus, don't I get a gold record

or knighted or nothing?"

PLAYBOY: "Why did you become a househusband?"

 LENNON: "There were many reasons. I had been under obligation or

contract from the time I was 22 until well into my 30s. After all

those years, it was all I knew. I wasn't free. I was boxed in. My

contract was the physical manifestation of being in prison. It was

more important to face myself and face that reality than to continue

a life of rock 'n' roll... and to go up and down with the whims of

either your own performance or the public's opinion of you. Rock 'n'

roll was not fun anymore. I chose not to take the standard options

in my business... going to Vegas and singing your great hits, if

you're lucky, or going to hell, which is where Elvis went."

ONO: "John was like an artist who is very good at drawing circles.

He sticks to that and it becomes his label. He has a gallery to

promote that. And the next year, he will do triangles or something.

It doesn't reflect his life at all. When you continue doing the same

thing for ten years, you get a prize for having done it."

LENNON: "You get the big prize when you get cancer and you have
been

drawing circles and triangles for ten years. I had become a

craftsman and I could have continued being a craftsman. I respect

craftsmen, but I am not interested in becoming one."

ONO: "Just to prove that you can go on dishing out things."

PLAYBOY: "You're talking about records, of course."

LENNON: "Yeah, to churn them out because I was expected to, like so

many people who put out an album every six months because they're

supposed to."

PLAYBOY: "Would you be referring to Paul McCartney?"

LENNON: "Not only Paul. But I had lost the initial freedom of the
artist by becoming enslaved to the image of what the artist is

supposed to do. A lot of artists kill themselves because of it,

whether it is through drink, like Dylan Thomas, or through insanity,

like Van Gogh, or through V.D., like Gauguin."

PLAYBOY: "Most people would have continued to churn out the product.

How were you able to see a way out?"

LENNON: "Most people don't live with Yoko Ono."

PLAYBOY: "Which means?"

LENNON: "Most people don't have a companion who will tell the truth

and refuse to live with a bullshit artist, which I am pretty good

at. I can bullshit myself and everybody around. Yoko: That's my

answer."

PLAYBOY: "What did she do for you?"

LENNON: "She showed me the possibility of the alternative. 'You

don't have to do this.' 'I don't? Really? But-but-but-but-but...' Of

course, it wasn't that simple and it didn't sink in overnight. It

took constant reinforcement. Walking away is much harder than

carrying on. I've done both. On demand and on schedule, I had turned

out records from 1962 to 1975. Walking away seemed like what the

guys go through at 65, when suddenly they're supposed to not exist

anymore and they're sent out of the office..." (knocks on the desk

three times) "'Your life is over. Time for golf.'"

PLAYBOY: "Yoko, how did you feel about John's becoming a

househusband?"

ONO: "When John and I would go out, people would come up and say,

'John, what are you doing?' but they never asked about me, because,
as a woman, I wasn't supposed to be doing anything."

LENNON: "When I was cleaning the cat shit and feeding Sean, she was

sitting in rooms full of smoke with men in three-piece suits that

they couldn't button."

ONO: "I handled the business: old business... Apple, Maclen," (the

Beatles' record company and publishing company, respectively) "and

new investments."

LENNON: "We had to face the business. It was either another case of

asking some daddy to come solve our business or having one of us do

it. Those lawyers were getting a quarter of a million dollars a year

to sit around a table and eat salmon at the Plaza. Most of them

didn't seem interested in solving the problems. Every lawyer had a

lawyer. Each Beatle had four or five people working. So we felt we

had to look after that side of the business and get rid of it and

deal with it before we could start dealing with our own life. And

the only one of us who has the talent or the ability to deal with it

on that level is Yoko."

PLAYBOY: "Did you have experience handling business matters of that

proportion?"

ONO: "I learned. The law is not a mystery to me anymore. Politicians

are not a mystery to me. I'm not scared of all that establishment

anymore. At first, my own accountant and my own lawyer could not

deal with the fact that I was telling them what to do."

LENNON: "There was a bit of an attitude that this is John's wife,

but surely she can't really be representing him."

ONO: "A lawyer would send a letter to the directors, but instead of
sending it to me, he would send it to John or send it to my lawyer.

You'd be surprised how much insult I took from them initially. There

was all this 'But you don't know anything about law; I can't talk to

you.' I said, 'All right, talk to me in the way I can understand it.

I am a director, too.'"

LENNON: "They can't stand it. But they have to stand it, because she

is who represents us." (chuckles) "They're all male, you know, just

big and fat, vodka lunch, shouting males, like trained dogs, trained

to attack all the time. Recently, she made it possible for us to

earn a large sum of money that benefited all of them and they fought

and fought not to let her do it, because it was her idea and she was

a woman and she was not a professional. But she did it, and then one

of the guys said to her, 'Well, Lennon does it again.' But Lennon

didn't have anything to do with it."

PLAYBOY: "Why are you returning to the studio and public life?"

LENNON: "You breathe in and you breathe out. We feel like doing it

and we have something to say. Also, Yoko and I attempted a few times

to make music together, but that was a long time ago and people

still had the idea that the Beatles were some kind of sacred thing

that shouldn't step outside its circle. It was hard for us to work

together then. We think either people have forgotten or they have

grown up by now, so we can make a second foray into that place where

she and I are together, making music... simply that. It's not like

I'm some wondrous, mystic prince from the rock-'n'-roll world

dabbling in strange music with this exotic, Oriental dragon lady,

which was the picture projected by the press before."

PLAYBOY: "Some people have accused you of playing to the media.

First you become a recluse, then you talk selectively to the press

because you have a new album coming out."

LENNON: "That's ridiculous. People always said John and Yoko would

do anything for the publicity. In the Newsweek article," (September

29, 1980) "it says the reporter asked us, 'Why did you go

underground?' Well, she never asked it that way and I didn't go

underground. I just stopped talking to the press. It got to be

pretty funny. I was calling myself Greta Hughes or Howard Garbo

through that period. But still the gossip items never stopped. We

never stopped being in the press, but there seemed to be more

written about us when we weren't talking to the press than when we

were."

PLAYBOY: "How do you feel about all the negative press that's been

directed through the years at Yoko, your 'dragon lady,' as you put

it?"

LENNON: "We are both sensitive people and we were hurt a lot by it.

I mean, we couldn't understand it. When you're in love, when

somebody says something like, 'How can you be with that woman?' you

say, 'What do you mean? I am with this goddess of love, the

fulfillment of my whole life. Why are you saying this? Why do you

want to throw a rock at her or punish me for being in love with

her?' Our love helped us survive it, but some of it was pretty

violent. There were a few times when we nearly went under, but we

managed to survive and here we are." (looks upward) "Thank you,

thank you, thank you."

PLAYBOY: "But what about the charge that John Lennon is under Yoko's

spell, under her control?"

LENNON: "Well, that's rubbish, you know. Nobody controls me. I'm

uncontrollable. The only one who controls me is me, and that's just

barely possible."

PLAYBOY: "Still, many people believe it."

LENNON: "Listen, if somebody's gonna impress me, whether it be a

Maharishi or a Yoko Ono, there comes a point when the emperor has no

clothes. There comes a point when I will see. So for all you folks

out there who think that I'm having the wool pulled over my eyes,

well, that's an insult to me. Not that you think less of Yoko,

because that's your problem. What I think of her is what counts!

Because... fuck you, brother and sister... you don't know what's

happening. I'm not here for you. I'm here for me and her and the

baby!"

ONO: "Of course, it's a total insult to me..."

LENNON: "Well, you're always insulted, my dear wife. It's natural..."

ONO: "Why should I bother to control anybody?"

LENNON: "She doesn't need me."

ONO: "I have my own life, you know."

LENNON: "She doesn't need a Beatle. Who needs a Beatle?"

ONO: "Do people think I'm that much of a con? John lasted two months

with the Maharishi. Two months. I must be the biggest con in the

world, because I've been with him 13 years."

LENNON: "But people do say that."

 PLAYBOY: "That's our point. Why?"

LENNON: "They want to hold on to something they never had in the

first place. Anybody who claims to have some interest in me as an

individual artist or even as part of the Beatles has absolutely

misunderstood everything I ever said if they can't see why I'm with

Yoko. And if they can't see that, they don't see anything. They're

just jacking off to... it could be anybody. Mick Jagger or somebody

else. Let them go jack off to Mick Jagger, OK? I don't need it."

PLAYBOY: "He'll appreciate that."

LENNON: "I absolutely don't need it. Let them chase Wings. Just

forget about me. If that's what you want, go after Paul or Mick. I

ain't here for that. If that's not apparent in my past, I'm saying

it in black and green, next to all the tits and asses on page 196.

Go play with the other boys. Don't bother me. Go play with the

Rolling Wings."

PLAYBOY: "Do you..."

LENNON: "No, wait a minute. Let's stay with this a second; sometimes

I can't let go of it." (He is on his feet, climbing up the

refrigerator) "Nobody ever said anything about Paul's having a spell

on me or my having one on Paul! They never thought that was

abnormal

in those days, two guys together, or four guys together! Why didn't

they ever say, 'How come those guys don't split up? I mean, what's

going on backstage? What is this Paul and John business? How can

they be together so long?' We spent more time together in the early

days than John and Yoko: the four of us sleeping in the same room,

practically in the same bed, in the same truck, living together

night and day, eating, shitting and pissing together! All right?

Doing everything together! Nobody said a damn thing about being

under a spell. Maybe they said we were under the spell of Brian

Epstein or George Martin." (the Beatles' first manager and producer,

respectively) "There's always somebody who has to be doing something

to you. You know, they're congratulating the Stones on being

together 112 years. Whoooopee! At least Charlie and Bill still got

their families. In the Eighties, they'll be asking, 'Why are those

guys still together? Can't they hack it on their own? Why do they

have to be surrounded by a gang? Is the little leader scared

somebody's gonna knife him in the back?' That's gonna be the

question. That's-a-gonna be the question! They're gonna look back at

the Beatles and the Stones and all those guys as relics. The days

when those bands were just all men will be on the newsreels, you

know. They will be showing pictures of the guy with lipstick

wriggling his ass and the four guys with the evil black make-up on

their eyes trying to look raunchy. That's gonna be the joke in the

future, not a couple singing together or living and working

together. It's all right when you're 16, 17, 18 to have male

companions and idols, OK? It's tribal and it's gang and it's fine.

But when it continues and you're still doing it when you're 40, that

means you're still 16 in the head."

PLAYBOY: "Let's start at the beginning. Tell us the story of how the

wondrous mystic prince and the exotic Oriental dragon lady met."

LENNON: "It was in 1966 in England. I'd been told about this

'event'... this Japanese avant-garde artist coming from America. I

was looking around the gallery and I saw this ladder and climbed up

and got a look in this spyglass on the top of the ladder... you feel

like a fool... and it just said, 'Yes.' Now, at the time, all the

avant-garde was smash the piano with a hammer and break the

sculpture and anti-, anti-, anti-, anti-, anti. It was all boring

negative crap, you know. And just that Yes made me stay in a gallery

full of apples and nails. There was a sign that said, Hammer A Nail

In, so I said, 'Can I hammer a nail in?' But Yoko said no, because

the show wasn't opening until the next day. But the owner came up

and whispered to her, 'Let him hammer a nail in. You know, he's a

millionaire. He might buy it.' And so there was this little

conference, and finally she said, 'OK, you can hammer a nail in for

five shillings.' So smartass says, 'Well, I'll give you an imaginary

five shillings and hammer an imaginary nail in.' And that's when we

really met. That's when we locked eyes and she got it and I got it

and, as they say in all the interviews we do, the rest is history."

PLAYBOY: "What happened next?"

LENNON: "Of course, I was a Beatle, but things had begun to change.

In 1966, just before we met, I went to Almeria, Spain, to make the

movie 'How I Won the War.' It did me a lot of good to get away. I

was there six weeks. I wrote 'Strawberry Fields Forever' there, by

the way. It gave me time to think on my own, away from the others.

From then on, I was looking for somewhere to go, but I didn't have

the nerve to really step out on the boat by myself and push it off.

But when I fell in love with Yoko, I knew, My God, this is different

from anything I've ever known. This is something other. This is more
than a hit record, more than gold, more than everything. It is

indescribable."

PLAYBOY: "Were falling in love with Yoko and wanting to leave the

Beatles connected?"

LENNON: "As I said, I had already begun to want to leave, but when I

met Yoko is like when you meet your first woman. You leave the guys

at the bar. You don't go play football anymore. You don't go play

snooker or billiards. Maybe some guys do it on Friday night or

something, but once I found the woman, the boys became of no

interest whatsoever other than being old school friends. 'Those

wedding bells are breaking up that old gang of mine.' We got married

three years later, in 1969. That was the end of the boys. And it

just so happened that the boys were well known and weren't just

local guys at the bar. Everybody got so upset over it. There was a

lot of shit thrown at us. A lot of hateful stuff."

ONO: "Even now, I just read that Paul said, 'I understand that he

wants to be with her, but why does he have to be with her all the

time?'"

LENNON: "Yoko, do you still have to carry that cross? That was years

ago."

ONO: "No, no, no. He said it recently. I mean, what happened with

John is like, I sort of went to bed with this guy that I liked and

suddenly the next morning, I see these three in-laws, standing

there."

LENNON: "I've always thought there was this underlying thing in

Paul's 'Get Back.' When we were in the studio recording it, every
time he sang the line 'Get back to where you once belonged,' he'd

look at Yoko."

PLAYBOY: "Are you kidding?"

LENNON: "No. But maybe he'll say I'm paranoid."

(the next portion of the interview took place with Lennon alone)

PLAYBOY: "This may be the time to talk about those 'in-laws,' as

Yoko put it. John, you've been asked this a thousand times, but why

is it so unthinkable that the Beatles might get back together to

make some music?"

LENNON: "Do you want to go back to high school? Why should I go back

ten years to provide an illusion for you that I know does not exist?

It cannot exist."

PLAYBOY: "Then forget the illusion. What about just to make some

great music again? Do you acknowledge that the Beatles made great

music?"

LENNON: "Why should the Beatles give more? Didn't they give

everything on God's earth for ten years? Didn't they give

themselves? You're like the typical sort of love-hate fan who says,

'Thank you for everything you did for us in the Sixties... would you

just give me another shot? Just one more miracle?'"

PLAYBOY: "We're not talking about miracles... just good music."

LENNON: "When Rodgers worked with Hart and then worked with

Hammerstein, do you think he should have stayed with one instead of

working with the other? Should Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis have

stayed together because I used to like them together? What is this

game of doing things because other people want it? The whole Beatle
idea was to do what you want, right? To take your own

responsibility."

PLAYBOY: "Alright, but get back to the music itself. You don't agree

that the Beatles created the best rock 'n roll that's been produced?"

LENNON: "I don't. The Beatles, you see... I'm too involved in them

artistically. I cannot see them objectively. I cannot listen to them

objectively. I'm dissatisfied with every record the Beatles ever

fucking made. There ain't one of them I wouldn't remake... including

all the Beatles records and all my individual ones. So I cannot

possibly give you an assessment of what the Beatles are. When I was

a Beatle, I thought we were the best fucking group in the god-damned

world. And believing that is what made us what we were... whether we

call it the best rock 'n roll group or the best pop group or

whatever. But you play me those tracks today and I want to remake

every damn one of them. There's not a single one... I heard 'Lucy in

the Sky with Diamonds' on the radio last night. It's abysmal, you

know. The track is just terrible. I mean, it's great, but it wasn't

made right, know what I mean? But that's the artistic trip, isn't

it? That's why you keep going. But to get back to your original

question about the Beatles and their music, the answer is that we

did some good stuff and we did some bad stuff."

PLAYBOY: "Many people feel that none of the songs Paul has done

alone match the songs he did as a Beatle. Do you honestly feel that

any of your songs on the Plastic Ono Band records will have the

lasting imprint of 'Eleanor Rigby' or 'Strawberry Fields'?"

LENNON: "'Imagine,' 'Love' and those Plastic Ono Band songs stand up

to any song that was written when I was a Beatle. Now, it may take

you 20 or 30 years to appreciate that, but the fact is, if you check

those songs out, you will see that it is as good as any fucking

stuff that was ever done."

PLAYBOY: "It seems as if you're trying to say to the world, 'We were

just a good band making some good music,' while a lot of the rest of

the world is saying, 'It wasn't just some good music, it was the

best.'"

LENNON: "Well, if it was the best, so what?"

PLAYBOY: "So..."

LENNON: "It can never be again! Everyone always talks about a good

thing coming to an end, as if life was over. But I'll be 40 when

this interview comes out. Paul is 38. Elton John, Bob Dylan... we're

all relatively young people. The game isn't over yet. Everyone talks

in terms of the last record or the last Beatle concert... but, God

willing, there are another 40 years of productivity to go. I'm not

judging whether 'I am the Walrus' is better or worse than 'Imagine.'

It is for others to judge. I am doing it. I do. I don't stand back

and judge... I do."

PLAYBOY: "You keep saying you don't want to go back ten years, that

too much has changed. Don't you ever feel it would be interesting...

never mind cosmic, just interesting... to get together, with all

your new experiences, and cross your talents?"

LENNON: "Wouldn't it be interesting to take Elvis back to his Sun

Records period? I don't know. But I'm content to listen to his Sun
Records. I don't want to dig him up out of the grave. The Beatles

don't exist and can never exist again. John Lennon, Paul McCartney,

George Harrison and Richard Starkey could put on a concert... but it

can never be the Beatles singing 'Strawberry Fields' or 'I Am The

Walrus' again, because we are not in our 20s. We cannot be that

again, nor can the people who are listening."

PLAYBOY: "But aren't you the one who is making it too important?

What if it were just nostalgic fun? A high school reunion?"

LENNON: "I never went to high school reunions. My thing is, Out of

sight, out of mind. That's my attitude toward life. So I don't have

any romanticism about any part of my past. I think of it only

inasmuch as it gave me pleasure or helped me grow psychologically.

That is the only thing that interests me about yesterday. I don't

believe in yesterday, by the way. You know I don't believe in

yesterday. I am only interested in what I am doing now."

PLAYBOY: "What about the people of your generation, the ones who

feel a certain kind of music and spirit died when the Beatles broke

up?"

LENNON: "If they didn't understand the Beatles and the Sixties then,

what the fuck could we do for them now? Do we have to divide the

fish and the loaves for the multitudes again? Do we have to get

crucified again? Do we have to do the walking on water again because

a whole pile of dummies didn't see it the first time, or didn't

believe it when they saw it? You know, that's what they're asking:

'Get off the cross. I didn't understand the first bit yet. Can you

do that again?' No way. You can never go home. It doesn't exist."

PLAYBOY: "Do you find that the clamor for a Beatles reunion has died

down?"

LENNON: "Well, I heard some Beatles stuff on the radio the other day

and I heard 'Green Onion' ...no, 'Glass Onion,' I don't even know my

own songs! I listened to it because it was a rare track..."

PLAYBOY: "That was the one that contributed to the 'Paul McCartney

is dead' uproar because of the lyric 'The walrus is Paul.'"

LENNON: "Yeah. That line was a joke, you know. That line was put in

partly because I was feeling guilty because I was with Yoko, and I

knew I was finally high and dry. In a perverse way, I was sort of

saying to Paul, 'Here, have this crumb, have this illusion, have

this stroke... because I'm leaving you.' Anyway, it's a song they

don't usually play. When a radio station has a Beatles weekend, they

usually play the same ten songs... 'A Hard Day's Night,' 'Help!,'

'Yesterday,' 'Something,' 'Let It Be' ...you know, there's all that

wealth of material, but we hear only ten songs. So the deejay says,

'I want to thank John, Paul, George and Ringo for not getting back

together and spoiling a good thing.' I thought it was a good sign.

Maybe people are catching on."

PLAYBOY: "Aside from the millions you've been offered for a reunion

concert, how did you feel about producer Lorne Michaels' generous

offer of $3200 for appearing together on 'Saturday Night Live' a few

years ago?"

LENNON: "Oh, yeah. Paul and I were together watching that show. He

was visiting us at our place in the Dakota. We were watching it and

almost went down to the studio, just as a gag. We nearly got into a
 cab, but we were actually too tired."

PLAYBOY: "How did you and Paul happen to be watching TV together?"

LENNON: "That was a period when Paul just kept turning up at our

door with a guitar. I would let him in, but finally I said to him,

'Please call before you come over. It's not 1956 and turning up at

the door isn't the same anymore. You know, just give me a ring.' He

was upset by that, but I didn't mean it badly. I just meant that I

was taking care of a baby all day and some guy turns up at the

door... But, anyway, back on that night, he and Linda walked in and

he and I were just sitting there, watching the show, and we went,

'Ha-ha, wouldn't it be funny if we went down?' but we didn't."

PLAYBOY: "Was that the last time you saw Paul?"

LENNON: "Yes, but I didn't mean it like that."

PLAYBOY: "We're asking because there's always a lot of speculation

about whether the Fab Four are dreaded enemies or the best of

friends."

LENNON: "We're neither. I haven't seen any of the Beatles for I

don't know how much time. Somebody asked me what I thought of

Paul's

last album and I made some remark like, I thought he was depressed

and sad. But then I realized I hadn't listened to the whole damn

thing. I heard one track... the hit 'Coming Up,' which I thought was

a good piece of work. Then I heard something else that sounded like

he was depressed. But I don't follow their work. I don't follow

Wings, you know. I don't give a shit what Wings is doing, or what

George's new album is doing, or what Ringo is doing. I'm not

interested, no more than I am in what Elton John or Bob Dylan is

doing. It's not callousness, it's just that I'm too busy living my

own life to be following what other people are doing, whether

they're the Beatles or guys I went to college with or people I had

intense relationships with before I met the Beatles."

PLAYBOY: "Besides 'Coming Up,' what do you think of Paul's work

since he left the Beatles?"

LENNON: "I kind of admire the way Paul started back from scratch,

forming a new band and playing in small dance halls, because that's

what he wanted to do with the Beatles... he wanted us to go back to

the dance halls and experience that again. But I didn't. That was

one of the problems, in a way, that he wanted to relive it all or

something... I don't know what it was. But I kind of admire the way

he got off his pedestal. Now he's back on it again, but I mean, he

did what he wanted to do. That's fine, but it's just not what I

wanted to do."

PLAYBOY: "What about the music?"

LENNON: "'The Long and Winding Road' was the last gasp from him.

Although I really haven't listened."

PLAYBOY: "You say you haven't listened to Paul's work and haven't

really talked to him since that night in your apartment..."

LENNON: "Really talked to him, no, that's the operative word. I

haven't really talked to him in ten years. Because I haven't spent

time with him. I've been doing other things and so has he. You know,

he's got 25 kids and about 20,000,000 records out. How can he spend

time talking? He's always working."

PLAYBOY: "Then let's talk about the work you did together. Generally
speaking, what did each of you contribute to the Lennon-McCartney

songwriting team?"

LENNON: "Well, you could say that he provided a lightness, an

optimism, while I would always go for the sadness, the discords, a

certain bluesy edge. There was a period when I thought I didn't

write melodies, that Paul wrote those and I just wrote straight,

shouting rock 'n roll. But, of course, when I think of some of my

own songs... 'In My Life' or some of the early stuff... 'This Boy.'

I was writing melody with the best of them. Paul had a lot of

training, could play a lot of instruments. He'd say, 'Well, why

don't you change that there? You've done that note 50 times in the

song.' You know, I'll grab a note and ram it home. Then again, I'd

be the one to figure out where to go with a song... a story that

Paul would start. In a lot of the songs, my stuff is the

middle-eight, the bridge."

PLAYBOY: "For example?"

LENNON: "Take 'Michelle.' Paul and I were staying somewhere, and he

walked in and hummed the first few bars, with the words, you know--

(sings verse of 'Michelle') and he says, 'Where do I go from here?'

I'd been listening to blues singer Nina Simone, who did something

like 'I love you!' in one of her songs and that made me think of the

middle-eight for 'Michelle.' (sings) 'I love you, I love you, I

lo-ove you...'"

PLAYBOY: "What was the difference in terms of lyrics?"

LENNON: "I always had an easier time with lyrics, though Paul is

quite a capable lyricist who doesn't think he is. So he doesn't go

for it. Rather than face the problem, he would avoid it. 'Hey Jude'

is a damn good set of lyrics. I made no contribution to the lyrics

there. And a couple of lines he has come up with show indications of

a good lyricist. But he just hasn't taken it anywhere. Still, in the

early days, we didn't care about lyrics as long as the song had some

vague theme... she loves you, he loves him, they all love each

other. It was the hook, line and sound we were going for. That's

still my attitude, but I can't leave lyrics alone. I have to make

them make sense apart from the songs."

PLAYBOY: "What's an example of a lyric you and Paul worked on

together?"

LENNON: "In 'We Can Work It Out,' Paul did the first half, I did the

middle-eight. But you've got Paul writing, 'We can work it out/We

can work it out' --real optimistic, y' know, and me, impatient:

'Life is very short and there's no time/For fussing and fighting, my

friend....'"

PLAYBOY: "Paul tells the story and John philosophizes."

LENNON: "Sure. Well, I was always like that, you know. I was like

that before the Beatles and after the Beatles. I always asked why

people did things and why society was like it was. I didn't just

accept it for what it was apparently doing. I always looked below

the surface."

PLAYBOY: "When you talk about working together on a single lyric

like 'We Can Work It Out,' it suggests that you and Paul worked a

lot more closely than you've admitted in the past. Haven't you said

that you wrote most of your songs separately, despite putting both
of your names on them?"

LENNON: "Yeah, I was lying. (laughs) It was when I felt resentful,

so I felt that we did everything apart. But, actually, a lot of the

songs we did eyeball to eyeball."

PLAYBOY: "But many of them were done apart, weren't they?

LENNON: "Yeah. 'Sgt. Pepper' was Paul's idea, and I remember he

worked on it a lot and suddenly called me to go into the studio,

said it was time to write some songs. On 'Pepper,' under the

pressure of only ten days, I managed to come up with 'Lucy in the

Sky' and 'Day in the Life.' We weren't communicating enough, you

see. And later on, that's why I got resentful about all that stuff.

But now I understand that it was just the same competitive game

going on."

PLAYBOY: "But the competitive game was good for you, wasn't it?"

LENNON: "In the early days. We'd make a record in 12 hours or

something; they would want a single every three months and we'd have

to write it in a hotel room or in a van. So the cooperation was

functional as well as musical."

PLAYBOY: "Don't you think that cooperation, that magic between you,

is something you've missed in your work since?"

LENNON: "I never actually felt a loss. I don't want it to sound

negative, like I didn't need Paul, because when he was there,

obviously, it worked. But I can't... it's easier to say what I gave

to him than what he gave to me. And he'd say the same."

PLAYBOY: "Just a quick aside, but while we're on the subject of

lyrics and your resentment of Paul, what made you write 'How Do You
Sleep?,' which contains lyrics such as 'Those freaks was right when

they said you was dead' and 'The only thing you done was

Yesterday/And since you've gone, you're just Another Day'?"

LENNON: (smiles) "You know, I wasn't really feeling that vicious at

the time. But I was using my resentment toward Paul to create a

song, let's put it that way. He saw that it pointedly refers to him,

and people kept hounding him about it. But, you know, there were a

few digs on his album before mine. He's so obscure other people

didn't notice them, but I heard them. I thought, Well, I'm not

obscure, I just get right down to the nitty-gritty. So he'd done it

his way and I did it mine. But as to the line you quoted, yeah, I

think Paul died creatively, in a way."

PLAYBOY: "That's what we were getting at: You say that what you've

done since the Beatles stands up well, but isn't it possible that

with all of you, it's been a case of the creative whole being

greater than the parts?"

LENNON: "I don't know whether this will gel for you: When the

Beatles played in America for the first time, they played pure

craftsmanship. Meaning they were already old hands. The jism had

gone out of the performances a long time ago. In the same respect,

the songwriting creativity had left Paul and me in the mid-Sixties.

When we wrote together in the early days, it was like the beginning

of a relationship. Lots of energy. In the 'Sgt. Pepper'- 'Abbey

Road' period, the relationship had matured. Maybe had we gone on

together, more interesting things would have come, but it couldn't

have been the same."

 PLAYBOY: "Let's move on to Ringo. What's your opinion of him

musically?"

LENNON: "Ringo was a star in his own right in Liverpool before we

even met. He was a professional drummer who sang and performed

and

had Ringo Starr-time and he was in one of the top groups in Britain

but especially in Liverpool before we even had a drummer. So Ringo's

talent would have come out one way or the other as something or

other. I don't know what he would have ended up as, but whatever

that spark is in Ringo that we all know but can't put our finger

on... whether it is acting, drumming or singing I don't know...

there is something in him that is projectable and he would have

surfaced with or without the Beatles. Ringo is a damn good drummer.

He is not technically good, but I think Ringo's drumming is

underrated the same way Paul's bass playing is underrated. Paul was

one of the most innovative bass players ever. And half the stuff

that is going on now is directly ripped off from his Beatles period.

He is an egomaniac about everything else about himself, but his bass

playing he was always a bit coy about. I think Paul and Ringo stand

up with any of the rock musicians. Not technically great... none of

us are technical musicians. None of us could read music. None of us

can write it. But as pure musicians, as inspired humans to make the

noise, they are as good as anybody."

PLAYBOY: "How about George's solo music?"

LENNON: "I think 'All Things Must Pass' was all right. It just went

on too long."

PLAYBOY: "How did you feel about the lawsuit George lost that
claimed the music to 'My Sweet Lord' is a rip-off of the Shirelles'

hit 'He's So Fine?'"

LENNON: "Well, he walked right into it. He knew what he was doing."

PLAYBOY: "Are you saying he consciously plagiarized the song?"

LENNON: "He must have known, you know. He's smarter than that. It's

irrelevant, actually... only on a monetary level does it matter. He

could have changed a couple of bars in that song and nobody could

ever have touched him, but he just let it go and paid the price.

Maybe he thought God would just sort of let him off."

(At presstime, the court has found Harrison guilty of 'subconscious'

plagiarism but has not yet ruled on damages.)

PLAYBOY: "You actually haven't mentioned George much in this

interview."

LENNON: "Well, I was hurt by George's book, 'I, Me, Mine' ...so this

message will go to him. He put a book out privately on his life

that, by glaring omission, says that my influence on his life is

absolutely zilch and nil. In his book, which is purportedly this

clarity of vision of his influence on each song he wrote, he

remembers every two-bit sax player or guitarist he met in subsequent

years. I'm not in the book."

PLAYBOY: "Why?"

LENNON: "Because George's relationship with me was one of young

follower and older guy. He's three or four years younger than me.

It's a love/hate relationship and I think George still bears

resentment toward me for being a daddy who left home. He would not

agree with this, but that's my feeling about it. I was just hurt. I
was just left out, as if I didn't exist. I don't want to be that

egomaniacal, but he was like a disciple of mine when we started. I

was already an art student when Paul and George were still in

grammar school." (equivalent to high school in the U.S.) "There is a

vast difference between being in high school and being in college

and I was already in college and already had sexual relationships,

already drank and did a lot of things like that. When George was a

kid, he used to follow me and my first girlfriend, Cynthia.. who

became my wife... around. We'd come out of art school and he'd be

hovering around like those kids at the gate of the Dakota now. I

remember the day he called to ask for help on 'Taxman,' one of his

bigger songs. I threw in a few one-liners to help the song along,

because that's what he asked for. He came to me because he couldn't

go to Paul, because Paul wouldn't have helped him at that period. I

didn't want to do it. I thought, Oh, no, don't tell me I have to

work on George's stuff. It's enough doing my own and Paul's. But

because I loved him and I didn't want to hurt him when he called me

that afternoon and said, 'Will you help me with this song?' I just

sort of bit my tongue and said OK. It had been John and Paul so

long, he'd been left out because he hadn't been a songwriter up

until then. As a singer, we allowed him only one track on each

album. If you listen to the Beatles' first albums, the English

versions, he gets a single track. The songs he and Ringo sang at

first were the songs that used to be part of my repertoire in the

dance halls. I used to pick songs for them from my repertoire... the

easier ones to sing. So I am slightly resentful of George's book.

But don't get me wrong. I still love those guys. The Beatles are

over, but John, Paul, George and Ringo go on."

PLAYBOY: "Didn't all four Beatles work on a song you wrote for Ringo

in 1973?"

LENNON: "'I'm the Greatest.' It was the Muhammad Ali line, of

course. It was perfect for Ringo to sing. If I said, 'I'm the

greatest,' they'd all take it so seriously. No one would get upset

with Ringo singing it."

PLAYBOY: "Did you enjoy playing with George and Ringo again?"

LENNON: "Yeah, except when George and Billy Preston started saying,

'Let's form a group. Let's form a group.' I was embarrassed when

George kept asking me. He was just enjoying the session and the

spirit was very good, but I was with Yoko, you know. We took time

out from what we were doing. The very fact that they would imagine I

would form a male group without Yoko! It was still in their minds..."

PLAYBOY: "Just to finish your favorite subject, what about the

suggestion that the four of you put aside your personal feelings and

regroup to give a mammoth concert for charity, some sort of giant

benefit?"

LENNON: "I don't want to have anything to do with benefits. I have

been benefited to death."

PLAYBOY: "Why?"

LENNON: "Because they're always rip-offs. I haven't performed for

personal gain since 1966, when the Beatles last performed. Every

concert since then, Yoko and I did for specific charities, except
for a Toronto thing that was a rock 'n roll revival. Every one of

them was a mess or a rip-off. So now we give money to who we want.

You've heard of tithing?"

PLAYBOY: "That's when you give away a fixed percentage of your

income."

LENNON: "Right. I am just going to do it privately. I am not going

to get locked into that business of saving the world on stage. The

show is always a mess and the artist always comes off badly."

PLAYBOY: "What about the Bangladesh concert, in which George and

other people such as Dylan performed?"

LENNON: "Bangladesh was ca-ca."

PLAYBOY: "You mean because of all the questions that were raised

about where the money went?"

LENNON: "Yeah, right. I can't even talk about it, because it's still

a problem. You'll have to check with Mother (Yoko) because she knows

the ins and outs of it, I don't. But it's all a rip-off. So forget

about it. All of you who are reading this, don't bother sending me

all that garbage about, 'Just come and save the Indians, come and

save the blacks, come and save the war veterans,' Anybody I want to

save will be helped through our tithing, which is ten percent of

whatever we earn."

PLAYBOY: "But that doesn't compare with what one promoter, Sid

Bernstein, said you could raise by giving a world-wide televised

concert... playing separately, as individuals, or together, as the

Beatles. He estimated you could raise over $200,000,000 in one day."

LENNON: "That was a commercial for Sid Bernstein written with Jewish

schmaltz and showbiz and tears, dropping on one knee. It was Al

Jolson. OK. So I don't buy that. OK?"

PLAYBOY: "But the fact is, $200,000,000 to a poverty-stricken

country in South America..."

LENNON: "Where do people get off saying the Beatles should give

$200,000,000 to South America? You know, America has poured billions

into places like that. It doesn't mean a damn thing. After they've

eaten that meal, then what? It lasts for only a day. After the

$200,000,000 is gone, then what? It goes round and round in circles.

You can pour money in forever. After Peru, then Harlem, then

Britain. There is no one concert. We would have to dedicate the rest

of our lives to one world concert tour, and I'm not ready for it.

Not in this lifetime, anyway."

(Ono rejoins the conversation)

PLAYBOY: "On the subject of your own wealth, the New York Post

recently said you admitted to being worth over $150,000,000 and..."

LENNON: "We never admitted anything."

PLAYBOY: "The Post said you had."

LENNON: "What the Post says... OK, so we are rich; so what?"

PLAYBOY: "The question is, How does that jibe with your political

philosophies? You're supposed to be socialists, aren't you?"

LENNON: "In England, there are only two things to be, basically: You

are either for the labor movement or for the capitalist movement.

Either you become a right-wing Archie Bunker if you are in the class
I am in, or you become an instinctive socialist, which I was. That

meant I think people should get their false teeth and their health

looked after, all the rest of it. But apart from that, I worked for

money and I wanted to be rich. So what the hell... if that's a

paradox, then I'm a socialist. But I am not anything. What I used to

be is guilty about money. That's why I lost it, either by giving it

away or by allowing myself to be screwed by so-called managers."

PLAYBOY: "Whatever your politics, you've played the capitalist game

very well, parlaying your Beatles royalties into real estate,

livestock..."

ONO: "There is no denying that we are still living in the capitalist

world. I think that in order to survive and to change the world, you

have to take care of yourself first. You have to survive yourself. I

used to say to myself, I am the only socialist living here. (laughs)

I don't have a penny. It is all John's, so I'm clean. But I was

using his money and I had to face that hypocrisy. I used to think

that money was obscene, that the artists didn't have to think about

money. But to change society, there are two ways to go: through

violence or the power of money within the system. A lot of people in

the Sixties went underground and were involved in bombings and other

violence. But that is not the way, definitely not for me. So to

change the system... even if you are going to become a mayor or

something... you need money."

PLAYBOY: "To what extent do you play the game without getting caught

up in it... money for the sake of money, in other words?"

ONO: "There is a limit. It would probably be parallel to our level

 of security. Do you know what I mean? I mean the emotional-security

level as well."

PLAYBOY: "Has it reached that level yet?"

ONO: "No, not yet. I don't know. It might have."

PLAYBOY: "You mean with $150,000,000? Is that an accurate

estimate?"

ONO: "I don't know what we have. It becomes so complex that you
need

to have ten accountants working for two years to find out what you

have. But let's say that we feel more comfortable now."

PLAYBOY: "How have you chosen to invest your money?"

ONO: "To make money, you have to spend money. But if you are going

to make money, you have to make it with love. I love Egyptian art. I

make sure to get all the Egyptian things, not for their value but

for their magic power. Each piece has a certain magic power. Also

with houses. I just buy ones we love, not the ones that people say

are good investments."

PLAYBOY: "The papers have made it sound like you are buying up the

Atlantic Seaboard."

ONO: "If you saw the houses, you would understand. They have become

a good investment, but they are not an investment unless you sell

them. We don't intend to sell. Each house is like a historic

landmark and they're very beautiful."

PLAYBOY: "Do you actually use all the properties?"

ONO: "Most people have the park to go to and run in... the park is a

huge place... but John and I were never able to go to the park

together. So we have to create our own parks, you know."

 PLAYBOY: "We heard that you own $60,000,000 worth of dairy cows.
Can

that be true?"

ONO: "I don't know. I'm not a calculator. I'm not going by figures.

I'm going by excellence of things."

LENNON: "Sean and I were away for a weekend and Yoko came over to

sell this cow and I was joking about it. We hadn't seen her for

days; she spent all her time on it. But then I read the paper that

said she sold it for a quarter of a million dollars. Only Yoko could

sell a cow for that much." (laughter)

PLAYBOY: "For an artist, your business sense seems remarkable."

ONO: "I was doing it just as a chess game. I love chess. I do

everything like it's a chess game. Not on a Monopoly level... that's

a bit more realistic. Chess is more conceptual."

PLAYBOY: "John, do you really need all those houses around the

country?"

LENNON: "They're good business."

PLAYBOY: "Why does anyone need $150,000,000? Couldn't you be

perfectly content with $100,000,000? Or $1,000,000?"

LENNON: "What would you suggest I do? Give everything away and
walk

the streets? The Buddhist says, 'Get rid of the possessions of the

mind.' Walking away from all the money would not accomplish that.

It's like the Beatles. I couldn't walk away from the Beatles. That's

one possession that's still tagging along, right? If I walk away

from one house or 400 houses, I'm not gonna escape it."

PLAYBOY: "How do you escape it?"

 LENNON: "It takes time to get rid of all this garbage that I've been

carrying around that was influencing the way I thought and the way I

lived. It had a lot to do with Yoko, showing me that I was still

possessed. I left physically when I fell in love with Yoko, but

mentally it took the last ten years of struggling. I learned

everything from her."

PLAYBOY: "You make it sound like a teacher-pupil relationship."

LENNON: "It is a teacher-pupil relationship. That's what people

don't understand. She's the teacher and I'm the pupil. I'm the

famous one, the one who's supposed to know everything, but she's my

teacher. She's taught me everything I fucking know. She was there

when I was nowhere, when I was the nowhere man. She's my Don
Juan."

(a reference to Carlos Castaneda's Yaqui Indian teacher) "That's

what people don't understand. I'm married to fucking Don Juan,

that's the hardship of it. Don Juan doesn't have to laugh; Don Juan

doesn't have to be charming; Don Juan just is. And what goes on

around Don Juan is irrelevant to Don Juan."

PLAYBOY: "Yoko, how do you feel about being John's teacher?"

ONO: "Well, he had a lot of experience before he met me, the kind of

experience I never had, so I learned a lot from him, too. It's both

ways. Maybe it's that I have strength, a feminine strength. Because

women develop it... in a relationship, I think women really have the

inner wisdom and they're carrying that while men have sort of the

wisdom to cope with society, since they created it. Men never

developed the inner wisdom; they didn't have time. So most men do

rely on women's inner wisdom, whether they express that or not."

PLAYBOY: "Is Yoko John's guru?"

LENNON: "No, a Don Juan doesn't have a following. A Don Juan isn't

in the newspaper and doesn't have disciples and doesn't proselytize."

PLAYBOY: "How has she taught you?"

LENNON: "When Don Juan said ...when Don Ono said, 'Get out! Because

you're not getting it,' well, it was like being sent into the

desert. And the reason she wouldn't let me back in was because I

wasn't ready to come back in. I had to settle things within myself.

When I was ready to come back in, she let me back in. And that's

what I'm living with."

PLAYBOY: "You're talking about your separation."

LENNON: "Yes. We were separated in the early Seventies. She kicked

me out. Suddenly, I was on a raft alone in the middle of the

universe."

PLAYBOY: "What happened?"

LENNON: "Well, at first, I thought, Whoopee, whoopee! You know,

bachelor life! Whoopee! And then I woke up one day and I thought,

What is this? I want to go home! But she wouldn't let me come home.

That's why it was 18 months apart instead of six months. We were

talking all the time on the phone and I would say, 'I don't like

this, I'm getting in trouble and I'd like to come home, please.' And

she would say, 'You're not ready to come home.' So what do you say?

OK, back to the bottle."

PLAYBOY: "What did she mean, you weren't ready?"

LENNON: "She has her ways. Whether they be mystical or practical.

When she said it's not ready, it ain't ready."

PLAYBOY: "Back to the bottle?"

LENNON: "I was just trying to hide what I felt in the bottle. I was

just insane. It was the lost weekend that lasted 18 months. I've

never drunk so much in my life. I tried to drown myself in the

bottle and I was with the heaviest drinkers in the business."

PLAYBOY: "Such as?"

LENNON: "Such as Harry Nilsson, Bobby Keyes, Keith Moon. We couldn't

pull ourselves out. We were trying to kill ourselves. I think Harry

might still be trying, poor bugger... God bless you, Harry, wherever

you are... but, Jesus, you know, I had to get away from that,

because somebody was going to die. Well, Keith did. It was like,

who's going to die first? Unfortunately, Keith was the one."

PLAYBOY: "Why the self-destruction?"

LENNON: "For me, it was because of being apart. I couldn't stand it.

They had their own reasons, and it was, Let's all drown ourselves

together. From where I was sitting, it looked like that. Let's kill

ourselves but do it like Errol Flynn, you know, the macho, male way.

It's embarrassing for me to think about that period, because I made

a big fool of myself... but maybe it was a good lesson for me. I

wrote 'Nobody Loves You When You're Down and Out' during that time.

That's how I felt. It exactly expresses the whole period. For some

reason, I always imagined Sinatra singing that one. I don't know

why. It's kind of a Sinatraesque song, really. He would do a perfect

job with it. Are you listening, Frank? You need a song that isn't a

piece of nothing. Here's the one for you, the horn arrangement and
 everything's made for you. But don't ask me to produce it."

PLAYBOY: "That must have been the time the papers came out with

reports about Lennon running around town with a Tampax on his head."

LENNON: "The stories were all so exaggerated, but... We were all in

a restaurant, drinking, not eating, as usual at those gatherings,

and I happened to go take a pee and there was a brand-new fresh

Kotex, not Tampax, on the toilet. You know the old trick where you

put a penny on your forehead and it sticks? I was a little high and

I just picked it up and slapped it on and it stayed, you see. I

walked out of the bathroom and I had a Kotex on my head. Big deal.

Everybody went 'Ha-ha-ha' and it fell off, but the press blew it up."

PLAYBOY: "Why did you kick John out, Yoko?"

ONO: "There were many things. I'm what I call a 'moving on' kind of

girl; there's a song on our new album about it. Rather than deal

with problems in relationships, I've always moved on. That's why I'm

one of the very few survivors as a woman, you know. Women tend to
be

more into men usually, but I wasn't..."

LENNON: "Yoko looks upon men as assistants... Of varying degrees of

intimacy, but basically assistants. And this one's going to take a

pee." (he exits)

ONO: "I have no comment on that. But when I met John, women to him

were basically people around who were serving him. He had to open

himself up and face me... and I had to see what he was going

through. But I thought I had to move on again, because I was

suffering being with John."

PLAYBOY: "Why?"

ONO: "The pressure from the public, being the one who broke up the

Beatles and who made it impossible for them to get back together. My

artwork suffered, too. I thought I wanted to be free from being Mrs.

Lennon, so I thought it would be a good idea for him to go to L.A.

and leave me alone for a while. I had put up with it for many years.

Even early on, when John was a Beatle, we stayed in a room and John

and I were in bed and the door was closed and all that, but we

didn't lock the door and one of the Beatle assistants just walked in

and talked to him as if I weren't there. It was mind-blowing. I was

invisible. The people around John saw me as a terrible threat. I

mean, I heard there were plans to kill me. Not the Beatles but the

people around them."

PLAYBOY: "How did that news affect you?"

ONO: "The society doesn't understand that the woman can be

castrated, too. I felt castrated. Before, I was doing all right,

thank you. My work might not have been selling much, I might have

been poorer, but I had my pride. But the most humiliating thing is

to be looked at as a parasite."

(Lennon rejoins the conversation)

LENNON: "When Yoko and I started doing stuff together, we would hold

press conferences and announce our whatevers... we're going to wear

bags or whatever. And before this one press conference, one Beatle

assistant in the upper echelon of Beatle assistants leaned over to

Yoko and said, You know, you don't have to work. You've got enough

money, now that you're Mrs. Lennon.' And when she complained to me
about it, I couldn't understand what she was talking about. 'But

this guy,' I'd say, 'He's just good old Charley, or whatever. He's

been with us 20 years...' The same kind of thing happened in the

studio. She would say to an engineer, 'I'd like a little more

treble, a little more bass,' or 'There's too much of whatever you're

putting on,' and they'd look at me and say, 'What did you say,

John?' Those days I didn't even notice it myself. Now I know what

she's talking about. In Japan, when I ask for a cup of tea in

Japanese, they look at Yoko and ask, 'He wants a cup of tea?' in

Japanese."

ONO: "So a good few years of that kind of thing emasculates you. I

had always been more macho than most guys I was with, in a sense. I

had always been the breadwinner, because I always wanted to have the

freedom and the control. Suddenly, I'm with somebody I can't

possibly compete with on a level of earnings. Finally, I couldn't

take it... or I decided not to take it any longer. I would have had

the same difficulty even if I hadn't gotten involved with, ah...."

LENNON: "John-- John is the name."

ONO: "With John. But John wasn't just John. He was also his group

and the people around them. When I say John, it's not just John..."

LENNON: "That's John. J-O-H-N. From Johan, I believe."

PLAYBOY: "So you made him leave?"

ONO: "Yes."

LENNON: She don't suffer fools gladly, even if she's married to him."

PLAYBOY: "How did you finally get back together?"

ONO: "It slowly started to dawn on me that John was not the trouble

at all. John was a fine person. It was society that had become too

much. We laugh about it now, but we started dating again. I wanted

to be sure. I'm thankful to John's intelligence..."

LENNON: "Now, get that, editors... you got that word?"

ONO: "...that he was intelligent enough to know this was the only

way that we could save our marriage, not because we didn't love each

other but because it was getting too much for me. Nothing would have

changed if I had come back as Mrs. Lennon again."

PLAYBOY: "What did change?"

ONO: "It was good for me to do the business and regain my pride

about what I could do. And it was good to know what he needed, the

role reversal that was so good for him."

LENNON: "And we learned that it's better for the family if we are

both working for the family, she doing the business and me playing

mother and wife. We reordered our priorities. The number-one

priority is her and the family. Everything else revolves around

that."

ONO: "It's a hard realization. These days, the society prefers

single people. The encouragements are to divorce or separate or be

single or gay... whatever. Corporations want singles-- they work

harder if they don't have family ties. They don't have to worry

about being home in the evenings or on the weekends. There's not

much room for emotions about family or personal relationships. You

know, the whole thing they say to women approaching 30 that if you

don't have a baby in the next few years, you're going to be in

trouble, you'll never be a mother, so you'll never be fulfilled in

that way and..."

LENNON: "Only Yoko was 73 when she had Sean."

(laughter)

ONO: "So instead of the society discouraging children, since they

are important for society, it should encourage them. It's the

responsibility of everybody. But it is hard. A woman has to deny

what she has, her womb, if she wants to make it. It seems that only

the privileged classes can have families. Nowadays, maybe it's only

the McCartneys and the Lennons or something."

LENNON: "Everybody else becomes a worker/consumer."

ONO: "And then Big Brother will decide. I hate to use the term Big

Brother..."

LENNON: "Too late. They've got it on tape." (laughs)

ONO: "But, finally, the society..."

LENNON: "Big Sister-- wait till she comes!"

ONO: "The society will do away with the roles of men and women.

Babies will be born in test tubes and incubators..."

LENNON: "Then it's Aldous Huxley."

ONO: "But we don't have to go that way. We don't have to deny any of

our organs, you know."

LENNON: "Some of my best friends are organs."

ONO: "The new album..."

LENNON: "Back to the album, very good."

ONO: "The album fights these things. The messages are sort of

old-fashioned. Family, relationships, children."

PLAYBOY: "The album obviously reflects your new priorities. How have

things gone for you since you made that decision?"

LENNON: "We got back together, decided this was our life, that

having a baby was important to us and that anything else was

subsidiary to that. We worked hard for that child. We went through

all hell trying to have a baby, through many miscarriages and other

problems. He is what they call a love child in truth. Doctors told

us we could never have a child. We almost gave up. 'Well, that's it,

then, we can't have one.' We were told something was wrong with my

sperm, that I abused myself so much in my youth that there was no

chance. Yoko was 43, and so they said, no way. She has had too many

miscarriages and when she was a young girl, there were no pills, so

there were lots of abortions and miscarriages; her stomach must be

like Kew Gardens in London. No way. But this Chinese acupuncturist

in San Francisco said, 'You behave yourself. No drugs, eat well, no

drink. You have child in 18 months.' And we said, 'But the English

doctors said...' He said, 'Forget what they said. You have child.'

We had Sean and sent the acupuncturist a Polaroid of him just before

he died, God rest his soul."

PLAYBOY: "Were there any problems because of Yoko's age?"

LENNON: "Not because of her age but because of a screw-up in the

hospital and the fucking price of fame. Somebody had made a

transfusion of the wrong blood type into Yoko. I was there when it

happened, and she starts to go rigid, and then shake, from the pain

and the trauma. I run up to this nurse and say, 'Go get the doctor!'

I'm holding on tight to Yoko while this guy gets to the hospital
room. He walks in, hardly notices that Yoko is going through fucking

convulsions, goes straight for me, smiles, shakes my hand and says,

'I've always wanted to meet you, Mr. Lennon, I always enjoyed your

music.' I start screaming: 'My wife's dying and you wanna talk about

my music!' Christ!"

PLAYBOY: "Now that Sean is almost five, is he conscious of the fact

that his father was a Beatle or have you protected him from your

fame?"

LENNON: "I haven't said anything. Beatles were never mentioned to

him. There was no reason to mention it; we never played Beatle

records around the house, unlike the story that went around that I

was sitting in the kitchen for the past five years, playing Beatle

records and reliving my past like some kind of Howard Hughes. He did

see 'Yellow Submarine' at a friend's, so I had to explain what a

cartoon of me was doing in a movie."

PLAYBOY: "Does he have an awareness of the Beatles?"

LENNON: "He doesn't differentiate between the Beatles and Daddy and

Mommy. He thinks Yoko was a Beatle, too. I don't have Beatle records

on the jukebox he listens to. He's more exposed to early rock 'n

roll. He's into 'Hound Dog.' He thinks it's about hunting. Sean's

not going to public school, by the way. We feel he can learn the

three Rs when he wants to... or when the law says he has to, I

suppose. I'm not going to fight it. Otherwise, there's no reason for

him to be learning to sit still. I can't see any reason for it. Sean

now has plenty of child companionship, which everybody says is

important, but he also is with adults a lot. He's adjusted to both.

The reason why kids are crazy is because nobody can face the

responsibility of bringing them up. Everybody's too scared to deal

with children all the time, so we reject them and send them away and

torture them. The ones who survive are the conformists. Their bodies

are cut to the size of the suits... the ones we label good. The ones

who don't fit the suits either are put in mental homes or become

artists."

PLAYBOY: "Your son, Julian, from your first marriage must be in his

teens. Have you seen him over the years?"

LENNON: "Well, Cyn got possession, or whatever you call it. I got

rights to see him on his holidays and all that business, and at

least there's an open line still going. It's not the best

relationship between father and son, but it is there. He's 17 now.

Julian and I will have a relationship in the future. Over the years,

he's been able to see through the Beatle image and to see through

the image that his mother will have given him, subconsciously or

consciously. He's interested in girls and autobikes now. I'm just

sort of a figure in the sky, but he's obliged to communicate with

me, even when he probably doesn't want to."

PLAYBOY: "You're being very honest about your feelings toward him to

the point of saying that Sean is your first child. Are you concerned

about hurting him?"

LENNON: "I'm not going to lie to Julian. Ninety percent of the

people on this planet, especially in the West, were born out of a

bottle of whiskey on a Saturday night, and there was no intent to

have children. So 90 percent of us... that includes everybody...

were accidents. I don't know anybody who was a planned child. All of

us were Saturday-night specials. Julian is in the majority, along

with me and everybody else. Sean is a planned child, and therein

lies the difference. I don't love Julian any less as a child. He's

still my son, whether he came from a bottle of whiskey or because

they didn't have pills in those days. He's here, he belongs to me

and he always will."

PLAYBOY: "Yoko, your relationship with your daughter has been much

rockier."

ONO: "I lost Kyoko when she was about five. I was sort of an offbeat

mother, but we had very good communication. I wasn't particularly

taking care of her, but she was always with me... onstage or at

gallery shows, whatever. When she was not even a year old, I took

her onstage as an instrument-- an uncontrollable instrument, you

know. My communication with her was on the level of sharing

conversation and doing things. She was closer to my ex-husband

because of that."

PLAYBOY: "What happened when she was five?"

ONO: "John and I got together and I separated from my ex-husband."

(Tony Cox) "He took Kyoko away. It became a case of parent

kidnapping and we tried to get her back."

LENNON: "It was a classic case of men being macho. It turned into me

and Allen Klein trying to dominate Tony Cox. Tony's attitude was,

'You got my wife, but you won't get my child.' In this battle, Yoko

and the child were absolutely forgotten. I've always felt bad about

it. It became a case of the shoot-out at the O.K. Corral: Cox fled
to the hills and hid out and the sheriff and I tracked him down.

First we won custody in court. Yoko didn't want to go to court, but

the men, Klein and I, did it anyway."

ONO: "Allen called up one day, saying I won the court case. He gave

me a piece of paper. I said, 'What is this piece of paper? Is this

what I won? I don't have my child.' I knew that taking them to court

would frighten them and, of course, it did frighten them. So Tony

vanished. He was very strong, thinking that the capitalists, with

their money and lawyers and detectives, were pursuing him. It made

him stronger."

LENNON: "We chased him all over the world. God knows where he went.

So if you're reading this, Tony, let's grow up about it. It's gone.

We don't want to chase you anymore, because we've done enough

damage."

ONO: "We also had private detectives chasing Kyoko, which I thought

was a bad trip, too. One guy came to report, 'It was great! We

almost had them. We were just behind them in a car, but they sped up

and got away.' I went hysterical. 'What do you mean you almost got

them? We are talking about my child!'"

LENNON: "It was like we were after an escaped convict."

PLAYBOY: "Were you so persistent because you felt you were better

for Kyoko?"

LENNON: "Yoko got steamed into a guilt thing that if she wasn't

attacking them with detectives and police and the FBI, then she

wasn't a good mother looking for her baby. She kept saying, 'Leave

them alone, leave them alone,' but they said you can't do that."
ONO: "For me, it was like they just disappeared from my life. Part

of me left with them."

PLAYBOY: "How old is she now?"

ONO: "Seventeen, the same as John's son."

PLAYBOY: "Perhaps when she gets older, she'll seek you out."

ONO: "She is totally frightened. There was a time in Spain when a

lawyer and John thought that we should kidnap her."

LENNON: (sighing) "I was just going to commit hara-kiri first."

ONO: "And we did kidnap her and went to court. The court did a very

sensible thing... the judge took her into a room and asked her which

one of us she wanted to go with. Of course, she said Tony. We had

scared her to death. So now she must be afraid that if she comes to

see me, she'll never see her father again."

LENNON: "When she gets to be in her 20's, she'll understand that we

were idiots and we know we were idiots. She might give us a chance."

ONO: "I probably would have lost Kyoko even if it wasn't for John.

If I had separated from Tony, there would have been some difficulty."

LENNON: "I'll just half-kill myself."

ONO: (to John) "Part of the reason things got so bad was because

with Kyoko, it was you and Tony dealing. Men. With your son Julian,

it was women... there was more understanding between me and Cyn."

PLAYBOY: "Can you explain that?"

ONO: "For example, there was a birthday party that Kyoko had and we

were both invited, but John felt very uptight about it and he didn't

go. He wouldn't deal with Tony. But we were both invited to Julian's
party and we both went."

LENNON: "Oh, God, it's all coming out."

ONO: "Or like when I was invited to Tony's place alone, I couldn't

go; but when John was invited to Cyn's, he did go."

LENNON: "One rule for the men, one for the women."

ONO: "So it was easier for Julian, because I was allowing it to

happen."

LENNON: "But I've said a million Hail Marys. What the hell else can

I do?"

PLAYBOY: "Yoko, after this experience, how do you feel about leaving

Sean's rearing to John?"

ONO: "I am very clear about my emotions in that area. I don't feel

guilty. I am doing it in my own way. It may not be the same as other

mothers, but I'm doing it the way I can do it. In general, mothers

have a very strong resentment toward their children, even though

there's this whole adulation about motherhood and how mothers really

think about their children and how they really love them. I mean,

they do, but it is not humanly possible to retain emotion that

mothers are supposed to have within this society. Women are just too

stretched out in different directions to retain that emotion. Too

much is required of them. So I say to John..."

LENNON: "I am her favorite husband..."

ONO: "'I am carrying the baby nine months and that is enough, so you

take care of it afterward.' It did sound like a crude remark, but I

really believe that children belong to the society. If a mother

carries the child and a father raises it, the responsibility is

shared."

PLAYBOY: "Did you resent having to take so much responsibility,

John?"

LENNON: "Well, sometimes, you know, she'd come home and say, 'I'm

tired.' I'd say, only partly tongue in cheek, What the fuck do you

think I am? I'm 24 hours with the baby! Do you think that's easy?'

I'd say, 'You're going to take some more interest in the child.' I

don't care whether it's a father or a mother. When I'm going on

about pimples and bones and which TV shows to let him watch, I would

say, 'Listen, this is important. I don't want to hear about your

$20,000,000 deal tonight!' (to Yoko) I would like both parents to

take care of the children, but 'how' is a different matter."

ONO: "Society should be more supportive and understanding."

LENNON: "It's true. The saying 'You've come a long way, baby'

applies more to me than to her. As Harry Nilsson says, 'Everything

is the opposite of what it is, isn't it?' It's men who've come a

long way from even contemplating the idea of equality. But although

there is this thing called the women's movement, society just took a

laxative and they've just farted. They haven't really had a good

shit yet. The seed was planted sometime in the late Sixties, right?

But the real changes are coming. I am the one who has come a long

way. I was the pig. And it is a relief not to be a pig. The

pressures of being a pig were enormous. I don't have any hankering

to be looked upon as a sex object, a male, macho rock 'n roll

singer. I got over that a long time ago. I'm not even interested in

projecting that. So I like it to be known that, yes, I looked after

 the baby and I made bread and I was a househusband and I am proud
of

it. It's the wave of the future and I'm glad to be in on the

forefront of that, too."

ONO: "So maybe both of us learned a lot about how men and women

suffer because of the social structure. And the only way to change

it is to be aware of it. It sounds simple, but important things are

simple."

PLAYBOY: "John, does it take actually reversing roles with women to

understand?"

LENNON: "It did for this man. But don't forget, I'm the one who

benefited the most from doing it. Now I can step back and say Sean

is going to be five years old and I was able to spend his first five

years with him and I am very proud of that. And come to think of it,

it looks like I'm going to be 40 and life begins at 40-- so they

promise. And I believe it, too. I feel fine and I'm very excited.

It's like, you know, hitting 21, like, 'Wow, what's going to happen

next?' Only this time we're together.

ONO: "If two are gathered together, there's nothing you can't do."

PLAYBOY: "What does the title of your new album, 'Double Fantasy,'

mean?"

LENNON: "It's a flower, a type of freesia, but what it means to us

is that if two people picture the same image at the same time, that

is the secret. You can be together but projecting two different

images and either whoever's the stronger at the time will get his or

her fantasy fulfilled or you will get nothing but mishmash."

PLAYBOY: "You saw the news item that said you were putting your sex
fantasies out as an album."

LENNON: "Oh, yeah. That is like when we did the bed-in in Toronto in

1969. They all came charging through the door, thinking we were

going to be screwing in bed. Of course, we were just sitting there

with peace signs."

PLAYBOY: "What was that famous bed-in all about?"

LENNON: "Our life is our art. That's what the bed-ins were. When we

got married, we knew our honeymoon was going to be public, anyway,

so we decided to use it to make a statement. We sat in bed and

talked to reporters for seven days. It was hilarious. In effect, we

were doing a commercial for peace on the front page of the papers

instead of a commercial for war."

PLAYBOY: "You stayed in bed and talked about peace?"

LENNON: "Yes. We answered questions. One guy kept going over the

point about Hitler: 'What do you do about Fascists? How can you have

peace when you've got a Hitler?' Yoko said, 'I would have gone to

bed with him.' She said she'd have needed only ten days with him.

People loved that one."

ONO: "I said it facetiously, of course. But the point is, you're not

going to change the world by fighting. Maybe I was naive about the

ten days with Hitler. After all, it took 13 years with John Lennon."

(she giggles)

PLAYBOY: "What were the reports about your making love in a bag?"

ONO: "We never made love in a bag. People probably imagined that we

were making love. It was just, all of us are in a bag, you know. The

point was the outline of the bag, you know, the movement of the bag,
how much we see of a person, you know. But, inside, there might be a

lot going on. Or maybe nothing's going on."

PLAYBOY: "Briefly, what about the statement on the new album?"

LENNON: "Very briefly, it's about very ordinary things between two

people. The lyrics are direct. Simple and straight. I went through

my Dylanesque period a long time ago with songs like 'I am the

Walrus' ...the trick of never saying what you mean but giving the

impression of something more. Where more or less can be read into

it. It's a good game."

PLAYBOY: "What are your musical preferences these days?"

LENNON: "Well, I like all music, depending on what time of day it

is. I don't like styles of music or people per se. I can't say I

enjoy the Pretenders, but I like their hit record. I enjoy the

B-52s, because I heard them doing Yoko. It's great. If Yoko ever

goes back to her old sound, they'll be saying, 'Yeah, she's copying

the B-52s.'"

ONO: "We were doing a lot of the punk stuff a long time ago."

PLAYBOY: "Lennon and Ono, the original punks."

ONO: "You're right."

PLAYBOY: "John, what's your opinion of the newer waves?"

LENNON: "I love all this punky stuff. It's pure. I'm not, however,

crazy about the people who destroy themselves."

PLAYBOY: "You disagree with Neil Young's lyric in 'Rust Never

Sleeps'-- 'It's better to burn out than to fade away....'"

LENNON: "I hate it. It's better to fade away like an old soldier

than to burn out. I don't appreciate worship of dead Sid Vicious or

of dead James Dean or of dead John Wayne. It's the same thing.

Making Sid Vicious a hero, Jim Morrison ...it's garbage to me. I

worship the people who survive. Gloria Swanson, Greta Garbo. They're

saying John Wayne conquered cancer... he whipped it like a man. You

know, I'm sorry that he died and all that. I'm sorry for his family,

but he didn't whip cancer. It whipped him. I don't want Sean

worshiping John Wayne or Sid Vicious. What do they teach you?

Nothing. Death. Sid Vicious died for what? So that we might rock? I

mean, it's garbage, you know. If Neil Young admires that sentiment

so much, why doesn't he do it? Because he sure as hell faded away

and came back many times, like all of us. No, thank you. I'll take

the living and the healthy."

PLAYBOY: "Do you listen to the radio?"

LENNON: "Muzak or classical. I don't purchase records. I do enjoy

listening to things like Japanese folk music or Indian music. My

tastes are very broad. When I was a housewife, I just had Muzak on,

background music, 'cuz it relaxes you."

PLAYBOY: "Yoko?"

ONO: "No."

PLAYBOY: "Do you go out and buy records?"

ONO: "Or read the newspaper or magazines or watch TV? No."

PLAYBOY: "The inevitable question, John. Do you listen to your

records?"

LENNON: "Least of all my own."

PLAYBOY: "Even your classics?"

LENNON: "Are you kidding? For pleasure, I would never listen to

 them. When I hear them, I just think of the session. It's like an

actor watching himself in an old movie. When I hear a song, I

remember the Abbey Road studio, the session, who fought with whom,

where I was sitting, banging the tambourine in the corner..."

ONO: "In fact, we really don't enjoy listening to other people's

work much. We sort of analyze everything we hear."

PLAYBOY: "Yoko, were you a Beatles fan?"

ONO: "No. Now I notice the songs, of course. In a restaurant, John

will point out, 'Ahh, they're playing George' or something."

PLAYBOY: "John, do you ever go out to hear music?"

LENNON: "No, I'm not interested. I'm not a fan, you see. I might

like Jerry Lee Lewis singing 'A Whole Lot a Shakin' on the record,

but I'm not interested in seeing him perform it."

PLAYBOY: "Your songs are performed more than most other

songwriters.

How does that feel?"

LENNON: "I'm always proud and pleased when people do my songs. It

gives me pleasure that they even attempt them, because a lot of my

songs aren't that doable. I go to restaurants and the groups always

play 'Yesterday.' I even signed a guy's violin in Spain after he

played us 'Yesterday.' He couldn't understand that I didn't write

the song. But I guess he couldn't have gone from table to table

playing 'I am the Walrus.'"

PLAYBOY: "How does it feel to have influenced so many people?"

LENNON: "It wasn't really me or us. It was the times. It happened to

me when I heard rock 'n roll in the Fifties. I had no idea about

doing music as a way of life until rock 'n' roll hit me."
 PLAYBOY: "Do you recall what specifically hit you?"

LENNON: "It was 'Rock Around the Clock,' I think. I enjoyed Bill

Haley, but I wasn't overwhelmed by him. It wasn't until 'Heartbreak

Hotel' that I really got into it."

ONO: "I am sure there are people whose lives were affected because

they heard Indian music or Mozart or Bach. More than anything, it

was the time and the place when the Beatles came up. Something did

happen there. It was a kind of chemical. It was as if several people

gathered around a table and a ghost appeared. It was that kind of

communication. So they were like mediums, in a way. It's not

something you can force. It was the people, the time, their youth

and enthusiasm."

PLAYBOY: "For the sake of argument, we'll maintain that no other

contemporary artist or group of artists moved as many people in such

a profound way as the Beatles."

LENNON: "But what moved the Beatles?"

PLAYBOY: "You tell us."

LENNON: "Alright. Whatever wind was blowing at the time moved the

Beatles, too. I'm not saying we weren't flags on the top of a ship;

but the whole boat was moving. Maybe the Beatles were in the

crow's-nest, shouting, 'Land ho,' or something like that, but we

were all in the same damn boat."

ONO: "The Beatles themselves were a social phenomenon not that

aware

of what they were doing. In a way..."

LENNON: (under his breath) "This Beatles talk bores me to death.

Turn to page 196."

ONO: "As I said, they were like mediums. They weren't conscious of

all they were saying, but it was coming through them."

PLAYBOY: "Why?"

LENNON: "We tuned in to the message. That's all. I don't mean to

belittle the Beatles when I say they weren't this, they weren't

that. I'm just trying not to overblow their importance as separate

from society. And I don't think they were more important than Glenn

Miller or Woody Herman or Bessie Smith. It was our generation,

that's all. It was Sixties music."

PLAYBOY: "What do you say to those who insist that all rock since

the Beatles has been the Beatles redone?"

LENNON: "All music is rehash. There are only a few notes. Just

variations on a theme. Try to tell the kids in the Seventies who

were screaming to the Bee Gees that their music was just the Beatles

redone. There is nothing wrong with the Bee Gees. They do a damn

good job. There was nothing else going on then."

PLAYBOY: "Wasn't alot of the Beatles' music at least more

intelligent?"

LENNON: "The Beatles were more intellectual, so they appealed on

that level, too. But the basic appeal of the Beatles was not their

intelligence. It was their music. It was only after some guy in the

'London Times' said there were Aeolian cadences in 'It Won't Be

Long' that the middle classes started listening to it... because

somebody put a tag on it."

PLAYBOY: "Did you put Aeolian cadences in 'It Won't Be Long?'"

LENNON: "To this day, I don't have any idea what they are. They

sound like exotic birds."

PLAYBOY: "How did you react to the misinterpretations of your songs?"

LENNON: "For instance?"

PLAYBOY: "The most obvious is the 'Paul is dead' fiasco. You already

explained the line in 'Glass Onion.' What about the line in 'I am

the Walrus'... (correction: Strawberry Fields Forever) ...'I buried

Paul'?"

LENNON: "I said 'Cranberry sauce.' That's all I said. Some people

like ping-pong, other people like digging over graves. Some people

will do anything rather than be here now."

PLAYBOY: "What about the chant at the end of the song: Smoke pot,

smoke pot, everybody smoke pot'?"

LENNON: "No, no, no. I had this whole choir saying, 'Everybody's got

one, everybody's got one.' But when you get 30 people, male and

female, on top of 30 cellos and on top of the Beatles' rock 'n roll

rhythm section, you can't hear what they're saying."

PLAYBOY: "What does 'everybody got'?"

LENNON: "Anything. You name it. One penis, one vagina, one asshole--

you name it."

PLAYBOY: "Did it trouble you when the interpretations of your songs

were destructive, such as when Charles Manson claimed that your

lyrics were messages to him?"

LENNON: "No. It has nothing to do with me. It's like that guy, Son

of Sam, who was having these talks with the dog. Manson was just an
extreme version of the people who came up with the 'Paul is dead'

thing or who figured out that the initials to 'Lucy in the Sky with

Diamonds' were LSD and concluded I was writing about acid."

PLAYBOY: "Where did 'Lucy in the Sky' come from?"

LENNON: "My son Julian came in one day with a picture he painted

about a school friend of his named Lucy. He had sketched in some

stars in the sky and called it 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,'

Simple."

PLAYBOY: "The other images in the song weren't drug-inspired?"

LENNON: "The images were from 'Alice in Wonderland.' It was Alice in

the boat. She is buying an egg and it turns into Humpty Dumpty. The

woman serving in the shop turns into a sheep and the next minute

they are rowing in a rowing boat somewhere and I was visualizing

that. There was also the image of the female who would someday come

save me... a 'girl with kaleidoscope eyes' who would come out of the

sky. It turned out to be Yoko, though I hadn't met Yoko yet. So

maybe it should be 'Yoko in the Sky with Diamonds.'"

PLAYBOY: "Do you have any interest in the pop historians analyzing

the Beatles as a cultural phenomenon?"

LENNON: "It's all equally irrelevant. Mine is to do and other

people's is to record, I suppose. Does it matter how many drugs were

in Elvis' body? I mean, Brian Epstein's sex life will make a nice

'Hollywood Babylon' someday, but it is irrelevant."

PLAYBOY: "What started the rumors about you and Epstein?"

LENNON: "I went on holiday to Spain with Brian... which started all

the rumors that he and I were having a love affair. Well, it was
almost a love affair, but not quite. It was never consummated. But

we did have a pretty intense relationship. And it was my first

experience with someone I knew was a homosexual. He admitted it to

me. We had this holiday together because Cyn was pregnant and we

left her with the baby and went to Spain. Lots of funny stories, you

know. We used to sit in cafs and Brian would look at all the boys

and I would ask, 'Do you like that one? Do you like this one?' It

was just the combination of our closeness and the trip that started

the rumors."

PLAYBOY: "It's interesting to hear you talk about your old songs

such as 'Lucy in the Sky' and 'Glass Onion.' Will you give some

brief thoughts on some of our favorites?"

LENNON: "Right."

PLAYBOY: "Let's start with 'In My Life.'"

LENNON: "It was the first song I wrote that was consciously about my

life. (sings) 'There are places I'll remember/ all my life though

some have changed...' Before, we were just writing songs a la Everly

Brothers, Buddy Holly-- pop songs with no more thought to them than

that. The words were almost irrelevant. 'In My Life' started out as

a bus journey from my house at 250 Menlove Avenue to town,

mentioning all the places I could recall. I wrote it all down and it

was boring. So I forgot about it and laid back and these lyrics

started coming to me about friends and lovers of the past. Paul

helped with the middle-eight."

PLAYBOY: "'Yesterday.'"

LENNON: "Well, we all know about 'Yesterday.' I have had so much

accolade for 'Yesterday.' That is Paul's song, of course, and Paul's

baby. Well done. Beautiful-- and I never wished I had written it."

PLAYBOY: "'With a Little Help from My Friends.'"

LENNON: "This is Paul, with a little help from me. 'What do you see

when you turn out the light/ I can't tell you, but I know it's

mine...' is mine."

PLAYBOY: "'I am the Walrus.'"

LENNON: "The first line was written on one acid trip one weekend.

The second line was written on the next acid trip the next weekend,

and it was filled in after I met Yoko. Part of it was putting down

Hare Krishna. All these people were going on about Hare Krishna,

Allen Ginsberg in particular. The reference to 'Element'ry penguin'

is the elementary, naive attitude of going around chanting, 'Hare

Krishna,' or putting all your faith in any one idol. I was writing

obscurely, a la Dylan, in those days."

PLAYBOY: "The song is very complicated, musically."

LENNON: "It actually was fantastic in stereo, but you never hear it

all. There was too much to get on. It was too messy a mix. One track

was live BBC Radio-- Shakespeare or something-- I just fed in

whatever lines came in."

PLAYBOY: "What about the walrus itself?"

LENNON: "It's from 'The Walrus and the Carpenter.' 'Alice in

Wonderland.' To me, it was a beautiful poem. It never dawned on me

that Lewis Carroll was commenting on the capitalist and social

system. I never went into that bit about what he really meant, like

people are doing with the Beatles' work. Later, I went back and
looked at it and realized that the walrus was the bad guy in the

story and the carpenter was the good guy. I thought, Oh, shit, I

picked the wrong guy. I should have said, 'I am the carpenter.' But

that wouldn't have been the same, would it? (singing) 'I am the

carpenter....'"

PLAYBOY: "How about 'She Came in Through the Bathroom Window'?"

LENNON: "That was written by Paul when we were in New York forming

Apple, and he first met Linda. Maybe she's the one who came in the

window. She must have. I don't know. Somebody came in the window."

PLAYBOY: "'I Feel Fine.'"

LENNON: "That's me, including the guitar lick with the first

feedback ever recorded. I defy anybody to find an earlier record...

unless it is some old blues record from the Twenties... with

feedback on it."

PLAYBOY: "'When I'm Sixty-Four.'"

LENNON: "Paul completely. I would never even dream of writing a song

like that. There are some areas I never think about and that is one

of them."

PLAYBOY: "'A Day in the Life.'"

LENNON: "Just as it sounds: I was reading the paper one day and I

noticed two stories. One was the Guinness heir who killed himself in

a car. That was the main headline story. He died in London in a car

crash. On the next page was a story about 4000 holes in Blackburn,

Lancashire. In the streets, that is. They were going to fill them

all. Paul's contribution was the beautiful little lick in the song

'I'd love to turn you on.' I had the bulk of the song and the words,
but he contributed this little lick floating around in his head that

he couldn't use for anything. I thought it was a damn good piece of

work."

PLAYBOY: "May we continue with some of the ones that seem more

personal and see what reminiscences they inspire?"

LENNON: "Reminisce away."

PLAYBOY: "For no reason whatsoever, let's start with 'I Wanna Be

Your Man.'"

LENNON: "Paul and I finished that one off for the Stones. We were

taken down by Brian to meet them at the club where they were playing

in Richmond. They wanted a song and we went to see what kind of

stuff they did. Paul had this bit of a song and we played it roughly

for them and they said, 'Yeah, OK, that's our style.' But it was

only really a lick, so Paul and I went off in the corner of the room

and finished the song off while they were all sitting there,

talking. We came back and Mick and Keith said, 'Jesus, look at that.

They just went over there and wrote it.' You know, right in front of

their eyes. We gave it to them. It was a throwaway. Ringo sang it

for us and the Stones did their version. It shows how much

importance we put on them. We weren't going to give them anything

great, right? That was the Stones' first record. Anyway, Mick and

Keith said, 'If they can write a song so easily, we should try it.'

They say it inspired them to start writing together."

PLAYBOY: "How about 'Strawberry Fields Forever'?"

LENNON: "Strawberry Fields is a real place. After I stopped living

at Penny Lane, I moved in with my auntie who lived in the suburbs in

a nice semidetached place with a small garden and doctors and

lawyers and that ilk living around... not the poor slummy kind of

image that was projected in all the Beatles stories. In the class

system, it was about half a class higher than Paul, George and

Ringo, who lived in government-subsidized housing. We owned our

house and had a garden. They didn't have anything like that. Near

that home was Strawberry Fields, a house near a boys' reformatory

where I used to go to garden parties as a kid with my friends Nigel

and Pete. We would go there and hang out and sell lemonade bottles

for a penny. We always had fun at Strawberry Fields. So that's where

I got the name. But I used it as an image. Strawberry Fields

forever."

PLAYBOY: "And the lyrics, for instance: 'Living is easy...'"

LENNON: (singing) "'...with eyes closed. Misunderstanding all you

see.' It still goes, doesn't it? Aren't I saying exactly the same

thing now? The awareness apparently trying to be expressed is--

let's say in one way I was always hip. I was hip in kindergarten. I

was different from the others. I was different all my life. The

second verse goes, 'No one I think is in my tree.' Well, I was too

shy and self-doubting. Nobody seems to be as hip as me is what I was

saying. Therefore, I must be crazy or a genius-- 'I mean it must be

high or low,' the next line. There was something wrong with me, I

thought, because I seemed to see things other people didn't see. I

thought I was crazy or an egomaniac for claiming to see things other

people didn't see. As a child, I would say, 'But this is going on!'

and everybody would look at me as if I was crazy. I always was so

psychic or intuitive or poetic or whatever you want to call it, that

I was always seeing things in a hallucinatory way. It was scary as a

child, because there was nobody to relate to. Neither my auntie nor

my friends nor anybody could ever see what I did. It was very, very

scary and the only contact I had was reading about an Oscar Wilde or

a Dylan Thomas or a Vincent van Gogh-- all those books that my

auntie had that talked about their suffering because of their

visions. Because of what they saw, they were tortured by society for

trying to express what they were. I saw loneliness."

PLAYBOY: "Were you able to find others to share your visions with?"

LENNON: "Only dead people in books. Lewis Carroll, certain

paintings. Surrealism had a great effect on me, because then I

realized that my imagery and my mind wasn't insanity; that if it was

insane, I belong in an exclusive club that sees the world in those

terms. Surrealism to me is reality. Psychic vision to me is reality.

Even as a child. When I looked at myself in the mirror or when I was

12, 13, I used to literally trance out into alpha. I didn't know

what it was called then. I found out years later there is a name for

those conditions. But I would find myself seeing hallucinatory

images of my face changing and becoming cosmic and complete. It

caused me to always be a rebel. This thing gave me a chip on the

shoulder; but, on the other hand, I wanted to be loved and accepted.

Part of me would like to be accepted by all facets of society and

not be this loudmouthed lunatic musician. But I cannot be what I am

not. Because of my attitude, all the other boys' parents, including

Paul's father, would say, 'Keep away from him.' The parents
 instinctively recognized what I was, which was a troublemaker,

meaning I did not conform and I would influence their kids, which I

did. I did my best to disrupt every friend's home I had. Partly,

maybe, it was out of envy that I didn't have this so-called home.

But I really did. I had an auntie and an uncle and a nice suburban

home, thank you very much. Hear this, Auntie. She was hurt by a

remark Paul made recently that the reason I am staying home with

Sean now is because I never had a family life. It's absolute

rubbish. There were five women who were my family. Five strong,

intelligent women. Five sisters. One happened to be my mother. My

mother was the youngest. She just couldn't deal with life. She had a

husband who ran away to sea and the war was on and she couldn't
cope

with me, and when I was four and a half, I ended up living with her

elder sister. Now, those women were fantastic. One day I might do a

kind of 'Forsyte Saga' just about them. That was my first feminist

education. Anyway, that knowledge and the fact that I wasn't with my

parents made me see that parents are not gods. I would infiltrate

the other boys' minds. Paul's parents were terrified of me and my

influence, simply because I was free from the parents' strangle

hold. That was the gift I got for not having parents. I cried a lot

about not having them and it was torture, but it also gave me an

awareness early. I wasn't an orphan, though. My mother was alive and

lived a 15-minute walk away from me all my life. I saw her off and

on. I just didn't live with her."

PLAYBOY: "Is she alive?"

LENNON: "No, she got killed by an off-duty cop who was drunk after
visiting my auntie's house where I lived. I wasn't there at the

time. She was just at a bus stop. I was 16. That was another big

trauma for me. I lost her twice. When I was five and I moved in with

my auntie, and then when she physically died. That made me more

bitter; the chip on my shoulder I had as a youth got really big

then. I was just really re-establishing the relationship with her

and she was killed."

PLAYBOY: "Her name was Julia, wasn't it? Is she the Julia of your

song of that name on 'The White Album?'"

LENNON: "The song is for her... and for Yoko."

PLAYBOY: "What kind of relationship did you have with your father,

who went away to sea? Did you ever see him again?"

LENNON: "I never saw him again until I made a lot of money and he

came back."

PLAYBOY: "How old were you?"

LENNON: "24 or 25. I opened the 'Daily Express' and there he was,

washing dishes in a small hotel or something very near where I was

living in the Stockbroker belt outside London. He had been writing

to me to try to get in contact. I didn't want to see him. I was too

upset about what he'd done to me and to my mother and that he would

turn up when I was rich and famous and not bother turning up before.

So I wasn't going to see him at all, but he sort of blackmailed me

in the press by saying all this about being a poor man washing

dishes while I was living in luxury. I fell for it and saw him and

we had some kind of relationship. He died a few years later of

cancer. But at 65, he married a secretary who had been working for
the Beatles, age 22, and they had a child, which I thought was

hopeful for a man who had lived his life as a drunk and almost a

Bowery bum."

PLAYBOY: "We'll never listen to 'Strawberry Fields Forever' the same

way again. What memories are jogged by the song 'Help'?"

LENNON: "When 'Help' came out in '65, I was actually crying out for

help. Most people think it's just a fast rock 'n roll song. I didn't

realize it at the time; I just wrote the song because I was

commissioned to write it for the movie. But later, I knew I really

was crying out for help. It was my fat Elvis period. You see the

movie: He -- I -- is very fat, very insecure, and he's completely

lost himself. And I am singing about when I was so much younger and

all the rest, looking back at how easy it was. Now I may be very

positive... yes, yes... but I also go through deep depressions where

I would like to jump out the window, you know. It becomes easier to

deal with as I get older; I don't know whether you learn control or,

when you grow up, you calm down a little. Anyway, I was fat and

depressed and I was crying out for help. In those days, when the

Beatles were depressed, we had this little chant. I would yell out,

'Where are we going, fellows?' They would say, 'To the top, Johnny,'

in pseudo-American voices. And I would say, 'Where is that,

fellows?' And they would say, 'To the toppermost of the poppermost.'

It was some dumb expression from a cheap movie, a la 'Blackboard

Jungle,' about Liverpool. Johnny was the leader of the gang."

PLAYBOY: "What were you depressed about during the 'Help' period?"

LENNON: "The Beatles thing had just gone beyond comprehension. We

were smoking marijuana for breakfast. We were well into marijuana

and nobody could communicate with us, because we were just all

glazed eyes, giggling all the time. In our own world. That was the

song, 'Help.' I think everything that comes out of a song-- even

Paul's songs now, which are apparently about nothing-- shows

something about yourself."

PLAYBOY: "Was 'I'm a Loser' a similarly personal statement?"

LENNON: "Part of me suspects that I'm a loser and the other part of

me thinks I'm God Almighty."

PLAYBOY: "How about 'Cold Turkey?'"

LENNON: "The song is self-explanatory. The song got banned, even

though it's antidrug. They're so stupid about drugs, you know.

They're not looking at the cause of the drug problem: Why do people

take drugs? To escape from what? Is life so terrible? Are we living

in such a terrible situation that we can't do anything without

reinforcement of alcohol, tobacco? Aspirins, sleeping pills, uppers,

downers, never mind the heroin and cocaine-- they're just the outer

fringes of Librium and speed."

PLAYBOY: "Do you use any drugs now?"

LENNON: "Not really. If somebody gives me a joint, I might smoke it,

but I don't go after it."

PLAYBOY: "Cocaine?"

LENNON: "I've had cocaine, but I don't like it. The Beatles had lots

of it in their day, but it's a dumb drug, because you have to have

another one 20 minutes later. Your whole concentration goes on

getting the next fix. Really, I find caffeine is easier to deal

with."

PLAYBOY: "Acid?"

LENNON: "Not in years. A little mushroom or peyote is not beyond my

scope, you know, maybe twice a year or something. You don't hear

about it anymore, but people are still visiting the cosmos. We must

always remember to thank the CIA and the Army for LSD. That's what

people forget. Everything is the opposite of what it is, isn't it,

Harry? So get out the bottle, boy... and relax. They invented LSD to

control people and what they did was give us freedom. Sometimes it

works in mysterious ways its wonders to perform. If you look in the

Government reports on acid, the ones who jumped out the window or

killed themselves because of it, I think even with Art Linkletter's

daughter, it happened to her years later. So, let's face it, she

wasn't really on acid when she jumped out the window. And I've never

met anybody who's had a flashback on acid. I've never had a

flashback in my life and I took millions of trips in the Sixties."

PLAYBOY: "What does your diet include besides sashimi and sushi,

Hershey bars and cappuccinos?"

LENNON: "We're mostly macrobiotic, but sometimes I take the family

out for a pizza."

ONO: "Intuition tells you what to eat. It's dangerous to try to

unify things. Everybody has different needs. We went through

vegetarianism and macrobiotic, but now, because we're in the studio,

we do eat some junk food. We're trying to stick to macrobiotic: fish

and rice, whole grains. You balance foods and eat foods indigenous

to the area. Corn is the grain from this area."

 PLAYBOY: "And you both smoke up a storm."

LENNON: "Macrobiotic people don't believe in the big C. Whether you

take that as a rationalization or not, macrobiotics don't believe

that smoking is bad for you. Of course, if we die, we're wrong."

PLAYBOY: "Let's go back to jogging your memory with songs. How

about

Paul's song 'Hey Jude'?"

LENNON: "He said it was written about Julian. He knew I was

splitting with Cyn and leaving Julian then. He was driving to see

Julian to say hello. He had been like an uncle. And he came up with

'Hey Jude.' But I always heard it as a song to me. Now I'm sounding

like one of those fans reading things into it... Think about it:

Yoko had just come into the picture. He is saying. 'Hey, Jude'--

'Hey, John.' Subconsciously, he was saying, 'Go ahead, leave me.' On

a conscious level, he didn't want me to go ahead. The angel in him

was saying, 'Bless you.' The devil in him didn't like it at all,

because he didn't want to lose his partner."

PLAYBOY: "What about 'Because'?"

LENNON: "I was lying on the sofa in our house, listening to Yoko

play Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata' on the piano. Suddenly, I said,

'Can you play those chords backward?' She did, and I wrote 'Because'

around them. The song sounds like 'Moonlight Sonata,' too. The

lyrics are clear, no bullshit, no imagery, no obscure references."

PLAYBOY: "'Give Peace a Chance.'"

LENNON: "All we were saying was give peace a chance."

PLAYBOY: "Was it really a Lennon-McCartney composition?"

LENNON: "No, I don't even know why his name was on it. It's there
because I kind of felt guilty because I'd made the separate single--

the first-- and I was really breaking away from the Beatles."

PLAYBOY: Why were the compositions you and Paul did separately

attributed to Lennon-McCartney?"

LENNON: "Paul and I made a deal when we were 15. There was never a

legal deal between us, just a deal we made when we decided to write

together that we put both our names on it, no matter what."

PLAYBOY: "How about 'Do You Want to Know a Secret?'"

LENNON: "The idea came from this thing my mother used to sing to me

when I was one or two years old, when she was still living with me.

It was from a Disney movie: 'Do you want to know a secret? Promise

not to tell? You are standing by a wishing well.' So, with that in

my head, I wrote the song and just gave it to George to sing. I

thought it would be a good vehicle for him, because it had only

three notes and he wasn't the best singer in the world. He has

improved a lot since then; but in those days, his ability was very

poor. I gave it to him just to give him a piece of the action.

That's another reason why I was hurt by his book. I even went to the

trouble of making sure he got the B side of a Beatles single,

because he hadn't had a B side of one until 'Do You Want to Know a

Secret.' 'Something' was the first time he ever got an A side,

because Paul and I always wrote both sides. That wasn't because we

were keeping him out but simply because his material was not up to

scratch. I made sure he got the B side of 'Something,' too, so he

got the cash. Those little things he doesn't remember. I always felt

bad that George and Ringo didn't get a piece of the publishing. When
the opportunity came to give them five percent each of Maclen, it

was because of me they got it. It was not because of Klein and not

because of Paul but because of me. When I said they should get it,

Paul couldn't say no. I don't get a piece of any of George's songs

or Ringo's. I never asked for anything for the contributions I made

to George's songs like 'Taxman.' Not even the recognition. And that

is why I might have sounded resentful about George and Ringo,

because it was after all those things that the attitude of 'John has

forsaken us' and 'John is tricking us' came out... which is not

true."

PLAYBOY: "'Happiness Is a Warm Gun.'"

LENNON: "No, it's not about heroin. A gun magazine was sitting there

with a smoking gun on the cover and an article that I never read

inside called 'Happiness Is a Warm Gun.' I took it right from there.

I took it as the terrible idea of just having shot some animal."

PLAYBOY: "What about the sexual puns: 'When you feel my finger on

your trigger'?"

LENNON: "Well, it was at the beginning of my relationship with Yoko

and I was very sexually oriented then. When we weren't in the

studio, we were in bed."

PLAYBOY: "What was the allusion to 'Mother Superior jumps the gun'?"

LENNON: "I call Yoko Mother or Madam just in an offhand way. The

rest doesn't mean anything. It's just images of her."

PLAYBOY: "'Across the Universe.'"

LENNON: "The Beatles didn't make a good record of 'Across the

Universe.' I think subconsciously we... I thought Paul

subconsciously tried to destroy my great songs. We would play

experimental games with my great pieces, like 'Strawberry Fields,'

which I always felt was badly recorded. It worked, but it wasn't

what it could have been. I allowed it, though. We would spend hours

doing little, detailed cleaning up on Paul's songs, but when it came

to mine... especially a great song like 'Strawberry Fields' or

'Across the Universe' ...somehow an atmosphere of looseness and

experimentation would come up."

PLAYBOY: "Sabotage?"

LENNON: "Subconscious sabotage. I was too hurt... Paul will deny it,

because he has a bland face and will say this doesn't exist. This is

the kind of thing I'm talking about where I was always seeing what

was going on and began to think, Well, maybe I'm paranoid. But it is

not paranoid. It is the absolute truth. The same thing happened to

'Across the Universe.' The song was never done properly. The words

stand, luckily."

PLAYBOY: "'Getting Better.'"

LENNON: "It is a diary form of writing. All that 'I used to be cruel

to my woman, I beat her and kept her apart from the things that she

loved' was me. I used to be cruel to my woman, and physically... any

woman. I was a hitter. I couldn't express myself and I hit. I fought

men and I hit women. That is why I am always on about peace, you

see. It is the most violent people who go for love and peace.

Everything's the opposite. But I sincerely believe in love and

peace. I am a violent man who has learned not to be violent and

regrets his violence. I will have to be a lot older before I can

face in public how I treated women as a youngster."

PLAYBOY: "'Revolution.'"

LENNON: "We recorded the song twice. The Beatles were getting really

tense with one another. I did the slow version and I wanted it out

as a single: as a statement of the Beatles' position on Vietnam and

the Beatles' position on revolution. For years, on the Beatle tours,

Epstein had stopped us from saying anything about Vietnam or the

war. And he wouldn't allow questions about it. But on one tour, I

said, 'I am going to answer about the war. We can't ignore it.' I

absolutely wanted the Beatles to say something. The first take of

'Revolution' ...well, George and Paul were resentful and said it

wasn't fast enough. Now, if you go into details of what a hit record

is and isn't... maybe. But the Beatles could have afforded to put

out the slow, understandable version of 'Revolution' as a single.

Whether it was a gold record or a wooden record. But because they

were so upset about the Yoko period and the fact that I was again

becoming as creative and dominating as I had been in the early days,

after lying fallow for a couple of years, it upset the apple cart. I

was awake again and they couldn't stand it?"

PLAYBOY: "Was it Yoko's inspiration?"

LENNON: "She inspired all this creation in me. It wasn't that she

inspired the songs; she inspired me. The statement in 'Revolution'

was mine. The lyrics stand today. It's still my feeling about

politics. I want to see the plan. That is what I used to say to

Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin. Count me out if it is for violence.

Don't expect me to be on the barricades unless it is with flowers."

PLAYBOY: "What do you think of Hoffman's turning himself in?"

LENNON: "Well he got what he wanted. Which is to be sort of an

underground hero for anybody who still worships any manifestation of

the underground. I don't feel that much about it anymore. Nixon,

Hoffman, it's the same. They are all from the same period. It was

kind of surprising to see Abbie on TV, but it was also surprising to

see Nixon on TV. Maybe people get the feeling when they see me or

us. I feel, What are they doing there? Is this an old newsreel?"

PLAYBOY: "On a new album, you close with 'Hard Times Are Over (For a

While).' Why?"

LENNON: "It's not a new message: 'Give Peace a Chance'-- we're not

being unreasonable, just saying, 'Give it a chance.' With 'Imagine,'

we're saying, 'Can you imagine a world without countries or

religions?' It's the same message over and over. And it's positive."

PLAYBOY: "How does it feel to have people anticipate your new record

because they feel you are a prophet of sorts? When you returned to

the studio to make 'Double Fantasy,' some of your fans were saying

things like, 'Just as Lennon defined the Sixties and the Seventies,

he'll be defining the Eighties.'"

LENNON: "It's very sad. Anyway, we're not saying anything new. A) we

have already said it and, B) 100,000,000 other people have said it,

too."

PLAYBOY: "But your songs do have messages."

LENNON: "All we are saying is, 'This is what is happening to us.' We

are sending postcards. I don't let it become 'I am the awakened; you

are sheep that will be shown the way.' That is the danger of saying
anything, you know."

PLAYBOY: "Especially for you."

LENNON: "Listen, there's nothing wrong with following examples. We

can have figure heads and people we admire, but we don't need

leaders. 'Don't follow leaders, watch the parking meters.'"

PLAYBOY: "You're quoting one of your peers, of sorts. Is it

distressing to you that Dylan is a born-again Christian?"

LENNON: "I don't like to comment on it. For whatever reason he's

doing it, it is personal for him and he needs to do it. But the

whole religion business suffers from the 'Onward, Christian

Soldiers' bit. There's too much talk about soldiers and marching and

converting. I'm not pushing Buddhism, because I'm no more a Buddhist

than I am a Christian, but there's one thing I admire about the

religion: There's no proselytizing."

PLAYBOY: "Were you a Dylan fan?"

LENNON: "No, I stopped listening to Dylan with both ears after

'Highway 64' [sic] and 'Blonde on Blonde,' and even then it was

because George would sit me down and make me listen."

PLAYBOY: "Like Dylan, weren't you also looking for some kind of

leader when you did primal-scream therapy with Arthur Janov?"

ONO: "I think Janov was a daddy for John. I think he has this father

complex and he's always searching for a daddy."

LENNON: "Had, dear. I had a father complex."

PLAYBOY: "Would you explain?"

ONO: "I had a daddy, a real daddy, sort of a big and strong father

like a Billy Graham, but growing up, I saw his weak side. I saw the
hypocrisy. So whenever I see something that is supposed to be so big

and wonderful, a guru or primal scream, I'm very cynical."

LENNON: "She fought with Janov all the time. He couldn't deal with

it."

ONO: "I'm not searching for the big daddy. I look for something else

in men... something that is tender and weak and I feel like I want

to help."

LENNON: "And I was the lucky cripple she chose!"

ONO: "I have this mother instinct, or whatever. But I was not hung

up on finding a father, because I had one who disillusioned me. John

never had a chance to get disillusioned about his father, since his

father wasn't around, so he never thought of him as that big man."

PLAYBOY: "Do you agree with that assessment, John?"

LENNON: "Alot of us are looking for fathers. Mine was physically not

there. Most people's are not there mentally and physically, like

always at the office or busy with other things. So all these

leaders, parking meters, are all substitute fathers, whether they be

religious or political... All this bit about electing a President.

We pick our own daddy out of a dog pound of daddies. This is the

daddy that looks like the daddy in the commercials. He's got the

nice gray hair and the right teeth and the parting's on the right

side. OK? This is the daddy we choose. The dog pound of daddies,

which is the political arena, gives us a President, then we put him

on a platform and start punishing him and screaming at him because

Daddy can't do miracles. Daddy doesn't heal us."

PLAYBOY: "So Janov was a daddy for you. Who else?"

ONO: "Before, there was Maharishi."

LENNON: "Maharishi was a father figure, Elvis Presley might have

been a father figure. I don't know. Robert Mitchum. Any male image

is a father figure. There's nothing wrong with it until you give

them the right to give you sort of a recipe for your life. What

happens is somebody comes along with a good piece of truth. Instead

of the truth's being looked at, the person who brought it is looked

at. The messenger is worshiped, instead of the message. So there

would be Christianity, Mohammedanism, Buddhism, Confucianism,

Marxism, Maoism-- everything-- it is always about a person and never

about what he says."

ONO: "All the 'isms' are daddies. It's sad that society is

structured in such a way that people cannot really open up to each

other, and therefore they need a certain theater to go to to cry or

something like that."

LENNON: "Well, you went to est."

ONO: "Yes, I wanted to check it out."

LENNON: "We went to Janov for the same reason."

ONO: "But est people are given a reminder..."

LENNON: "Yeah, but I wouldn't go and sit in a room and not pee."

ONO: "Well, you did in primal scream."

LENNON: "Oh, but I had you with me."

ONO: "Anyway, when I went to est, I saw Werner Erhardt, the same

thing. He's a nice showman and he's got a nice gig there. I felt the

same thing when we went to Sai Baba in India. In India, you have to

be a guru instead of a pop star. Guru is the pop star of India and
pop star is the guru here."

LENNON: "But nobody's perfect, etc., etc. Whether it's Janov or

Erhardt or Maharishi or a Beatle. That doesn't take away from their

message. It's like learning how to swim. The swimming is fine. But

forget about the teacher. If the Beatles had a message, it was that.

With the Beatles, the records are the point, not the Beatles as

individuals. You don't need the package, just as you don't need the

Christian package or the Marxist package to get the message. People

always got the image I was an anti-Christ or antireligion. I'm not.

I'm a most religious fellow. I was brought up a Christian and I only

now understand some of the things that Christ was saying in those

parables. Because people got hooked on the teacher and missed the

message."

PLAYBOY: "And the Beatles taught people how to swim?"

LENNON: "If the Beatles or the Sixties had a message, it was to

learn to swim. Period. And once you learn to swim, swim. The people

who are hung up on the Beatles' and the Sixties' dream missed the

whole point when the Beatles' and the Sixties' dream became the

point. Carrying the Beatles' or the Sixties' dream around all your

life is like carrying the Second World War and Glenn Miller around.

That's not to say you can't enjoy Glenn Miller or the Beatles, but

to live in that dream is the twilight zone. It's not living now.

It's an illusion."

PLAYBOY: "Yoko, the single you and John released from your album

seems to be looking toward the future."

ONO: "Yes, 'Starting Over' is a song that makes me feel like crying.
 John has talked about the Sixties and how it gave us a taste for

freedom... sexual and otherwise. It was like an orgy. Then, after

that big come that we had together, men and women somehow lost
track

of each other and a lot of families and relationships split apart. I

really think that what happened in the Seventies can be compared to

what happened under Nazism with Jewish families. Only the force that

split them came from the inside, not from the outside. We tried to

rationalize it as the price we were paying for our freedom. And John

is saying in his song, OK, we had the energy in the Sixties, in the

Seventies we separated, but let's start over in the Eighties. He's

reaching out to me, the woman. Reaching out after all that's

happened, over the battlefield of dead families, is more difficult

this time around. On the other side of the record is my song, 'Kiss

Kiss Kiss,' which is the other side of the same question. There is

the sound of a woman coming to a climax on it, and she is crying out

to be held, to be touched. It will be controversial, because people

still feel it's less natural to hear the sounds of a woman's

lovemaking than, say, the sound of a Concorde, killing the

atmosphere and polluting nature. Altogether, both sides are a prayer

to change the Eighties."

PLAYBOY: "What is the Eighties' dream to you, John?"

LENNON: Well, you make your own dream. That's the Beatles' story,

isn't it? That's Yoko's story. That's what I'm saying now. Produce

your own dream. If you want to save Peru, go save Peru. It's quite

possible to do anything, but not to put it on the leaders and the

parking meters. Don't expect Jimmy Carter or Ronald Reagan or John

 Lennon or Yoko Ono or Bob Dylan or Jesus Christ to come and do it

for you. You have to do it yourself. That's what the great masters

and mistresses have been saying ever since time began. They can

point the way, leave signposts and little instructions in various

books that are now called holy and worshiped for the cover of the

book and not for what it says, but the instructions are all there

for all to see, have always been and always will be. There's nothing

new under the sun. All the roads lead to Rome. And people cannot

provide it for you. I can't wake you up. You can wake you up. I

can't cure you. You can cure you."

PLAYBOY: "What is it that keeps people from accepting that message?"

LENNON: "It's fear of the unknown. The unknown is what it is. And to

be frightened of it is what sends everybody scurrying around chasing

dreams, illusions, wars, peace, love, hate, all that... it's all

illusion. Unknown is what what it is. Accept that it's unknown and

it's plain sailing. Everything is unknown... then you're ahead of

the game. That's what it is. Right?"

(End of Interview)

Last Rolling Stone Interview With John Lennon - 1980

By Jonathan Cott, Rolling Stone Magazine

 "Welcome to the inner sanctum!" says John Lennon, greeting me with

high-spirited, mock ceremoniousness in Yoko Ono's beautiful

cloud-ceilinged office in their Dakota apartment. It's Friday evening,

December 5, and Yoko has been telling me how their collaborative new

album, Double Fantasy, came about: Last spring, John and their son, Sean,

were vacationing in Bermuda while Yoko stayed home"sorting out

business,"

as she puts it. She and John spoke on the phone every day and sang each

other the songs they had composed in between calls.

"I was at a dance club one night in Bermuda," John interrupts as he sits

down on a couch and Yoko gets up to bring coffee." Upstairs, they were

playing disco, and downstairs, I suddenly heard 'Rock Lobster' by the

B-52's for the first time. Do you know it? It sounds just like Yoko's

music, so I said to meself, 'It's time to get out the old axe and wake the

wife up!' We wrote about twenty-five songs during those three weeks, and

we've recorded enough for another album."

"I've been playing side two of Double Fantasy over and over," I say,

getting ready to ply him with a question. John looks at me with a time and

interview-stopping smile." How are you?"he asks." It's been like a reunion

for us these last few weeks. We've seen Ethan Russell, who's doing a

videotape of a couple of the new songs, and Annie Leibovitz was here. She

took my first Rolling Stone cover photo. It's been fun seeing everyone we

used to know and doing it all again - we've all survived. When did we

first meet?"

"I met you and Yoko on September 17, 1968," I say, remembering the first

of our several meetings. I was just a lucky guy, at the right place at the
 right time. John had decided to become more "public" and to demystify his

Beatles persona. He and Yoko, whom he'd met in November 1966, were

preparing for the Amsterdam and Montreal bed-ins for peace and were
soon

to release Two Virgins, the first of their experimental record

collaborations. The album cover - the infamous frontal nude portrait of

them - was to grace the pages of Rolling Stone's first anniversary issue.

John had just discovered the then-impoverished, San Francisco-based

magazine, and he'd agreed to give Rolling Stone the first of his

"coming-out" interviews. As "European editor," I was asked to visit John

and Yoko and to take along a photographer (Ethan Russell, who later took

the photos for the Let It Be book that accompanied the album). So, nervous

and excited, we met John and Yoko at their temporary basement flat in

London.

First impressions are usually the most accurate, and John was graceful,

gracious, charming, exuberant, direct, witty and playful; I remember

noticing how he wrote little reminders to himself in the wonderfully

absorbed way that a child paints the sun. He was due at a recording

session in a half-hour to work on the White Album, so we agreed to meet

the next day to do the interview, after which John and Yoko invited Ethan

and me to attend the session for"Back in the U.S.S.R." at Abbey Road

Studios. Only a performance of Shakespeare at the Globe Theatre might

have

made me feel as ecstatic and fortunate as I did at that moment.

Every new encounter with John brought a new perspective. Once, I ran into

John and Yoko in 1971. A friend and I had gone to see Carnal Knowledge,

and afterward we bumped into the Lennons in the lobby. Accompanied by

 Jerry Rubin and a friend of his, they invited us to drive down with them

to Ratner's delicatessen in the East Village for blintzes, whereupon a

beatific, long-haired young man approached our table and wordlessly

handed

John a card inscribed with a pithy saying of the inscrutable Meher Baba.

Rubin drew a swastika on the back of the card, got up and gave it back to

the man. When he returned, John admonished him gently, saying that that

wasn't the way to change someone's consciousness. Acerbic and skeptical

as

he could often be, John Lennon never lost his sense of compassion.

Almost ten years later, I am again talking to John, and he is as gracious

and witty as the first time I met him." I guess I should describe to the

readers what you're wearing, John," I say. "Let me help you out," he

offers, then intones wryly: "You can see the glasses he's wearing. They're

normal plastic blue-frame glasses. Nothing like the famous wire-rimmed

Lennon glasses that he stopped using in 1973. He's wearing needle-cord

pants, the same black cowboy boots he'd had made in Nudie's in 1973, a

Calvin Klein sweater and a torn Mick Jagger T-shirt that he got when the

Stones toured in 1970 or so. And around his neck is a small, three-part

diamond heart necklace that he bought as a make-up present after an

argument with Yoko many years ago and that she later gave back to him in
a

kind of ritual. Will that do?

"I know you've got a Monday deadline," he adds," he adds," but Yoko and I

have to go to the Record Plant now to remix a few of Yoko's songs for a

possible disco record. So why don't you come along and we'll talk in the

studio."

"You're not putting any of your songs on this record?" I ask as we get
 into the waiting car." No, because I don't make that stuff." He laughs and

we drive off." I've heard that in England some people are appreciating

Yoko's songs on the new album and are asking why I was doing that

'straight old Beatles stuff,' and I didn't know about punk and what's

going on - 'You were great then; "Walrus" was hip, but this isn't hip,

John!' I'm really pleased for Yoko. She deserves the praise. It's been a

long haul. I'd love her to have the A side of a hit record and me the B

side. I'd settle for it any day."

"It's interesting," I say, "that no rock & roll star I can think of has

made a record with his wife or whomever and given her fifty percent of the

disc."

"It's the first time we've done it this way," John says." It's a dialogue,

and we have resurrected ourselves, in a way, as John and Yoko - not as

John ex-Beatle and Yoko and the Plastic Ono Band. It's just the two of us,

and our position was that, if the record didn't sell, it meant people

didn't want to know about John and Yoko - either they didn't want John

anymore or they didn't want John with Yoko or maybe they just wanted
Yoko,

whatever. But if they didn't want the two of us, we weren't interested.

Throughout my career, I've selected to work with - for more than a

one-night stand, say, with David Bowie or Elton John - only two people:

Paul McCartney and Yoko Ono. I brought Paul into the original group, the

Quarrymen; he brought George in and George brought Ringo in. And the

second person who interested me as an artist and somebody I could work

with was Yoko Ono. That ain't bad picking."

When we arrive at the studio, the engineers being playing tapes of Yoko's
 "Kiss Kiss Kiss," "Every Man Has a Woman Who Loves Him" (both from
Double

Fantasy) and a powerful new disco song (not on the album) called "Walking

on Thin Ice," which features a growling guitar lick by Lennon, based on

Sanford Clark's 1956 song, "The Fool."

"Which way could I come back into this game?" John asks as we settle
down.

"I came back from the place I know best - as unpretentiously as possible -

not to prove anything but just to enjoy it."

"I've heard that you've had a guitar on the wall behind your bed for the

past five or six years, and that you've only taken it down and played it

for Double Fantasy. Is that true?"

"I bought this beautiful electric guitar, round about the period I got

back with Yoko and had the baby," John explains." It's not a normal

guitar; it doesn't have a body; it's just an arm and this tubelike,

toboggan-looking thing, and you can lengthen the top for the balance of it

if you're sitting or standing up. I played it a little, then just hung it

up behind the bed, but I'd look at it every now and then, because it had

never done a professional thing, it had never really been played. I didn't

want to hide it the way one would hide an instrument because it was too

painful to look at - like, Artie Shaw went through a big thing and never

played again. But I used to look at it and think, 'Will I ever pull it

down?'

"Next to it on the wall I'd placed the number 9 and a dagger Yoko had

given me - a dagger made out of a bread knife from the American Civil War

to cut away the bad vibes, to cut away the past symbolically. It was just

like a picture that hangs there but you never really see, and then
recently I realized, 'Oh, goody! I can finally find out what this guitar

is all about,' and I took it down and used it in making Double Fantasy.

"All through the taping of 'Starting Over,' I was calling what I was doing

'Elvis Orbison': 'I want you I need only the lonely.' I'm a born-again

rocker, I feel that refreshed, and I'm going right back to my roots. It's

like Dylan doing Nashville Skyline, except I don't have any Nashville, you

know, being from Liverpool. So I go back to the records I know - Elvis and

Roy Orbison and Gene Vincent and Jerry Lee Lewis. I occasionally get

ripped off into 'Walruses' or 'Revolution 9,' but my far-out side has been

completely encompassed by Yoko.

"The first show we did together was at Cambridge University in 1968 or

'69, when she had been booked to do a concert with some jazz musicians.

That was the first time I had appeared un-Beatled. I just hung around and

played feedback, and people got very upset because they recognized me:

'What's he doing here?' It's always: 'Stay in your bag.' So, when she

tried to rock, they said, 'What's she doing here?' And when I went with

her and tried to be the instrument and not project - to just be her band,

like a sort of like Turner to her Tina, only her Tina was a different,

avant-garde Tina - well, even some of the jazz guys got upset.

"Everybody has pictures they want you to live up to. But that's the same

as living up to your parents' expectations, or to society's expectations,

or to so-called critics who are just guys with a typewriter in a little

room, smoking and drinking beer and having their dreams and nightmares,

too, but somehow pretending that they're living in a different, separate

world. That's all right. But there are people who break out of their

bags."
 "I remember years ago," I say, "when you and Yoko appeared in bags at a

Vienna press conference."

"Right. We sang a Japanese folk song in the bags. 'Das ist really you,

John? John Lennon in zee bag?' Yeah, it's me. 'But how do we know ist

you?' Because I'm telling you. 'Vy don't you come out from this bag?'

Because I don't want to come out of the bag. 'Don't you realize this is

the Hapsburg palace?' I thought it was a hotel. 'Vell, it is now a hotel.'

They had great chocolate cake in that Viennese hotel, I remember that.

Anyway, who wants to be locked in a bag? You have to break out of your
bag

to keep alive."

"In 'Beautiful Boys,'" I add, "Yoko sings: 'Please never be afraid to

cry... / Don't ever be afraid to fly... / Don't be afraid to be afraid.'"

"Yes, it's beautiful. I'm often afraid, and I'm not afraid to be afraid,

though it's always scary. But it's more painful to try not to be yourself.

People spend a lot of time trying to be somebody else, and I think it

leads to terrible diseases. Maybe you get cancer or something. A lot of

tough guys die of cancer, have you noticed? Wayne, McQueen. I think it has

something to do - I don't know, I'm not an expert - with constantly living

or getting trapped in an image or an illusion of themselves, suppressing

some part of themselves, whether it's the feminine side or the fearful

side.

"I'm well aware of that, because I come from the macho school of pretense.

I was never really a street kid or a tough guy. I used to dress like a

Teddy boy and identify with Marlon Brando and Elvis Presley, but I was

never really in any street fights or down-home gangs. I was just a

suburban kid, imitating the rockers. But it was a big part of one's life
 to look tough. I spent the whole of my childhood with shoulders up around

the top of me head and me glasses off because glasses were sissy, and

walking in complete fear, but with the toughest-looking little face you've

ever seen. I'd get into trouble just because of the way I looked; I wanted

to be this tough James Dean all the time. It took a lot of wrestling to

stop doing that. I still fall into it when I get insecure. I still drop

into that I'm-a-street-kid stance, but I have to keep remembering that I

never really was one."

"Carl Jung once suggested that people are made up of a thinking side, a

feeling side, an intuitive side and a sensual side," I mention. "Most

people never really develop their weaker sides and concentrate on the

stronger ones, but you seem to have done the former."

"I think that's what feminism is all about," John replies." That's what

Yoko has taught me. I couldn't have done it alone; it had to be a female

to teach me. That's it. Yoko has been telling me all the time, 'It's all

right, it's all right.' I look at early pictures of meself, and I was torn

between being Marlon Brando and being the sensitive poet - the Oscar
Wilde

part of me with the velvet, feminine side. I was always torn between the

two, mainly opting for the macho side, because if you showed the other

side, you were dead."

"On Double Fantasy," I say, "your song 'Woman' sounds a bit like a

troubadour poem written to a medieval lady."

"'Woman' came about because, one sunny afternoon in Bermuda, it

suddenly

hit me. I saw what women do for us. Not just what my Yoko does for me,

although I was thinking in those personal terms. Any truth is universal.

If we'd made our album in the third person and called it Freda and Ada or

Tommy and had dressed up in clown suits with lipstick and created

characters other than us, maybe a Ziggy Stardust, would it be more

acceptable? It's not our style of art; our life is our art.... Anyway, in

Bermuda, what suddenly dawned on me was everything I was taking for

granted. Women really are the other half of the sky, as I whisper at the

beginning of the song. And it just sort of hit me like a flood, and it

came out like that. The song reminds me of a Beatles track, but I wasn't

trying to make it sound like that. I did it as I did 'Girl' many years

ago. So this is the grown-up version of 'Girl.'

"People are always judging you, or criticizing what you're trying to say

on one little album, on one little song, but to me it's a lifetime's work.

From the boyhood paintings and poetry to when I die - it's all part of one

big production. And I don't have to announce that this album is part of a

larger work; if it isn't obvious, then forget it. But I did put a little

clue on the beginning of the record - the bells... the bells on 'Starting

Over.' The head of the album, if anybody is interested, is a wishing bell

of Yoko's. And it's like the beginning of 'Mother' on the Plastic Ono

album, which had a very slow death bell. So it's taken a long time to get

from a slow church death bell to this sweet little wishing bell. And

that's the connection. To me, my work is one piece."

"All the way through your work, John, there's this incredibly strong

notion about inspiring people to be themselves and to come together and

try to change things. I'm thinking here, obviously, of songs like 'Give

Peace a Chance,' 'Power to the People' and 'Happy Xmas (War Is Over).'"

"It's still there," John replies. "If you look on the vinyl around the new
album's [the twelve-inch single "(Just Like) Starting Over"] logo - which

all the kids have done already all over the world from Brazil to Australia

to Poland, anywhere that gets the record - inside is written: ONE WORLD,

ONE PEOPLE. So we continue.

"I get truly affected by letters from Brazil or Poland or Austria - places

I'm not conscious of all the time - just to know somebody is there,

listening. One kid living up in Yorkshire wrote this heartfelt letter

about being both Oriental and English and identifying with John and Yoko.

The odd kid in the class. There are a lot of those kids who identify with

us. They don't need the history of rock & roll. They identify with us as a

couple, a biracial couple, who stand for love, peace, feminism and the

positive things of the world.

"You know, give peace a chance, not shoot people for peace. All we need is

love. I believe it. It's damn hard, but I absolutely believe it. We're not

the first to say, 'Imagine no countries' or 'Give peace a chance,' but

we're carrying that torch, like the Olympic torch, passing it from hand to

hand, to each other, to each country, to each generation. That's our job.

We have to conceive of an idea before we can do it.

"I've never claimed divinity. I've never claimed purity of soul. I've

never claimed to have the answer to life. I only put out songs and answer

questions as honestly as I can, but only as honestly as I can - no more,

no less. I cannot live up to other people's expectations of me because

they're illusionary. And the people who want more than I am, or than Bob

Dylan is, or than Mick Jagger is...

"Take Mick, for instance. Mick's put out consistently good work for twenty

years, and will they give him a break? Will they ever say, 'Look at him,
 he's Number One, he's thirty-six and he's put out a beautiful song,

"Emotional Rescue," it's up there.' I enjoyed it, lots of people enjoyed

it. So it goes up and down, up and down. God help Bruce Springsteen when

they decide he's no longer God. I haven't seen him - I'm not a great

'in'-person watcher - but I've heard such good things about him. Right

now, his fans are happy. He's told them about being drunk and chasing

girls and cars and everything, and that's about the level they enjoy. But

when he gets down to facing his own success and growing older and having

to produce it again and again, they'll turn on him, and I hope he survives

it. All he has to do is look at me and Mick.... I cannot be a punk in

Hamburg and Liverpool anymore. I'm older now. I see the world through

different eyes. I still believe in love, peace and understanding, as Elvis

Costello said, and what's so funny about love, peace and understanding?"

"There's another aspect of your work, which has to do with the way you

continuously question what's real and what's illusory, such as in 'Look at

Me,' your beautiful new 'Watching the Wheels' - what are those wheels, by

the way? - and, of course, 'Strawberry Fields Forever,' in which you sing:

'Nothing is real.'"

"Watching the wheels?" John asks. "The whole universe is a wheel, right?

Wheels go round and round. They're my own wheels, mainly. But, you
know,

watching meself is like watching everybody else. And I watch meself

through my child, too. Then, in a way, nothing is real, if you break the

word down. As the Hindus or Buddhists say, it's an illusion, meaning all

matter is floating atoms, right? It's Rashomon. We all see it, but the

agreed-upon illusion is what we live in. And the hardest thing is facing

yourself. It's easier to shout 'Revolution' and 'Power to the people' than
 it is to look at yourself and try to find out what's real inside you and

what isn't, when you're pulling the wool over your own eyes. That's the

hardest one.

"I used to think that the world was doing it to me and that the world owed

me something, and that either the conservatives or the socialists or the

fascists or the communists or the Christians or the Jews were doing

something to me; and when you're a teenybopper, that's what you think.
I'm

forty now. I don't think that anymore, 'cause I found out it doesn't

fucking work! The thing goes on anyway, and all you're doing is jacking

off, screaming about what your mommy or daddy or society did, but one
has

to go through that. For the people who even bother to go through that -

most assholes just accept what is and get on with it, right? - but for the

few of us who did question what was going on.... I have found out

personally - not for the whole world! - that I am responsible for it, as

well as them. I am part of them. There's no separation; we're all one, so

in that respect, I look at it all and think, 'Ah, well, I have to deal

with me again in that way. What is real? What is the illusion I'm living

or not living?' And I have to deal with it every day. The layers of the

onion. But that is what it's all about.

"The last album I did before Double Fantasy was Rock 'n' Roll, with a

cover picture of me in Hamburg in a leather jacket. At the end of making

that record, I was finishing up a track that Phil Spector had made me sing

called 'Just Because,' which I really didn't know - all the rest I'd done

as a teenager, so I knew them backward - and I couldn't get the hang of

it. At the end of that record - I was mixing it just next door to this
very studio - I started spieling and saying, 'And so we say farewell from

the Record Plant,' and a little thing in the back of my mind said, 'Are

you really saying farewell?' I hadn't thought of it then. I was still

separated from Yoko and still hadn't had the baby, but somewhere in the

back was a voice that was saying, 'Are you saying farewell to the whole

game?'

"It just flashed by like that - like a premonition. I didn't think of it

until a few years later, when I realized that I had actually stopped

recording. I came across the cover photo - the original picture of me in

my leather jacket, leaning against the wall in Hamburg in 1962 - and I

thought, 'Is this it? Do I start where I came in, with "Be-Bop-A-Lula"?'

The day I met Paul I was singing that song for the first time onstage.

There's a photo in all the Beatles books - a picture of me with a checked

shirt on, holding a little acoustic guitar - and I am singing

'Be-Bop-A-Lula,' just as I did on that album, and there's a picture in

Hamburg and I'm saying goodbye from the Record Plant.

"Sometimes you wonder, I mean really wonder. I know we make our own

reality and we always have a choice, but how much is preordained? Is there

always a fork in the road and are there two preordained paths that are

equally preordained? There could be hundreds of paths where one could go

this way or that way - there's a choice and it's very strange sometimes...

And that's a good ending for our interview."

Jack Douglas, coproducer of Double Fantasy, has arrived and is overseeing

the mix of Yoko's songs. It's 2:30 in the morning, but John and I continue

to talk until four as Yoko naps on a studio couch. John speaks of his

plans for touring with Yoko and the band that plays on Double Fantasy; of
 his enthusiasm for making more albums; of his happiness about living in

New York City, where, unlike England or Japan, he can raise his son

without racial prejudice; of his memory of the first rock & roll song he

ever wrote (a takeoff on the Dell Vikings' "Come Go with Me," in which he

changed the lines to: "Come come come come / Come and go with me / To
the

peni-tentiary"); of the things he has learned on his many trips around the

world during the past five years. As he walks me to the elevator, I tell

him how exhilarating it is to see Yoko and him looking and sounding so

well. "I love her, and we're together," he says. "Goodbye, till next

time."

"After all is really said and done / The two of us are really one," John

Lennon sings in"Dear Yoko," a song inspired by Buddy Holly, who himself

knew something about true love's ways." People asking questions lost in

confusion / Well I tell them there's no problem, only solutions," sings

John in "Watching the Wheels," a song about getting off the

merry-go-round, about letting it go.

In the tarot, the Fool is distinguished from other cards because it is not

numbered, suggesting that the Fool is outside movement and change. And
as

it has been written, the Fool and the clown play the part of scapegoats in

the ritual sacrifice of humans. John and Yoko have never given up being

Holy Fools. In a recent Playboy interview, Yoko, responding to a reference

to other notables who had been interviewed in that magazine, said:"People

like Carter represent only their country. John and I represent the world."

I am sure many readers must have snickered. But three nights after our

conversation, the death of John Lennon revealed Yoko's statement to be

 astonishingly true. "Come together over me," John had sung, and people

everywhere in the world came together.

© 1980 Rolling Stone Magazine

The Rolling Stone Interview: John Lennon

JANN S. WENNER

Posted Jan 21, 1971 9:30 AM

This interview took place in New York City on December 8th, shortly after John

and Yoko finished their albums in England. They came to New York to attend to

the details of the release of the album, to make some films, and for a private

visit. Those who aided in the transcribing and editing were Jonathon Cott,

Charles Perry, Sheryl Ball and Ellen Wolper.

What do you think of your album?

I think it's the best thing I've ever done. I think it's realistic and it's true

to the me that has been developing over the years from my life. "I'm a Loser,"

"Help," "Strawberry Fields," they are all personal records. I always wrote about

me when I could. I didn't really enjoy writing third person songs about people

who lived in concrete flats and things like that. I like first person music. But

because of my hang-ups and many other things; I would only now and then

specifically write about me. Now I wrote all about me and that's why I like it.

It's me! And nobody else. That's why I like it. It's real, that's all.
I don't know about anything else, really, and the few true songs I ever wrote

were like "Help" and "Strawberry Fields." I can't think of them all offhand.

They were the ones I always considered my best songs. They were the ones I

really wrote from experience and not projecting myself into a situation and

writing a nice story about it. I always found that phony, but I'd find occasion

to do it because I'd be so hung up, I couldn't even think about myself.

On this album, there is practically no imagery at all.

Because there was none in my head. There were no hallucinations in my head.

There are no "newspaper taxis."

Actually, that's Paul's line. I was consciously writing poetry, and that's

self-conscious poetry. But the poetry on this album is superior to anything I've

done because it's not self-conscious, in that way. I had the least trouble

writing the songs of all time.

Ono: There's no bullshit.

Lennon: There's no bullshit.

The arrangements are also simple and very sparse.

Well, I've always liked simple rock. There's a great one in England now, "I Hear

You Knocking." I liked the "Spirit in the Sky" a few months back. I always liked

simple rock and nothing else. I was influenced by acid and got psychedelic, like

the whole generation, but really, I like rock and roll and I express myself best

in rock. I had a few ideas to do this with "Mother" and that with "Mother" but

when you just hear, the piano does it all for you, your mind can do the rest. I

think the backings on mine are as complicated as the backings on any record

you've ever heard, if you've got an ear.

Anybody knows that. Any musician will tell you, just play a note on a piano,

it's got harmonics in it. It got to that. What the hell, I didn't need anything
else.

How did you put together that litany in "God"?

What's "litany?"

"I don't believe in magic," that series of statements.

Well, like a lot of the words, it just came out of me mouth. "God" was put

together from three songs almost. I had the idea that "God is the concept by

which we measure pain," so that when you have a word like that, you just sit

down and sing the first tune that comes into your head and the tune is simple,

because I like that kind of music and then I just rolled into it. It was just

going on in my head and I got by the first three or four, the rest just came

out. Whatever came out.

When did you know that you were going to be working towards "I don't believe
in

Beatles"?

I don't know when I realized that I was putting down all these things I didn't

believe in. So I could have gone on, it was like a Christmas card list: where do

I end? Churchill? Hoover? I thought I had to stop.

Ono: He was going to have a do it yourself type of thing.

Lennon: Yes, I was going to leave a gap, and just fill in your own words:

whoever you don't believe in. It had just got out of hand, and Beatles was the

final thing because I no longer believe in myth, and Beatles is another myth.

I don't believe in it. The dream is over. I'm not just talking about the

Beatles, I'm talking about the generation thing. It's over, and we gotta — I

have to personally — get down to so-called reality.

When did you become aware that that song would be the one that is played the
most?

I didn't know that. I don't know. I'll be able to tell in a week or so what's

going on, because they [the radio] started off playing "Look At Me" because it

was easy, and they probably thought it was the Beatles or something. So I
don't

know if that is the one. Well, that's the one; "God" and "Working Class Hero"

probably are the best whatevers — sort of ideas or feelings — on the record.

Why did you choose or refer to Zimmerman, not Dylan?

Because Dylan is bullshit. Zimmerman is his name. You see, I don't believe in

Dylan and I don't believe in Tom Jones, either in that way. Zimmerman is his

name. My name isn't John Beatle. It's John Lennon. Just like that.

Why did you tag that cut at the end with "Mummy's Dead"?

Because that's what's happened. All these songs just came out of me. I didn't

sit down to think, "I'm going to write about Mother" or I didn't sit down to

think "I'm going to write about this, that or the other." They all came out,

like all the best work that anybody ever does. Whether it is an article or what,

it's just the best ones that come out, and all these came out, because I had

time. If you are on holiday or in therapy, wherever you are, if you do spend

time... like in India I wrote the last batch of best songs, like "I'm So Tired"

and "Yer Blues." They're pretty realistic, they were about me. They always

struck me as — what is the word? Funny? Ironic? — that I was writing them

supposedly in the presence of guru and meditating so many hours a day,

writing

"I'm So Tired" and songs of such pain as "Yer Blues" which I meant. I was right

in the Maharishi's camp writing "I wanna die..."

"Yer Blues," was that also deliberately meant to be a parody of the English

blues scene?
Well, a bit. I'm a bit self-conscious — we all were a bit self-conscious and the

Beatles were super self-conscious people about parody of Americans which we

do

and have done.

I know we developed our own style but we still in a way parodied American
music

... this is interesting: in the early days in England, all the groups were like

Elvis and a backing group, and the Beatles deliberately didn't move like Elvis.

That was our policy because we found it stupid and bullshit. Then Mick Jagger

came out and resurrected "bullshit movement," wiggling your arse. So then
people

began to say the Beatles were passé because they don't move. But we did it as
a

conscious move.

When we were younger, we used to move, we used to jump around and do all
the

things they're doing now, like going on stage with toilet seats and shitting and

pissing. That's what we were doing in Hamburg and smashing things up. It
wasn't

a thing that Pete Townshend worked out, it is something that you do when you

play six or seven hours. There is nothing else to do: you smash the place up,

and you insult everybody. But we were groomed and we dropped all of that and

whatever it was that we started off talking about, which was what singing ...

what was it? What was the beginning of that?

Was "Yer Blues" deliberate?

Yes, there was a self-consciousness about singing blues. We were all listening

to Sleepy John Estes and all that in art school, like everybody else. But to

sing it was something else. I'm self conscious about doing it.

I think Dylan does it well, you know. In case he's not sure of himself, he makes
it double entendre. So therefore he is secure in his Hipness. Paul was saying,

"Don't call it 'Yer Blues,' just say it straight." But I was self-conscious and

I went for "Yer Blues." I think all that has passed now, because all the

musicians... we've all gotten over it. That's self-consciousness.

Ono: You know, I think John, being John, is a bit unfair to his music in a way.

I would like to just add a few things... like he can go on for an hour or

something. One thing about Dr. Janov, say if John fell in love, you know he is

always falling in love with all sorts of things, from the Marharashi to all what

not.

[John and Yoko went through four months of intensive therapy with Dr. Arthur

Janov, author of 'The Primal Scream' (Putnam's), in Los Angeles, June through

September of this year. In October they returned to England, where they made

their new albums. "Having a primal," or "primaling," is an extremely intense

type of re-living/acting-out experience, around which many of Janov's theories

are based.]

Nobody knows there is a point on the first song on Yoko's track where the
guitar

comes in and even Yoko thought it was her voice, because we did all Yoko's in

one night, the whole session. Except for the track with Ornette Coleman from
the

past that we put on to show people that she wasn't discovered by the Beatles
and

that she's been around a few years. We got stuff of her with Cage, Ornette

Coleman... we are going to put out "Oldies But Goldies" next for Yoko. I'll play

it again and talk about it later.

Ono: There is this thing that he just goes on falling in love with all sorts of

things. But it is like he fell in love with some girl or something and he wrote

this song. Who he fell in love with is not very important, the outcome of the
song itself is important. That is very important.

For instance, you have to say that a song like "Well, Well, Well" is connected

with Primal therapy or the theory of Primal Therapy.

Why?

The screaming.

No, no. Listen to "Cold Turkey."

Ono: He's screaming there already.

Lennon: Listen to "Twist and Shout." I couldn't sing the damn thing I was just

screaming. Listen to it. Wop-Bop-a-loo-bop-a-Wop-bam-boom. Don't get the

therapy

confused with the music. Yoko's whole thing was that scream. "Don't Worry,

Kyoko" was one of the fuckin' best rock and roll records ever made. Listen to

it, and play "Tutti Fruitti." Listen to "Don't Worry, Kyoko" on the other side

of "Cold Turkey."

I'm digressing from mine, but if somebody with a rock-oriented mind could

possibly hear her stuff, you'll see what she's doing. It's fantastic, you know.

It's as important as anything we ever did, and it is as important as anything

the Stones or Townshend ever did. Listen to it, and you'll hear what she is

putting down. On "Cold Turkey" I'm getting towards it. I'm influenced by her

music 1000 percent more than I ever was by anybody or anything. She makes
music

like you've never heard on earth.

And when the musicians play with her, they're inspired out of their skulls. I

don't know how much they played her record later. We've got a cut of her from

the Lyceum in London, 15 or 20 musicians playing with her, from Bonnie and

Delaney and the fucking lot. We played the tracks of it the other night. It's

the most fantastic music I've ever heard. They've probably gone away and
forgotten all about it. It's fantastic. It's like 20 years ahead of its time.

Anyway, back to mine.

You once said about "Cold Turkey": "That's not a song, that's a diary."

So is this, you know. I announced "Cold Turkey" at the Lyceum saying, "I'm
going

to sing a song about pain." So pain and screaming was before Janov. I mean
Janov

showed me more of my own pain. I went through therapy with him like I told
you

and I'm probably looser all over.

Are you less paranoid now?

No. Janov showed me how to feel my own fear and pain, therefore I can handle
it

better than I could before, that's all. I'm the same, only there's a channel. It

doesn't just remain in me, it goes round and out. I can move a little easier.

What was your experience with heroin?

It just was not too much fun. I never injected it or anything. We sniffed a

little when we were in real pain. We got such a hard time from everyone, and

I've had so much thrown at me, and at Yoko, especially at Yoko. Like Peter
Brown

in our office — and you can put this in — after we come in after six months he

comes down and shakes my hand and doesn't even say hello to her. That's
going on

all the time. And we get into so much pain that we have to do something about

it. And that's what happened to us. We took "H" because of what the Beatles
and

others were doing to us. But we got out of it.

Ono: You know he really produced his own stuff. Phil is, as you know, well
known

about as a very skillful sort of technician with electronics and engineering.

Lennon: But let's not take away from what he did do, which expended a lot of

energy and taught me a lot, and I would use him again.

Like what?

Well, I learned a lot on this album, technically. I didn't have to learn so much

before. Usually Paul and I would be listening to it and we wouldn't have to

listen to each individual sound. So there are a few things I learned this time,

about bass, one track or another, where you can get more in and where I lost

something on a track and some technical things that irritated me finally. But as

a concept and as a whole thing, I'm pleased, yes. That's about it, really. If I

get down to the nitty gritty, it would drive me mad, but I do like it really.

When you record, do you go for feeling or perfection of the sound?

I like both. I go for feeling. Most takes are right off and most times I sang it

and played it at the same time. I can't stand putting the backing on first, then

the singing, which is what we used to do in the old days, but those days are

dead, you know.

It starts off with bells: why?

Well, I was watching TV as usual, in California, and there was this old horror

movie on, and the bells sounded like that to me. It was probably different,

because those were actually bells slowed down that they used on the album.
They

just sounded like that and I thought oh, that's how to start "Mother." I knew

"Mother" was going to be the first track so...

You said that you wrote most of the songs in California?

Well, actually some of it. Actually I wrote "Mother" in England, "Isolation" in

England and a few more. I finished them off in California. You will have to push

me if you want more detail. "Look At Me" was written around the Beatles'
double
album time, you know, I just never got it going, there are a few like that lying

around.

You said that this would be the first "Primal Album."

When did I say that?

In California. Have you gone off it?

I haven't gone off it, it is just that "Primal" is like another mirror, you

know.

Ono: He is sort of like any artist, because he really wants to be honest to

himself and to the album, I suppose. What he does is just patching up

something

that is sort of interesting — so-so, or something. He really puts himself in it,

his life in it, you know, and so, like when he went to India, he was influenced

by the Maharishi.

Lennon: It's really like, you know, writers take themselves to Singapore to get

the atmosphere. So wherever I am. In that way it is sort of a "Primal" album.

It's like George's is the first "Gita" album.

Ono: It's that relevant. The Primal Scream is a mirror and he was looking at the

mirror.

When you came out to San Francisco, you wanted to take an advertisement to
say,

"This Is It!"

I think that is something people will go through at the beginning of that

therapy, because you are so astounded with what you find out about yourself.
You

think, well, surely this is something, because it happens to you, and this must

be the first time that it happened.

And, it was that we wanted to come. I need a reason for going somewhere —
otherwise I'm too nervous, so I calm myself. So that was a good way of coming
to

San Francisco to see you. Then I have an objective: "I'm going to do an act and

this is what we are coming to do." And we settle down and we just talk.

I still think that Janov's therapy is great, you know, but I don't want to make

it into a big Maharishi thing. You were right to tell me to forget the advert,

and that is why I don't even want to talk about it too much, if people know
what

I've been through there, and if they want to find out, they can find out,

otherwise it turns into that again.

You don't want people to think that this is the single thing to do.

I don't think anything else would work on me. But then of course, I'm not

through with it; it's a process that is going on. We primal almost daily. You

see, I don't really want to get this big Primal thing going because it is so

embarrassing. The thing in a nutshell: primal therapy allowed us to feel

feelings continually, and those feelings usually make you cry. That's all.

Because before, I wasn't feeling things, that's all. I was blocking the

feelings, and when the feelings come through, you cry. It's as simple as that,

really.

Do you think the experience of therapy helped you become a better singer?

Maybe.

Do you think your singing is better on this album?

It's probably better because I have the whole time to myself, you know. I mean

I'm pretty good at home with the tapes. This time it was my album and it used
to

get a bit embarrassing in front of George and Paul, because we know each
other

so well. We used to be a bit supercritical of each other, so we inhibited each

other a lot. And now I have Yoko there, and Phil there, alternatively and

together, who sort of love me so that I can perform better, and I relaxed. I've

got a whole studio at home now, and I think it will be better next time, because

that is even less inhibiting than going to E.M.I. It's like that, but the

looseness of the singing was developing on "Cold Turkey" from the experience
of

Yoko's singing. You see, she does not inhibit her throat.

It says on the album that Yoko does wind?

Yes. Well, she plays wind, she played atmosphere. She has a musical ear, and
she

can produce rock and roll. She can produce me, which she did for some of the

tracks. I'm not going to start saying that she did this and he did that. But

when Phil couldn't come at first... you don't have to be born and bred in rock,

she knows when a bass sound is right, and when a guy is playing out of rhythm

and when the engineer — she had a bit of trouble — the engineer thinks well,
who

the hell is this? What does she know about it? So, she did that for me.

"Working Class Hero" sounds like an early Dylan song.

Anybody that sings with a guitar and sings about something heavy would tend
to

sound like this. I'm bound to be influenced by those, because that is the only

kind of real folk music I really listen to. I never liked the fruity Judy

Collins and Baez and all of that stuff. So the only folk music I know is about

miners up in Newcastle, or Dylan. In that way I would be influenced, but it

doesn't sound like Dylan to me. Does it sound like Dylan to you?

Only in the instrumentation.

That's the only way to play. I never listen that hard to him.

Did you put in "fucking" deliberately on "Working Class Hero?"

No. I put it in because it fit. I didn't even realize that there were two in the

song until somebody pointed it out. When I actually sang it, I missed a verse

which I had to add in later. You do say "fucking crazy"; that is how I speak. I

was very near to it many times in the past, but, I would deliberately not put it

in, which is the real hypocrisy, the real stupidity.

What is November 5th?

In England it's the day they blew up the Houses of Parliament so we celebrate
by

having bonfires every November 5th, Guy Fawkes Day. It just was an ad lib: it

was about the third take, and I got to remembering, and it begins to sound like

Frankie Laine, you know, when you sing, (sings) "Remember the Fifth of

November." I just broke up, and it went on for about another seven or eight

minutes. We started ad libbing and goofing about, but then I cut it there and

just exploded, it was a good joke. Haven't you ever heard of Guy Fawkes? I

thought it was just poignant that we should blow up the Houses of Parliament.

Do you get embarrassed sometimes when you hear the album, when you think
about

how personal it is?

I get embarrassed. You see, sometimes I can hear it and be embarrassed just
by

the performance of either the music or the statements, and sometimes I don't.
I

change daily, you know. Like just before it's coming out, I can't bear to hear

it in the house or play it anywhere, but a few months before that, I can play it

all the time. It just changes all the time.

Sometimes I used to listen to something, Buddy Holly or something, and one

day

the record will sound twice as fast as the next day. Did you ever experience
that on a single? I used to have that: one day "Hound Dog" would sound very
slow

and one day it would sound very fast. It was just my feeling towards it. The way

I heard it. It can do that. That's where you have to make your artistic judgment

to say well, this is the take and this isn't. That's the way you have to make

the decision: when it sounds reasonable.

"Isolation" and "Hold On John" are rough remixes. I just mixed them on 7 1/2

[ips, a conventional home tape recorder speed] to take home to play and see
what

else I was going to do with them. Then I didn't even put them onto 15 [ips —
the

speed at which professional taping is done], so the quality is a bit off on

them.

What is your concept of pain?

I don't know what you mean, really.

On the song "God" you start by saying: "God is a concept by which we measure
our

pain..."

Well, pain is the pain we go through all the time. You're born in pain. Pain is

what we are in most of the time, and I think that the bigger the pain, the more

God you look for.

There is a tremendous body of philosophical literature about God as a measure

of

pain.

I never heard of it. You see, it was my own revelation. I don't know who wrote

about it, or what anybody else said, I just know that's what I know.

Ono: He just felt it.

Lennon: Yes, I just felt it. It was like I was crucified, when I felt it. So I
know what they're talking about now.

What is the difference between George Martin and Phil Spector?

George Martin... I don't know. You see, for quite a few of our albums, like the

Beatles' double albums, George Martin didn't really produce it. In the early

days, I can remember what George Martin did.

What did he do in the early days?

He would translate... If Paul wanted to use violins he would translate it for

him. Like "In My Life" there is an Elizabethan Piano solo in it, so he would do

things like that. We would say "play like Bach" or something, so he would put
12

bars in there. He helped us develop a language, to talk to musicians.

I was very, very shy, and there are many reasons why I didn't like very much
go

for musicians. I didn't like to have to see 20 guys sitting there and try to

tell them what to do. Because they're all so lousy anyway. So, apart from the

early days — when I didn't have much to do with it — I did it myself.

Why did you use Phil now instead of George Martin?

Well it's not instead of George Martin. That's nothing personal against George

Martin. He's more Paul's style of music than mine. But I don't know, really...

it's a drag to do both. To go in the recording studio and then you run back and

say did you get it?

Did Phil make any special contribution?

Yes, Yes. Phil, I believe, is a great artist and like all great artists he's

very neurotic. But we've done quite a few tracks together, Yoko and I, and
she'd

be encouraging me in the other room and all that, and — at one point in the

middle we were just lagging — Phil moved in and brought in a new life. We
were
getting heavy because we had done a few things and the thrill of recording had

worn off a little. So you can hear Spector here and there. There is no

specifics, you can just hear him.

I read a little interview with you done when you went to the Rock and Roll

Revival over a year ago in Toronto. You said you were throwing up before you

went on stage.

Yes. I just threw up for hours until I went on. I even threw up... I read a

review in Stone, the one about the film [Toronto Pop, by D.A. Pennebaker] I

haven't seen yet, and they were saying I was this and that. I was throwing up

nearly in the number, I could hardly sing any of them, I was full of shit.

Would you still be that nervous if you appeared in public?

Always that nervous, but what with one thing and another, it just had to come

out some way. I don't think I'll do much appearing, it's not worth the strain, I

don't want to perform too much for people.

What do you think of George's album?

I don't know... I think it's all right, you know. Personally, at home, I

wouldn't play that kind of music, I don't want to hurt George's feelings, I

don't know what to say about it. I think it's better than Paul's.

What did you think of Paul's?

I thought Paul's was rubbish. I think he'll make a better one, when he's

frightened into it. But I thought that first one was just a lot of... Remember

what I told you when it came out? "Light and easy," You know that crack. But

then I listen to the radio and I hear George's stuff coming over, well then it's

pretty bloody good. My personal tastes are very strange, you know.

What are your personal tastes?

Sounds like "Wop Bop a Loo Bop." I like rock & roll, man, I don't like much
else.

Why rock & roll?

That's the music that inspired me to play music. There is nothing conceptually

better than rock and roll. No group, be it Beatles, Dylan or Stones have ever

improved on "Whole Lot of Shaking" for my money. Or maybe I'm like our
parents:

that's my period and I dig it and I'll never leave it.

What do you think of the rock and roll scene today?

I don't know what it is. You would have to name it. I don't think there's...

Do you get any pleasure out of the Top Ten?

No, I never listen. Only when I'm recording or about to bring something out will

I listen. Just before I record, I go buy a few albums to see what people are

doing. Whether they have improved any, or whether anything happened. And

nothing's really happened. There's a lot of great guitarists and musicians

around, but nothing's happening, you know. I don't like the Blood, Sweat and

Tears shit. I think all that is bullshit. Rock and roll is going like jazz, as

far as I can see, and the bullshitters are going off into that excellentness

which I never believed in and others going off... I consider myself in the avant

garde of rock and roll. Because I'm with Yoko and she taught me a lot and I

taught her a lot, and I think on her album you can hear it, if I can get away

from her album for a moment.

What do you think of Dylan's album?

I thought it wasn't much. Because I expect more — maybe I expect too much
from

people — but I expect more. I haven't been a Dylan follower since he stopped

rocking. I liked "Rolling Stone" and a few things he did then; I like a few
things he did in the early days. The rest of it is just like Lennon-McCartney or

something. It's no different, its a myth.

You don't think then it's a legitimate "New Morning"?

No, It might be a new morning for him because he stopped singing on the top
of

his voice. It's all right, but it's not him, it doesn't mean a fucking thing.

I'd sooner have "I Hear You Knocking" by Dave Edmonds, it's the top of England

now.

It's strange that George comes out with his "Hare Krishna" and you come out
with

the opposite, especially after that.

I can't imagine what George thinks. Well, I suppose he thinks I've lost the way

or something like that. But to me, I'm like home. I'll never change much from

this.

Let's re-approach that: always the Beatles were talked about — and the Beatles

talked about themselves — as being four parts of the same person. What's

happened to those four parts?

They remembered that they were four individuals. You see, we believed the

Beatles myth, too. I don't know whether the others still believe it. We were

four guys... I met Paul, and said, "You want to join me band?" Then George

joined and then Ringo joined. We were just a band that made it very, very, big

that's all. Our best work was never recorded.

Why?

Because we were performers — in spite of what Mick says about us — in

Liverpool,

Hamburg and other dance halls. What we generated was fantastic, when we
played

straight rock, and there was nobody to touch us in Britain. As soon as we made
it, we made it, but the edges were knocked off.

You know Brian put us in suits and all that, and we made it very, very big. But

we sold out, you know. The music was dead before we even went on the
theater

tour of Britain. We were feeling shit already, because we had to reduce an hour

or two hours' playing, which we were glad about in one way, to 20 minutes,
and

we would go on and repeat the same 20 minutes every night.

The Beatles music died then, as musicians. That's why we never improved as

musicians; we killed ourselves then to make it. And that was the end of it.

George and I are more inclined to say that; we always missed the club dates

because that's when we were playing music, and then later on we became

technically, efficient recording artists — which was another thing — because

we

were competent people and whatever media you put us in we can produce
something

worthwhile.

How did you choose the musicians you use on this record?

I'm a very nervous person, really, I'm not as big-headed as this tape sounds,

this is me projecting through the fear, so I choose people that I know, rather

than strangers.

Why do you get along with Ringo?

Because in spite of all the things, the Beatles could really play music together

when they weren't uptight, and if I get a thing going, Ringo knows where to go,

just like that, and he does well. We've played together so long, that it fits.

That's the only thing I sometimes miss is just being able to sort of blink or

make a certain noise and I know they'll all know where we are going on an ad
lib
thing. But I don't miss it that much.

How do you rate yourself as a guitarist?

Well, it depends on what kind of guitarist. I'm OK, I'm not technically good,

but I can make it fucking howl and move. I was rhythm guitarist. It's an

important job. I can make a band drive.

How do you rate George?

He's pretty good. (Laughter) I prefer myself. I have to be honest, you know. I'm

really very embarrassed about my guitar playing, in one way, because it's very

poor, I can never move, but I can make a guitar speak.

I think there's a guy called Richie Valens, no, Richie Havens, does he play very

strange guitar? He's a black guy that was on a concert and sang "Strawberry

Fields" or something. He plays like one chord all the time. He plays a pretty

funky guitar. But he doesn't seem to be able to play in the real terms at all.

I'm like that.

Yoko has made me feel cocky about my guitar. You see, one part of me says
yes,

of course I can play because I can make a rock move, you know. But the other

part of me says well, I wish I could just do like B.B. King. If you would put me

with B.B. King, I would feel real silly. I'm an artist, and if you give me a

tuba, I'll bring you something out of it.

You say you can make the guitar speak; what songs have you done that on?

Listen to "Why" on Yoko's album "I Found Out." I think it's nice. It drives

along. Ask Eric Clapton, he thinks I can play, ask him. You see, a lot of you

people want technical things; it's like wanting technical films. Most critics of

rock and roll, and guitarists, are in the stage of the Fifties when they wanted

a technically perfect film, finished for them, and then they would feel happy.

I'm a cinema verite guitarist, I'm a musician and you have to break down your
barriers to hear what I'm playing. There's a nice little bit I played, they had

it on the back of "Abbey Road." Paul gave us each a piece, there is a little

break where Paul plays, George plays and I played. And there is one bit, one of

those where it stops, one of those "carry that weights" where it suddenly goes

boom, boom, on the drums and then we all take it in turns to play. I'm the third

one on it.

I have a definite style of playing. I've always had. But I was over-shadowed.

They call George the invisible singer. I'm the invisible guitarist.

You said you played slide guitar on "Get Back."

Yes, I played the solo on that. When Paul was feeling kindly, he would give me
a

solo! Maybe if he was feeling guilty that he had most of the "A" side or

something, he would give me a solo. And I played the solo on that. I think

George produced some beautiful guitar playing. But I think he's too hung up to

really let go, but so is Eric, really. Maybe he's changed. They're all so hung

up. We all are, that's the problem. I really like B.B. King.

Do you like Ringo's record, his country one?

I think it's a good record. I wouldn't buy any of it, you know. I think it's a

good record, and I was pleasantly surprised to hear "Beaucoups of Blues," that

song you know. I thought, good. I was glad, and I didn't feel as embarrassed as

I did about his first record.

It's hard when you ask me, it's like asking me what do I think of... ask me

about other people, because it looks so awful when I say I don't like this and I

don't like that. It's just that I don't like many of the Beatles records either.

My own taste is different from that which I've played sometimes, which is
called

"cop out" to make money or whatever. Or because I didn't know any better.
I would like to ask a question about Paul and go through that. When we went
and

saw "Let It Be" in San Francisco, what was your feeling?

I felt sad, you know. Also I felt... that film was set-up by Paul for Paul. That

is one of the main reasons the Beatles ended. I can't speak for George, but I

pretty damn well know we got fed up of being side-men for Paul.

After Brian died, that's what happened, that's what began to happen to us. The

camera work was set-up to show Paul and not anybody else. And that's how I
felt

about it. On top of that, the people that cut it, did it as if Paul is God and

we are just lyin' around there. And that's what I felt. And I knew there were

some shots of Yoko and me that had been just chopped out of the film for no

other reason than the people were oriented for Englebert Humperdinck. I felt

sick.

How would you trace the break-up of the Beatles?

After Brian died, we collapsed. Paul took over and supposedly led us. But what

is leading us, when we went round in circles? We broke up then. That was the

disintegration.

When did you first feel that the Beatles had broken up? When did that idea first

hit you?

I don't remember, you know. I was in my own pain. I wasn't noticing, really. I

just did it like a job. The Beatles broke up after Brian died; we made the

double album, the set. It's like if you took each track off it and made it all

mine and all George's. It's like I told you many times, it was just me and a

backing group, Paul and a backing group, and I enjoyed it. We broke up then.

Where were you when Brian died?

We were in Wales with the Maharishi. We had just gone down after seeing his
lecture first night. We heard it then, and then we went right off into the

Maharishi thing.

Where were you?

In Wales. A place called Bangor, in Wales.

Were you in a hotel or what?

We were just outside a lecture hall with Maharishi and I don't know... I can't

remember, it just sort of came over. Somebody came up to us... the press were

there, because we had gone down with this strange Indian, and they said
"Brian's

dead" and I was stunned, we went in to him. "What, he's dead," and all were, I

suppose, and the Marharishi, we went in to him. "What, he's dead," and all
that,

and he was sort of saying oh, forget it, be happy, like an idiot, like parents,

smile, that's what the Maharishi said. And we did.

What was your feeling when Brian died?

The feeling that anybody has when somebody close to them dies. There is a
sort

of little hysterical, sort of hee, hee, I'm glad it's not me or something in it,

the funny feeling when somebody close to you dies. I don't know whether
you've

had it, but I've had a lot of people die around me and the other feeling is,

"What the fuck? What can I do?"

I knew that we were in trouble then. I didn't really have any misconceptions

about our ability to do anything other than play music and I was scared. I

thought, "We've fuckin' had it."

What were the events that sort of immediately happened after Brian died?
Well, we went with Maharishi... I remember being in Wales and then, I can't

remember though. I will probably have to have a bloody primal to remember

this.

I don't remember. It just all happened.

How did Paul react?

I don't know how the others took it, it's no good asking me... it's like asking

me how you took it. I don't know. I'm in me own head, I can't be in anybody

else's. I don't know really what George, Paul or Ringo think anymore. I know

them pretty well, but I don't know anybody that well. Yoko, I know about the

best. I don't know how they felt. It was my own thing. We were all just dazed.

So Brian died and then you said what happened was that Paul started to take

over.

That's right. I don't know how much of this I want to put out. Paul had an

impression, he has it now like a parent, that we should be thankful for what he

did for keeping the Beatles going. But when you look back upon it objectively,

he kept it going for his own sake. Was it for my sake Paul struggled?

Paul made an attempt to carry on as if Brian hadn't died by saying, "Now, now,

boys, we're going to make a record." Being the kind of person I am, I thought

well, we're going to make a record all right, so I'll go along, so we went and

made a record. And that's when we made "Magical Mystery Tour." That was the

real...

Paul had a tendency to come along and say well he's written these ten songs,

let's record now. And I said, "well, give us a few days, and I'll knock a few

off," or something like that. "Magical Mystery Tour" was something he had
worked

out with Mal and he showed me what his idea was and this is how it went, it
went

around like this, the story and how he had it all... the production and
everything.

Paul said, "Well, here's the segment, you write a little piece for that," and I

thought bloody hell, so I ran off and I wrote the dream sequence for the fat

woman and all the thing with the spaghetti. Then George and I were sort of

grumbling about the fuckin' movie and we thought we better do it and we had
the

feeling that we owed it to the public to do these things.

When did your songwriting partnership with Paul end?

That ended... I don't know, around 1962, or something, I don't know. If you give

me the albums I can tell you exactly who wrote what, and which line. We

sometimes wrote together. All our best work — apart from the early days, like
"I

Want to Hold Your Hand" we wrote together and things like that — we wrote
apart

always. The "One After 909," on the "Let It Be" LP, I wrote when I was 17 or 18.

We always wrote separately, but we wrote together because we enjoyed it a lot

sometimes, and also because they would say well, you're going to make an
album

get together and knock off a few songs, just like a job.

Whose idea was it to go to India?

I don't know... I don't know, probably George's, I have no idea. Yoko and I met

around then. I lost me nerve because I was going to take me ex-wife and Yoko,

but I don't know how to work it. So I didn't quite do it.

"Sexy Sadie" you wrote about the Maharishi?

That's about the Maharishi, yes. I copped out and I wouldn't write "Maharishi

what have you done, you made a fool of everyone." But, now it can be told, Fab

Listeners.

When did you realize he was making a fool of you?

I don't know, I just sort of saw him.

While in India or when you got back?

Yes, there was a big hullaballo about him trying to rape Mia Farrow or
somebody

and trying to get off with a few other women and things like that. We went to

see him, after we stayed up all night discussing was it true or not true. When

George started thinking it might be true, I thought well, it must be true;

because if George started thinking it might be true, there must be something in

it.

So we went to see Maharishi, the whole gang of us, the next day, charged
down to

his hut, his bungalow, his very rich-looking bungalow in the mountains, and as

usual, when the dirty work came, I was the spokesman — whenever the dirty
work

came, I actually had to be leader, wherever the scene was, when it came to the

nitty gritty, I had to do the speaking — and I said "We're leaving."

"Why?" he asked, and all that shit and I said, "Well, if you're so cosmic,

you'll know why." He was always intimating, and there were all these right-
hand

men always intimating, that he did miracles. And I said, "You know why," and
he

said, "I don't know why, you must tell me," and I just kept saying "You ought to

know" and he gave me a look like, "I'll kill you, you bastard," and he gave me

such a look. I knew then. I had called his bluff and I was a bit rough to him.

Ono: You expected too much from him.

Lennon: I always do, I always expect too much. I was always expecting my
mother

and never got her. That's what it is, you know, or some parent, I know that

much.
You came to New York and had that press conference.

The Apple thing. That was to announce Apple.

But at the same time you disassociated yourselves from the Maharishi.

I don't remember that. You know, we all say a lot of things when we don't know

what we're talking about. I'm probably doing it now, I don't know what I say.

You see, everybody takes you up on the words you said, and I'm just a guy that

people ask all about things, and I blab off and some of it makes sense and
some

of it is bullshit and some of it's lies and some of it is — God knows what I'm

saying. I don't know what I said about Maharishi, all I know is what we said

about Apple, which was worse.

Will you talk about Apple?

All right.

How did that start?

Clive Epstein, or some other such business freak, came up to us and said
you've

got to spend so much money, or the tax will take you. We were thinking of

opening a chain of retail clothes shops or some balmy thing like that... and we

were all thinking that if we are going to have to open a shop, let's open

something we're interested in, and we went through all these different ideas

about this, that and the other. Paul had a nice idea about opening up white

houses, where we would sell white china, and things like that, everything white,

because you can never get anything white, you know, which was pretty groovy,
and

it didn't end up with that, it ended up with Apple and all this junk and The

Fool and all those stupid clothes and all that.

What happened to Magic Alex?

I don't know, he's still in London.

Did you all really think he had those inventions?

I think some of his stuff actually has come true, but they just haven't been

manufactured — maybe one of them is a salable object. He was just another

guy

who comes and goes around people like us. He's all, right, but he's cracked,
you

know.

When did you decide to close that down?

I don't know. I was controlling the scene at the time, I mean, I was the one

going in the office and shouting about. Paul had done it for six months, and

then I walked in and changed everything. There were all the Peter Browns

reporting behind my back to Paul, saying, "You know, John's doing this and

John's doing that, that John, he's crazy," I was always the one that must be

crazy, because I wouldn't let them have status quo.

Well, Yoko and I together, we came up with the idea to give it all away, and

stop fuckin' about with a psychedelic clothes shop, so we gave it all away. It

was a good happening.

Were you at the big giveaway?

No, we read it in the papers. That was when we started events. I learned
events

from Yoko. We made everything into events from then on and got rid of it.

You gave away your M.B.E.?

I'd been planning on it for over a year and a bit. I was waiting for a time to

do it.

You said then that you were waiting to tag it to some event, then you realized

that it was the event.

That's the truth.

You also said then that you had another thing you were going to do.
I don't know what it was.

Do you remember?

Yes, I do. Well, we always had... we always kept them on their toes, during our

events period. I don't know, but we said we had some other surprise for them

later. I can't remember what it was.

Ono: Probably War Is Over, the poster event.

To go back to Apple and the breakup of the Beatles, Brian died, and one thing

and another...

I didn't really want to talk about all this... go on.

Do you mind?

Well, we're halfway through it now, so let's do it.

You said you quit the Beatles first.

Yes.

How?

I said to Paul "I'm leaving."

I knew on the flight over to Toronto or before we went to Toronto: I told Allen

I was leaving, I told Eric Clapton and Klaus that I was leaving then, but that I

would probably like to use them as a group. I hadn't decided how to do it — to

have a permanent new group or what — then later on, I thought fuck, I'm not

going to get stuck with another set of people, whoever they are.

I announced it to myself and the people around me on the way to Toronto a

few

days before. And on the plane — Klein came with me — I told Allen, "It's over."

When I got back, there were a few meetings, and Allen said well, cool it, cool

it, there was a lot to do, businesswise you know, and it would not have been

suitable at the time.

Then we were discussing something in the office with Paul, and Paul said
something or other about the Beatles doing something, and I kept saying "No,
no,

no" to everything he said. So it came to a point where I had to say something,

of course, and Paul said, "What do you mean?" I said, "I mean the group is
over,

I'm leaving."

Allen was there, and he will remember exactly and Yoko will, but this is exactly

how I see it. Allen was saying don't tell. He didn't want me to tell Paul even.

So I said, "It's out," I couldn't stop it, it came out. Paul and Allen both said

that they were glad that I wasn't going to announce it, that I wasn't going to

make an event out of it. I don't know whether Paul said "Don't tell anybody,"

but he was darned pleased that I wasn't going to. He said, "Oh, that means

nothing really happened if you're not going to say anything."

So that's what happened. So, like anybody when you say divorce, their face
goes

all sorts of colors. It's like he knew really that this was the final thing; and

six months later he comes out with whatever. I was a fool not to do it, not to

do what Paul did, which was use it to sell a record.

You were really angry with Paul?

No, I wasn't angry.

Well, when he came out with this "I'm leaving."

No, I wasn't angry — shit, he's a good P.R. man, that's all. He's about the best

in the world, probably. He really does a job. I wasn't angry. We were all hurt

that he didn't tell us that was what he was going to do.

I think he claims that he didn't mean that to happen but that's bullshit. He

called me in the afternoon of that day and said, "I'm doing what you and Yoko

were doing last year." I said good, you know, because that time last year they

were all looking at Yoko and me as if we were strange trying to make our life
together instead of being fab, fat myths. So he rang me up that day and said
I'm

doing what you and Yoko are doing, I'm putting out an album, and I'm leaving
the

group too, he said. I said good. I was feeling a little strange, because he was

saying it this time, although it was a year later, and I said "good," because he

was the one that wanted the Beatles most, and then the midnight papers came
out.

How did you feel then?

I was cursing, because I hadn't done it. I wanted to do it, I should have done

it. Ah, damn, shit, what a fool I was. But there were many pressures at that

time with the Northern Songs fight going on; it would have upset the whole

thing, if I would have said that.

How did you feel when you found out that Dick James had sold his shares in
your

own company, Northern Songs? Did you feel betrayed?

Sure I did. He's another one of those people, who think they made us. They

didn't. I'd like to hear Dick James' music and I'd like to hear George Martin's

music, please, just play me some. Dick James actually has said that.

What?

That he made us. People are under a delusion that they made us, when in fact
we

made them.

How did Dick James tell you that? "Well, I'm..."

He didn't tell us he did it. It was just a fait accompli. He went and sold his

thing to Lew Grade. That's all we knew. We read it in the paper, I think.

What was it like? All those meetings and conferences?

Oh, it was fantastic. It was like this room full of old men smoking and

fighting. It's great. People seem to think that businessmen like Allen, or

Grade, or any of them, are a race apart. They play the game the way we play

music, and it's something to see. They play a game, first they have a ritual,

then they create. Allen, he's a very creative guy, you know, he creates

situations which create positions for them to move in, they all do it, you know,

and it's a sight to see. We played our part, we both did.

What did you do?

With the bankers and things like that? I think Allen could tell you better

because I don't know. Everything seems as though it's going to be trouble, like

you can't say anything about anybody, because you're going to get sued, or

something like that. Allen will tell you what we did.

I did a job on this banker that we were using, and on a few other people, and
on

the Beatles.

What?

How do you describe the job? You know, you know, my job — I maneuver
people.

That's what leaders do, and I sit and make situations which will be of benefit

to me with other people, it's as simple as that. I had to do a job to get Allen

in Apple. I did a job, so did Yoko.

Ono: You do it with instinct, you know.

Lennon: Oh. God, Yoko, don't say that. Maneuvering is what it is, let's not be

coy about it. It is a deliberate and thought-out maneuver of how to get a

situation the way we want it. That's how life's about, isn't it, is it not?

Ono: Well, you're pretty instinctive.

Lennon: Ono: The difference is that you don't go down and bullshit and get
them.
But you just instinctively said that Allen is the guy to jump into it.

Lennon: That's not the thing, the point I'm talking about is creating a

situation around Apple and the Beatles in which Allen could come in, that is

what I'm talking about, and he wouldn't have gotten in unless I'd done it, and

he wouldn't have gotten in unless you'd done it, you made the decision, too.

How did you get Allen in?

The same as I get anything I want. The same as you get what you want. I'm not

telling you; just work at it, get on the phone, a little word here, and a little

word there and do it.

What was Paul's reaction?

You see, a lot of people, like the Dick James, Derek Taylors, and Peter Browns,

all of them, they think they're the Beatles, and Neil and all of them. Well, I

say fuck 'em, you know, and after working with genius for ten, 15 years they

begin to think they're it. They're not.

Do you think you're a genius?

Yes, if there is such a thing as one, I am one.

When did you first realize that?

When I was about 12. I used to think I must be a genius, but nobody's noticed. I

used to wonder whether I'm a genius or I'm not, which is it? I used to think,

well, I can't be mad, because nobody's put me away, therefore, I'm a genius. A

genius is a form of madness, and we're all that way, you know, and I used to be

a bit coy about it, like my guitar playing.

If there is such a thing as genius — which is what... what the fuck is it? — I

am one, and if there isn't, I don't care. I used to think it when I was a kid,

writing me poetry and doing me paintings. I didn't become something when the

Beatles made it, or when you heard about me, I've been like this all me life.
Genius is pain too.

How do you feel towards the Beatle people? All of them who used to — some
still

do — work at Apple, who've been around during those years. Neil Aspinal, Mal

Evans...

I didn't mention Mal. I said Neil, Peter Brown and Derek. They live in a dream

of Beatle past, and everything they do is oriented to that. They also have a

warped view of what was happening. I suppose we all do.

They must feel now that their lives are inextricably bound up in yours.

Well, they have to grow up then. They've only had half their life, and they've

got another whole half to go; and they can't go on pretending to be Beatles.

That's where it's at, I mean when they read this, they'll think it's "cracked

John," if it's in the article, but that's where it's at, they live in the past.

You see, I presumed that I would just be able to carry on, and bring Yoko into

our life, but it seemed that I had to either be married to them or Yoko, and I

chose Yoko, and I was right.

What were their reactions when you first brought Yoko by?

They despised her.

From the very beginning?

Yes, they insulted her and they still do. They don't even know I can see it, and

even when it's written down, it will look like I'm just paranoiac or she's

paranoiac. I know, just by the way the publicity on us was handled in Apple, all

of the two years we were together, and the attitude of people to us and the bits

we hear from office girls. We know, so they can go stuff themselves.

Ono: In the beginning, we were too much in love to notice anything.

Lennon: We were in our own dream, but they're the kind of idiots that really

think that Yoko split the Beatles, or Allen. It's the same joke, really, they
are that insane about Allen, too.

You say that the dream is over. Part of the dream was that the Beatles were
God

or that the Beatles were the messengers of God, and of course yourself as
God...

Yeah. Well, if there is a God, we're all it.

When did you first start getting the reactions from people who listened to the

records, sort of the spiritual reaction?

There is a guy in England, William Mann, who was the first intellectual who

reviewed the Beatles in the Times and got people talking about us in that

intellectual way. He wrote about Aeolian Cadences and all sorts of musical

terms, and he is a bullshitter. But he made us credible with intellectuals. He

wrote about Paul's last album as if it were written by Beethoven or something.

He's still writing the same shit. But it did us a lot of good in that way,

because people in all the middle classes and intellectuals were all going

"Oooh."

How would you characterize George's, Paul's and Ringo's reaction to Yoko?

It's the same. You can quote Paul, it's probably in the papers, he said it many

times at first he hated Yoko and then he got to like her. But, it's too late for

me. I'm for Yoko. Why should she take that kind of shit from those people?
They

were writing about her looking miserable in the "Let It Be" film, but you sit

through 60 sessions with the most bigheaded, up-tight people on earth and see

what its fuckin' like and be insulted — just because you love someone — and

George, shit, insulted her right to her face in the Apple office at the

beginning, just being 'straight-forward,' you know that game of 'I'm going to be

up front,' because this is what we've heard and Dylan and a few people said

she'd got a lousy name in New York, and you give off bad vibes. That's what
George said to her! And we both sat through it. I didn't hit him, I don't know

why.

I was always hoping that they would come around. I couldn't believe it, and
they

all sat there with their wives, like a fucking jury and judged us and the only

thing I did was write that piece (Rolling Stone, April 16th, 1970) about "some

of our beast friends" in my usual way — because I was never honest enough, I

always had to write in that gobbly-gook — and that's what they did to us.

Ringo was all right, so was Maureen, but the other two really gave it to us.

I'll never forgive them, I don't care what fuckin' shit about Hare Krishna and

God and Paul with his "Well, I've changed me mind." I can't forgive 'em for

that, really. Although I can't help still loving them either.

Yoko played me tapes I understood. I know it was very strange, and avant
garde

music is a very tough thing to assimilate and all that, but I've heard the

Beatles play avant garde music — when nobody was looking — for years.

But the Beatles were artists, and all artists have fucking' big egos, whether

they like to admit it or not, and when a new artist came into the group, they

were never allowed. Sometimes George and I would have liked to have brought

somebody in like Billy Preston, that was exceptional, we might have had him in

the group.

We were fed up with the same old shit, but it wasn't wanted. I would have

expanded the Beatles and broken them and gotten their pants off and stopped
them

from being God, but it didn't work, and Yoko was naive, she came in and she

would expect to perform with them, with any group, like you would with any

group, she was jamming, but there would be a sort of coldness about it. That's

when I decided: I could no longer artistically get anything out of the Beatles
and here was someone that could turn me on to a million things.

When did somebody first come up to you about this thing about John Lennon as

God?

About what to do and all of that? Like "you tell us Guru"? Probably after acid.

Maybe after "Rubber Soul." I can't remember it exactly happening. We just took

that position. I mean, we started putting out messages. Like "The Word Is Love"

and things like that. I write messages, you know. See, when you start putting

out messages, people start asking you "what's the message?"

How did you first get involved in LSD?

A dentist in London laid it on George, me and wives, without telling us, at a

dinner party at his house. He was a friend of George's and our dentist at the

time, and he just put it in our coffee or something. He didn't know what it was;

it's all the same thing with that sort of middle class London swinger, or

whatever. They had all heard about it, and they didn't know it was different

from pot or pills and they gave us it. He said "I advise you not to leave," and

we all thought he was trying to keep us for an orgy in his house, and we didn't

want to know, and we went to the Ad Lib and these discotheques and there
were

these incredible things going on.

It was insane going around London. When we went to the club we thought it
was on

fire and then we thought it was a premiere, and it was just an ordinary light

outside. We thought, "Shit, what's going on here?" We were cackling in the

streets, and people were shouting "Let's break a window," you know, it was just

insane. We were just out of our heads. When we finally got on the lift [an

elevator in England] we all thought there was a fire, but there was just a

little red light. We were all screaming like that, and we were all hot and
hysterical, and when we all arrived on the floor, because this was a
discotheque

that was up a building, the lift stopped and the door opened and we were all

[John demonstrates by screaming].

I had read somebody describing the effects of opium in the old days and I

thought "Fuck! It's happening," and then we went to the Ad Lib and all of that,

and then some singer came up to me and said, "Can I sit next to you?" And I

said, "Only if you don't talk," because I just couldn't think.

This seemed to go on all night. I can't remember the details. George somehow
or

another managed to drive us home in his mini. We were going about ten miles
an

hour, but it seemed like a thousand and Patty was saying let's jump out and
play

football. I was getting all these sort of hysterical jokes coming out like

speed, because I was always on that, too.

God, it was just terrifying, but it was fantastic. I did some drawings at the

time, I've got them somewhere, of four faces saying "We all agree with you!" I

gave them to Ringo, the originals. I did a lot of drawing that night. And then

George's house seemed to be just like a big submarine, I was driving it, they

all went to bed, I was carrying on in it, it seemed to float above his wall

which was 18 foot and I was driving it.

When you came down what did you think?

I was pretty stoned for a month or two. The second time we had it was in L.A.
We

were on tour in one of those houses, Doris Day's house or wherever it was we
used to stay, and the three of us took it, Ringo, George and I. Maybe Neil and a

couple of the Byrds — what's his name, the one in the Stills and Nash thing,

Crosby and the other guy, who used to do the lead. McGuinn. I think they
came,

I'm not sure, on a few trips. But there was a reporter, Don Short. We were in

the garden, it was only our second one and we still didn't know anything about

doing it in a nice place and cool it. Then they saw the reporter and thought

"How do we act?" We were terrified waiting for him to go, and he wondered
why we

couldn't come over. Neil, who never had acid either, had taken it and he would

have to play road manager, and we said go get rid of Don Short, and he didn't

know what to do.

Peter Fonda came, and that was another thing. He kept saying [in a whisper] "I

know what it's like to be dead," and we said "What?" and he kept saying it. We

were saying "For Christ's sake, shut up, we don't care, we don't want to know,"

and he kept going on about it. That's how I wrote "She Said, She Said" — "I
know

what's it's like to be dead." It was a sad song, an acidy song I suppose. "When

I was a little boy"... you see, a lot of early childhood was coming out, anyway.

So LSD started for you in 1964: how long did it go on?

It went on for years, I must of had a thousand trips.

Literally a thousand, or a couple of hundred?

A thousand. I used to just eat it all the time. I never took it in the studio.

Once I thought I was taking some uppers and I was not in the state of handling

it, I can't remember what album it was, but I took it and I just noticed... I

suddenly got so scared on the mike. I thought I felt ill, and I thought I was

going to crack. I said I must get some air. They all took me upstairs on the
roof and George Martin was looking at me funny, and then it dawned on me I
must

have taken acid. I said, "Well I can't go on, you'll have to do it and I'll just

stay and watch." You know I got very nervous just watching them all. I was

saying, "Is it all right?" And they were saying, "Yeah." They had all been very

kind and they carried on making the record.

The other Beatles didn't get into LSD as much as you did?

George did. In L.A. the second time we took it, Paul felt very out of it,

because we are all a bit slightly cruel, sort of "we're taking it, and you're

not." But we kept seeing him, you know. We couldn't eat our food, I just

couldn't manage it, just picking it up with our hands. There were all these

people serving us in the house and we were knocking food on the floor and all
of

that. It was a long time before Paul took it. Then there was the big

announcement.

Right.

So, I think George was pretty heavy on it; we are probably the most cracked.

Paul is a bit more stable than George and I.

And straight?

I don't know about straight. Stable. I think LSD profoundly shocked him, and

Ringo. I think maybe they regret it.

Did you have many bad trips?

I had many. Jesus Christ, I stopped taking it because of that. I just couldn't

stand it.

You got too afraid to take it?

It got like that, but then I stopped it for I don't know how long, and then I

started taking it again just before I met Yoko. Derek came over and... you see,
I got the message that I should destroy my ego and I did, you know. I was

reading that stupid book of Leary's; we were going through a whole game that

everybody went through, and I destroyed myself. I was slowly putting myself

together round about Maharishi time. Bit by bit over a two-year period, I had

destroyed me ego.

I didn't believe I could do anything and let people make me, and let them all

just do what they wanted. I just was nothing. I was shit. Then Derek tripped me

out at his house after he got back from L.A. He sort of said "You're all right,"

and pointed out which songs I had written. "You wrote this," and "You said this"

and "You are intelligent, don't be frightened."

The next week I went to Derek's with Yoko and we tripped again, and she filled

me completely to realize that I was me and that's it's all right. That was it; I

started fighting again, being a loudmouth again and saying, "I can do this,

"fuck it, this is what I want, you know, I want it and don't put me down." I did

this, so that's where I am now.

At some point, right between "Help" and "Hard Day's Night," you got into drugs

and got into doing drug songs?

A "Hard Day's Night," I was on pills, that's drugs, that's bigger drugs than

pot. Started on pills when I was 15, no, since I was 17, since I became a

musician. The only way to survive in Hamburg, to play eight hours a night, was

to take pills. The waiters gave you them — the pills and drink. I was a fucking

dropped-down drunk in art school. "Help" was where we turned on to pot and
we

dropped drink, simple as that. I've always needed a drug to survive. The
others,

too, but I always had more, more pills, more of everything because I'm more

crazy probably.
There's a lot of obvious LSD things you did in the music.

Yes.

How do you think that affected your conception of the music? In general.

It was only another mirror. It wasn't a miracle. It was more of a visual thing

and a therapy, looking at yourself a bit. It did all that. You know, I don't

quite remember. But it didn't write the music, neither did Janov or Maharishi in

the same terms. I write the music in the circumstances in which I'm in, whether

its on acid or in the water.

What did you think of "Hard Day's Night,"?

The story wasn't bad but it could have been better. Another illusion was that
we

were just puppets and that these great people, like Brian Epstein and Dick

Lester, created the situation and made this whole fuckin' thing, and precisely

because we were what we were, realistic. We didn't want to make a fuckin'

shitty

pop movie, we didn't want to make a movie that was going to be bad, and we

insisted on having a real writer to write it.

Brian came up with Allan Owen, from Liverpool, who had written a play for TV

called "No Trams to Lime St." Lime Street is a famous street in Liverpool where

the whores used to be in the old days, and Owen was famous for writing
Liverpool

dialogue. We auditioned people to write for us and they came up with this guy.

He was a bit phony, like a professional Liverpool man — you know like a

professional American. He stayed with us two days, and wrote the whole thing

based on our characters then: me, witty; Ringo, dumb and cute; George this;
and

Paul that.

We were a bit infuriated by the glibness and shiftiness of the dialogue and we
were always trying to get it more realistic, but they wouldn't have it. It ended

up O.K., but the next one was just bullshit, because it really had nothing to do

with the Beatles. They just put us here and there. Dick Lester was good, he had

ideas ahead of their times, like using Batman comic strip lettering and

balloons.

My impression of the movie was that it was you and it wasn't anyone else.

It was a good projection of one facade of us, which was on tour, once in London

and once in Dublin. It was of us in that situation together, in a hotel, having

to perform before people. We were like that. The writer saw the press

conference.

"Rubber Soul" was...

Can you tell me whether that white album with the drawing by Voorman on it,
was

that before "Rubber Soul" or after?

After. You really don't remember which?

No. Maybe the others do, I don't remember those kind of things, because it

doesn't mean anything, it's all gone.

"Rubber Soul" was the first attempt to do a serious, sophisticated complete

work, in a certain sense.

We were just getting better, technically and musically, that's all. Finally we

took over the studio. In the early days, we had to take what we were given, we

didn't know how you can get more bass. We were learning the technique on
"Rubber

Soul." We were more precise about making the album, that's all, and we took
over

the cover and everything.

"Rubber Soul" that was just a simple play on...

That was Paul's title, it was like "Yer Blues," I suppose, meaning English Soul,
I suppose, just a pun. There is no great mysterious meaning behind all of this,

it was just four boys working out what to call a new album.

The Hunter Davies book, the "authorized biography," says...

It was written in [London] Sunday Times sort of fab form. And no home truths
was

written. My auntie knocked out all the truth bits from my childhood and my

mother and I allowed it, which was my cop-out, etcetera. There was nothing
about

orgies and the shit that happened on tour. I wanted a real book to come out,
but

we all had wives and didn't want to hurt their feelings. End of that one.

Because they still have wives.

The Beatles tours were like the Fellini film "Satyricon." We had that image.

Man, our tours were like something else, if you could get on our tours, you
were

in. They were "Satyricon," all right.

Would you go to a town... a hotel...

Wherever we went, there was always a whole scene going, we had our four
separate

bedrooms. We tried to keep them out of our room. Derek's and Neil's rooms
were

always full of junk and whores and who-the-fuck-knows-what, and policemen

with

it. "Satyricon!" We had to do something. What do you do when the pill doesn't

wear off and it's time to go? I used to be up all night with Derek, whether

there was anybody there or not, I could never sleep, such a heavy scene it was.

They didn't call them groupies then, they called it something else and if we

couldn't get groupies, we would have whores and everything, whatever was
going.

Who would arrange all that stuff?

Derek and Neil, that was their job, and Mal, but I'm not going into all that.

Like businessmen at a convention.

When we hit town, we hit it. There was no pissing about. There's photographs
of

me crawling about in Amsterdam on my knees coming out of whore houses and

things

like that. The police escorted me to the places, because they never wanted a
big

scandal, you see. I don't really want to talk about it, because it will hurt

Yoko. And it's not fair. Suffice to say, that they were "Satyricon" on tour and

that's it, because I don't want to hurt their feelings, or the other people's

girls either. It's just not fair.

Ono: I was surprised, I really didn't know things like that. I thought well,

John is an artist, and probably he had two or three affairs before getting

married. That is the concept you have in the old school. New York artists group,

you know, that kind.

The generation gap.

Right, right, exactly.

Let me ask you about something else that was in the Hunter Davies book. At
one

point it said you and Brian Epstein went off to Spain.

Yes. We didn't have an affair though. Fuck knows what was said. I was pretty

close to Brian. If somebody is going to manage me, I want to know them inside

out. He told me he was a fag.

I hate the way Allen is attacked and Brian is made out to be an angel just

because he's dead. He wasn't, you know, he was just a guy.

What else was left out of the Hunter Davies book?

That I don't know, because I can't remember it. There is a better book on the

Beatles by Michael Brown, "Love Me Do." That was a true book. He wrote how
we

were, which was bastards. You can't be anything else in such a pressurized

situation and we took it out on people like Neil, Derek and Mal. That's why

underneath their facade, they resent us, but they can never show it, and they

won't believe it when they read it. They took a lot of shit from us, because we

were in such a shitty position. It was hard work, and somebody had to take it.

Those things are left out by Davies, about what bastards we were. Fuckin' big

bastards, that's what the Beatles were. You have to be a bastard to make it,

that's a fact, and the Beatles are the biggest bastards on earth.

Ono: How did you manage to keep that clean image? It's amazing.

Lennon: Everybody wants the image to carry on. You want to carry on. The
press

around too, because they want the free drinks and the free whores and the fun;

everybody wants to keep on the bandwagon. We were the Caesars; who was
going to

knock us, when there were a million pounds to be made? All the handouts, the

bribery, the police, all the fucking hype. Everybody wanted in, that's why some

of them are still trying to cling on to this: Don't take Rome from us, not a

portable Rome where we can all have our houses and our cars and our lovers
and

our wives and office girls and parties and drink and drugs, don't take it from

us, otherwise you're mad, John, you're crazy, silly John wants to take this all

away.

What was it like in the early days in London?

When we came down, we were treated like real provincials by the Londoners.
We

were in fact, provincials.

What was it like, say, running around London, in the discotheques, with the

Stones, and everything?

That was a great period. We were like kings of the jungle then, and we were
very

close to the Stones. I don't know how close the others were but I spent a lot of

time with Brian and Mick. I admire them, you know. I dug them the first time I

saw them in whatever that place is they came from, Richmond. I spent a lot of

time with them, and it was great. We all used to just go around London in cars

and meet each other and talk about music with the Animals and Eric and all
that.

It was really a good time, that was the best period, fame-wise. We didn't get

mobbed so much. It was like a men's smoking club, just a very good scene.

What was Brian Jones like?

Well, he was different over the years as he disintegrated. He ended up the kind

of guy that you dread when he would come on the phone, because you knew it
was

trouble. He was really in a lot of pain. In the early days, he was all right,

because he was young and confident. He was one of them guys that
disintegrated

in front of you. He wasn't sort of brilliant or anything, he was just a nice

guy.

When he died?

By then I didn't feel anything. I just thought another victim of the drug scene.

What do you think of the Stones today?

I think it's a lot of hype. I like "Honky Tonk Woman" but I think Mick's a joke,
with all that fag dancing, I always did. I enjoy it, I'll probably go and see

his films and all, like everybody else, but really, I think it's a joke.

Do you see him much now?

No, I never do see him. We saw a bit of each other around when Allen was first

coming in — I think Mick got jealous. I was always very respectful about Mick

and the Stones, but he said a lot of sort of tarty things about the Beatles,

which I am hurt by, because you know, I can knock the Beatles, but don't let

Mick Jagger knock them. I would like to just list what we did and what the

Stones did two months after on every fuckin' album. Every fuckin' thing we did,

Mick does exactly the same — he imitates us. And I would like one of you
fuckin'

underground people to point it out, you know "Satanic Majesties" is Pepper,

"We

Love You," it's the most fuckin' bullshit, that's "All You Need Is Love."

I resent the implication that the Stones are like revolutionaries and that the

Beatles weren't. If the Stones were or are, the Beatles really were too. But

they are not in the same class, music-wise or power-wise, never were. I never

said anything, I always admired them, because I like their funky music and I

like their style. I like rock and roll and the direction they took after they

got over trying to imitate us, you know, but he's even going to do Apple now.

He's going to do the same thing.

He's obviously so upset by how big the Beatles are compared with him; he
never

got over it. Now he's in his old age, and he is beginning to knock us, you know,

and he keeps knocking. I resent it, because even his second fuckin' record we

wrote it for him. Mick said "Peace made money." We didn't make any money
from

Peace. You know.

Ono: We lost money.

When "Sgt. Pepper" came out, did you know that you had put together a great

album? Did you feel that while you were making it?

Yeah, yeah and "Rubber Soul," too, and Revolver.

What did you think of that review in the New York Times of "Sgt. Pepper"?

I don't remember it. Did it pan it?

Yes.

I don't remember. In those days reviews weren't very important, because we

had

it made whatever happened. Nowadays, I'm as sensitive as shit. But those

days,

we were too big to touch. I don't remember the reviews at all, I never read

them. We were so blase, we never even read the news clippings. It was a bore
to

read about us. I don't even remember ever hearing about that review.

They've been trying to knock us down since we began, specially the British

press, always saying, "What are you going to do when the bubble bursts?" That

was the in-crowd joke with us. We'd go when we decided, not when some fickle

public decided, because we were not a manufactured group. We knew what we

were

doing.

Of course, we've made many mistakes, but we knew instinctively that it would
end

when we decided, and not when NBC or ATV decides to take off our series, or

anything like that. There were very few things that happened to the Beatles
that

weren't really well-thought out by us — whether to do it or not, and what the

reaction would be and would it last forever. We had an instinct for something

like that.
But you got busted.

Yeah, but there are two ways of thinking: they are out to get us or it just

happened that way. After I started Two Virgins and doing those kind of things,

it seemed like I was fair game for the police. There was some myth about us

being protected because we had an MBE. I don't think that it was true, it was

just that we never did anything. The way Paul said the acid thing... I never got

attacked for it, I don't know whether that was protection, because it was openly

admitting that we had drugs. I just think nobody really bothered about us.

Why can't you be alone without Yoko?

I can be, but I don't wish to be. There is no reason on earth why I should be

without her. There is nothing more important than our relationship, nothing.
We

dig being together all the time, and both of us could survive apart, but what

for? I'm not going to sacrifice love, real love, for any fuckin' whore, or any

friend, or any business, because in the end, you're alone at night. Neither of

us want to be, and you can't fill the bed with groupies. I don't want to be a

swinger. Like I said in the song, I've been through it all, and nothing works

better than to have somebody you love hold you.

You said at one point, you have to write songs that can justify your existence.

I said a lot of things. I write songs because that's the thing I chose to do.

And I can't help writing them, that's a fact. Sometimes I felt as though you

worked to justify your existence, but you don't; you work to exist, and vice

versa, and that's it, really.

You say you write songs because you can't help it.

Yeah, creating is a result of pain, too. I have to put it somewhere, and I write

songs. But when I was hiding in Weybridge (1968) I used to think I wasn't

working there. I made 20 or 30 movies, just 8mm stuff but still movies, and
many, many hours of tape of different sounds, just not rocking. I suppose you

would call them avant-grade. That's how Yoko met me. There were very few
people

I could play those tapes to, and I played them to her, and then we made Two

Virgins a few hours later.

How are you going to keep from going overboard on things again?

I think I'll be able to control meself. "Control" is the wrong word. I just

won't get involved in too many things, that's all. I'll just do whatever

happens. It's silly to feel guilty that I'm not working, that I'm not doing this

or that, it's just stupid. I'm just going to do what I want for meself and for

both of us.

You say on your record that "The freaks on the phone won't leave me alone, so

don't give me that brother, brother."

Because I'm sick of all these aggressive hippies or whatever they are, the "Now

Generation," being very up-tight with me. Either on the street or anywhere, or

on the phone, demanding my attention, as if I owed them something.

I'm not their fucking parents, that's what it is. They come to the door with a

fucking peace symbol and expect to just sort of march around the house or

something, like an old Beatle fan. They're under a delusion of awareness by

having long hair, and that's what I'm sick of. They frighten me, a lot of

uptight maniacs going around, wearing fuckin' peace symbols.

What did you think of Manson and that thing?

I don't know what I thought when it happened. A lot of the things he says are

true: he is a child of the state, made by us, and he took their children it when

nobody else would. Of course, he's cracked all right.

What about "Piggies" and "Helter Skelter"?

He's balmy, like any other Beatle-kind of fan who reads mysticism into it. We
used to have a laugh about this, that or the other, in a light-hearted way, and

some intellectual would read us, some symbolic youth generation wants to see

something in it. We also took seriously some parts of the role, but I don't know

what "Helter Skelter" has to do with knifing somebody. I've never listened to

the words, properly, it was just a noise.

Everybody spoke about the backwards thing on "Abbey Road."

That's bullshit. I just read that one about Dylan, too. That's bullshit.

The rumor about Paul being dead?

I don't know where that started, that's balmy. You know as much about it as
me.

Were any of those things really on the album that were said to be there? The

clues?

No. That was bullshit, the whole thing was made up. We wouldn't do anything
like

that. We did put in like "tit, tit, tit" in "Girl," and many things I don't

remember, like a beat missing or something like that could be interpreted like

that. Some people have got nothing better to do than study Bibles and make
myths

about it and study rocks and make stories about how people used to live. It's

just something for them to do. They live vicariously.

Is there a point at which you decided you and Yoko would give up your private

life?

No. We decided that if we were going to do anything, like get married or like

this film we are going to make now, that we would dedicate it to peace and the

concept of peace. During that period, because we are what we are, it evolved

that somehow we ended up being responsible to produce peace. Even in our

own

heads we would get that way. That's how it is. Peace is still important and my
life is dedicated to living — just surviving is what it's about — really from

day to day.

What do you think the effects were?

I don't know. I can't measure it. Somebody else has to tell us what the reaction

is.

What happened in Denmark? During the Peace Festival scene? There was a
doctor.

Hamrick was brought over by Tony, because he said this was a great doctor —
he

hadn't mentioned the flying saucers until he was on his way — and he was
going

to hypnotize us so we would stop smoking.

Ono: We felt it was very practical.

Lennon: We thought "great." Tony said it really worked, because it worked on

him

and it was easy. So this big guy comes in who seemed to be primaling all the

time — he was always crying a lot, and talking — and then he tried it and it

didn't work. He talked like crackers and then he said he would put us back into

our past life. We were game for anything then, it's like going to a fortune

teller — so we said all right, do it.

He was mumbling, pretending to hypnotize us; we're lying there, and he's
making

up all of these Walt Disney stories about past lives, which we didn't believe.

But he was such a nice guy in a way. I was more into it then than Yoko; she's

not quite as silly as I am. But I was thinking, "You never know, do you" — I had

this thing: believe everything until it is disproved — it came from giving up

ciggies and he was going on about how he had been on a space ship, so I said,

come on, tell us more, I was suspicious, but I wouldn't stop the stories coming
out. But they were obviously all insane people, and then these other two came

with him.... Actually, we went there to talk to Kyoko, and it was really a case

of "brothers" and all that.

What do you think rock and roll will become?

Whatever we make it. If we want to go bullshitting off into intellectualism with

rock and roll then we are going to get bullshitting rock intellectualism. If we

want real rock and roll, it's up to all of us to create it and stop being hyped

by the revolutionary image and long hair. We've got to get over that bit. That's

what cutting hair is about. Let's own up now and see who's who, who is doing

something about what, and who is making music and who is laying down
bullshit.

Rock and roll will be whatever we make it.

Why do you think it means so much to people?

Because the best stuff is primitive enough and has no bullshit. It gets through

to you, it's beat, go to the jungle and they have the rhythm. It goes throughout

the world and it's as simple as that, you get the rhythm going because
everybody

goes into it. I read that Eldridge Cleaver said that Blacks gave the middle

class whites back their bodies, and put their minds and bodies together.

Something like that. It gets through; it got through to me, the only thing to

get through to me of all the things that were happening when I was 15. Rock
and

roll then was real, everything else was unreal. The thing about rock and roll,

good rock and roll — whatever good means and all that shit — is that it's real

and realism gets through to you despite yourself. You recognize something in it

which is true, like all true art. Whatever art is, readers. OK. If it's real,

it's simple usually, and if it's simple, it's true. Something like that. Rock

and roll finally got through to Yoko.

Ono: Classical music was basically 4-4 and then it went into 4, 3, 2, which is

just a waltz rhythm and all of that, but it just went further and further away

from the heartbeat. Heartbeat is 4-4. Rhythm became very decorative, like

Schoenberg, Webern. It is highly complicated and interesting — our minds are

very much like that — but they lost the heartbeat.

I went to see the Beatles' session in the beginning, and I thought, Oh well. So

I said to John, "Why do you always use that beat all the time? The same beat,

why don't you do something a bit more complicated?

Lennon: If somebody starts playing that intellectual on me, I'm going to start

thinking. I'm a very shy person; if somebody attacks, I shrink. Yoko is an

intellectual, a supreme intellectual, so I really know what I'm talking about;

they have to have sort of a math formula.

You feel basically the same way about rock and roll at 30 as you did at 15.

Well, it will never be as new and it will never again do what it did to me then,

but like "Tutti Fruitti" or "Long Tall Sally" is pretty avant garde. A friend of

Yoko's in the village was talking about Dylan and "the One Note" as though he

just discovered it. That's about as far out as you can get.

The Blues are beautiful because it's simpler and because it's real. It's not

perverted or thought about: It's not a concept, it is a chair; not a design for

a chair but the first chair. The chair is for sitting on, not for looking at or

being appreciated. You sit on that music.

How would you describe "Beatle music"?

It means a lot of things. There is not one thing that's Beatle music. How can

they talk about it like that? What is Beatle music? "Walrus" or "Penny Lane?"
Which? It's too diverse: "I Want to Hold Your Hand" or "Revolution Number
Nine?"

What was it in your music that turned everyone on at first? Why was it so

infectious?

We didn't sound like everybody else. We didn't sound like the black musicians

because we weren't black and we were brought up on an entirely different type

of

music and atmosphere. So "Please, Please Me" and "From Me To You" and all of

those were our version of the chair. We were building our own chairs, that's

all, and they were sort of local chairs.

The first gimmick was the harmonica. There had been "Hey, Baby" with a
harmonica

and there was a terrible thing called "I Remember You" in England. All of a

sudden we started using it on "Love Me Do." The first set of tricks was double

tracking on the second album. I would love to remix some of the early stuff,

because it is better than it sounds.

What do you think of those concerts like the Hollywood Bowl?

It was awful, I hated it. Some of them were good, but I didn't like Hollywood

Bowl. Some of those big gigs were good, but not many of them.<

In an interview with Jon Cott a year or so ago, you said something about your

favorite song being "Ticket to Ride."

Yeah, I liked it because it was a slightly new sound at the time. But it's not

my favorite song.

In what way was it new?

It was pretty fuckin' heavy for then. It's a heavy record, that's why I like it.

I used to like guitars.

In "Glass Onion" you say, "The Walrus is Paul," yet in the new album you admit

that you were the Walrus.

"I Am the Walrus" was originally the B side of "Hello Goodbye"! I was still in

my love cloud with Yoko and I thought, well, I'll just say something nice to

Paul: "It's all right, you did a good job over these few years, holding us

together." He was trying to organize the group, and organize the music, and be

an individual and all that, so I wanted to thank him. I said "the Walrus is

Paul" for that reason. I felt, "Well, he can have it. I've got Yoko, and thank

you, you can have the credit."

But now I'm sick of reading things that say Paul is the musician and George is

the philosopher. I wonder where I fit in, what was my contribution? I get hurt,

you know, sick of it. I'd sooner be Zappa and say, "Listen, you fuckers, this is

what I did, and I don't care whether you like my attitude saying it." That's

what I am, you know, I'm a fucking artist, and I'm not a fucking P.R. Agent or

the product of some other person's imagination. Whether you're the public or

whatever, I'm standing by my work whereas before I would not stand by it.

That's what I'm saying: I was the Walrus, whatever that means. We saw the
movie

"Alice in Wonderland" in L.A. and the Walrus is a big capitalist that ate all

the fuckin' oysters. If you must know, that's what he was even though I didn't

remember this when I wrote it.

What did you think of "Abbey Road"?

I liked the "A" side but I never liked that sort of pop opera on the other side.

I think it's junk because it was just bits of songs thrown together. "Come

Together" is all right, that's all I remember. That was my song. It was a

competent album, like "Rubber Soul." It was together in that way, but "Abbey

Road" had no life in it.

What was it like recording "Instant Karma" with Phil? It was the first thing you

did together.
It was great. I wrote it in the morning on the piano. I went to the office and

sang it many times. So I said "Hell, let's do it," and we booked the studio, and

Phil came in, and said, "How do you want it?" I said, "You know, 1950's." He

said, "right," and boom, I did it in about three goes or something like that. I

went in and he played it back and there it was. The only argument was that I

said a bit more bass, that's all; and off we went.

You see Phil is great at that; he doesn't fuss about with fuckin' stereo or all

the bullshit. Does it sound all right? Then let's have it, no matter whether

something's prominent or not prominent. If it sounds good to you as a layman

or

a human, take it, don't bother whether this is like that or the quality of this,

just take it.

When did you first become aware of the idea of stereo, being able to work with

stereo?

Oh, some time or other. There was a period when we started realizing that you

could go and remix it yourself. We started listening to them and started saying,

"Well, why can't you do that?" We'd be just standing by the board saying,
"Well,

what about that?" And George Martin would say, "Well, how do you like this?"
In

the early days, they just would present us with finished product. We would ask

what happened to the bass or something. And they would say "oh, that's how it

is, you can't..." That kind of thing. It must have been a gradual thing.

What do you think of "Give Peace A Chance?"

As a record?

Yes.

The record was beautiful.

Did you ever see Moratorium Day in Washington, D.C.?

That is what it is for, you know. I remember hearing them all sing it — I don't

know whether it was on the radio or TV — it was a very big moment for me.
That's

what the song was about.

You see, I'm shy and aggressive so I have great hopes for what I do with my
work

and I also have great despair that it's all pointless and it's shit. You know,

how can you beat Beethoven or Shakespeare or whatever? In me secret heart I

wanted to write something that would take over "We Shall Overcome." I don't
know

why. The one they always sang, and I thought, "Why doesn't somebody write

something for the people now, that's what my job and our job is."

I have the same kind of hope for "Working Class Hero." It's a different concept,

but I feel it's a revolutionary song.

In what respect?

It's really just revolutionary. I think its concept is revolutionary, and I hope

it's for workers and not for tarts and fags. I hope it's what "Give Peace A

Chance" was about, but I don't know. On the other hand, it might just be

ignored.

I think it's for the people like me who are working class — whatever, upper or

lower — who are supposed to be processed into the middle classes, through
the

machinery, that's all. It's my experience, and I hope it's just a warning to

people. I'm saying it's a revolutionary song; not the song itself but that it's

a song for the revolution.

[Here we took a break, during which John and Allen Klein went out to discuss
the

possibility of a single. We began talking again, alone with Yoko, about that.]
Do you have a feeling for a Number One record?

I keep thinking "Mother" is a commercial record, because all the time I was

writing it, it was the one I was singing the most, it's the one that seemed to

catch on in my head. I'm convinced that "Mother" is a commercial record.

I agree.

You agree? Well, thank you, but you said "God."

No, I didn't.

They're all playing "God" or "Isolation."

Well, you're right about "Mother" because it's the one I have in my head most
of

the time.

It's the politics in it, too. Politics will prepare the ground for my album,

same as "My Sweet Lord" prepared the ground for George's. I'm not going to
get

hits just like that; people are not just going to buy my album just because

Rolling Stone liked it, or because they're going to play it tonight, or because

Pete's a good pusher. People have got to be hyped in a way, they've got to
have

it presented to them in all the best ways that are possible. Maybe "Love" is the

best way. I like the song "Love"; I like the melody and the words and

everything, I think its beautiful, but I'm more of a rocker. I originally

conceived of "Mother" and "Love" as being a single, but now, I think that

"Mother" is too heavy. Maybe Allen's right. "Love" will do me more good.

I don't think so. I think "trust your own instinct." The thing with "Mother" is

that's what the album's about. What will stay in your head the longest?

I'm opening a door for John Lennon, not for music or for the Beatles or for

anybody or anything.

Capitol is now trying to say that this is John Lennon, one of the Beatles and
therefore, it's a different deal. When they were on the McCartney bandwagon,

which they were on, and they thought that I was just an idiot pissing about with

a Japanese broad, they didn't want to put out the music we were making like

"Toronto" because they didn't like the idea. They were content to let me be a

"Plastic Ono Band" and give me a special release I have to get, because the

Beatles are tied up as Beatles.

What are the implications?

The implications are all money — all of it is money, man. They've been hinting

around, they've been saying "Well, now, this looks like a John Lennon album,
not

Plastic Ono," well, to me it's Plastic Ono or I wouldn't put it out like that.

I'm going to think about "Love." The original feeling was that there weren't

enough things on the album to put out a single, only ten songs, only nine if you

don't count "Mummy" and that means there's nothing to buy then. To me, it
sounds

like there are 40 songs on there. There's that side of the market and I'm not

going to disregard it.

I mean to sell as many albums as I can, because I'm an artist who wants

everybody to love me, and everybody to buy my stuff. I'll go for that.

There is no great shakes to the idea of putting out something that's

commercial

to get people to buy the album; the question is which is most commercial,
"Love"

or "Mother"?

How quick do you get to Number One? The thing is "Love" would attract more

people, because of the message, man! There are many, many people who
would not

like "Mother." It hurts them. The first thing that happens to you when you get
the album is you can't take it. Everybody's reacted exactly the same. They
think

"fuck." That's how everybody is. The second time they start saying oh, there's
a

little... So if I laid "Mother" on them it confirms the suspicion that something

nasty is going on with that John Lennon and his broad again.

People aren't that hip; students aren't that aware; they're just like anybody

else. "Oh, misery! Don't tell me that's what it's about, its really awful. Be a

good boy, now, John, you had a hard time, but me, me and my mother..." So

there's all that to go through. "Love" I wrote in a spirit of love for Yoko, and

it has all that. It's a beautiful melody, and I'm not even known for writing

melody. You've got to think of that. If it goes, it'll do me good.

Did you write most of the stuff in this album on guitar or on piano?

The ones on which I play guitar, I wrote on guitar; the ones on which I play

piano, I wrote on piano.

What are the differences to you when you write them?

Because I can play the piano even worse than I play the guitar — a limited

palette, as they call it — I surprise myself. I have to think in terms of going

from "C" to "A", and I'm not quite sure where I am half the time. When I'm

holding a chord on the guitar it's only a sixth or seventh or something like

that; on the piano, I don't know what it is. It's got that kind of feel about

it. I know such a lot about the guitar, that with it I can be buskin'; if I want

to write just a rocker, I have to play guitar, because I can't play piano well

enough to inspire me to rock. That's the difference, really.

What do you think are your best songs that you have written?

Ever? The one best song?

Have you ever thought of that?

I don't know. If somebody asked me what is my favorite song, is it "Stardust" or

something, I can't answer. That kind of decision-making I can't do. I always

liked "Walrus," "Strawberry Fields," "Help," "In My Life," those are some

favorites.

Why "Help"?

Because I meant it — it's real. The lyric is as good now as it was then. It is

no different, and it makes me feel secure to know that I was that aware of

myself then. It was just me singing "Help" and I meant it.

I don't like the recording that much; we did it too fast trying to be

commercial. I like "I Want To Hold Your Hand." We wrote that together, it's a

beautiful melody. I might do "I Want To Hold Your Hand" and "Help" again,

because I like them and I can sing them. "Strawberry Fields" because it's real,

real for then, and I think it's like talking, "You know, I sometimes think

no..." It's like he talks to himself, sort of singing, which I thought was nice.

I like "Across the Universe," too. It's one of the best lyrics I've written. In

fact, it could be the best. It's good poetry, or whatever you call it, without

chewin' it. See, the ones I like are the ones that stand as words, without

melody. They don't have to have any melody, like a poem, you can read them.

That's your ultimate criterion?

No, that's just the ones I happen to like. I like to read other people's lyrics

too.

So what happened with "Let It Be"?

It was another one like "Magical Mystery Tour." In a nutshell, it was time for

another Beatle movie or something; Paul wanted us to go on the road or do

something. He sort of set it up, and there were discussions about where to go,

and all of that. I had Yoko by them, and I would just tag along. I was stoned
all the time and I just didn't give a shit. Nobody did. It was just like it was

in the movie; when I got to do "Across the Universe" (which I wanted to

rerecord

because the original wasn't very good), Paul yawns and plays boogie. I merely

say, "Anyone want to do a fast one?" That's how I am. Year after year, that

begins to wear you down.

How long did those sessions last?

Oh, fuckin' God knows how long. Paul had this idea that he was going to
rehearse

us. He's looking for perfection all the time, and had these ideas that we would

rehearse and then make the album. We, being lazy fuckers — and we'd been
playing

for 20 years! We're grown men, for fuck's sake, and we're not going to sit

around and rehearse, I'm not, anyway — we couldn't get into it.

We put down a few tracks, and nobody was in it at all. It just was a dreadful,

dreadful feeling in Twickenham Studio, being filmed all the time, I just wanted

them to go away. We'd be there at eight in the morning. You couldn't make
music

at eight in the morning in a strange place, with people filming you, and colored

lights flashing.

So how did it end?

The tape ended up like the bootleg version. We didn't want to know about it

anymore, so we just left it to Glyn Johns and said, "Here, mix it." That was the

first time since the first album that we didn't want to have anything to do with

it. None of us could be bothered going in. Nobody called anybody about it, and

the tapes were left there. Glyn Johns did it. We got an acetate in the mail and

we called each other and said, "What do you think?"

We were going to let it out in really shitty condition. I didn't care. I thought
it was good to let it out and show people what had happened to us, we can't
get

it together; we don't play together any more; you know, leave us alone. The

bootleg version is what it was like, and everyone was probably thinking they're

not going to fucking work on it. There were 29 hours of tape, so much that it

was like a movie. Twenty takes of everything, because we were rehearsing and

taking everything. Nobody could face looking at it.

When Spector came around, we said, "Well, if you want to work with us, go and
do

your audition." He worked like a pig on it. He always wanted to work with the

Beatles, and he was given the shittiest load of badly recorded shit, with a

lousy feeling toward it, ever. And he made something out of it. He did a great

job.

When I heard it, I didn't puke; I was so relieved after six months of this black

cloud hanging over me that this was going to go out.

I had thought it would be good to let the shitty version out because it would

break the Beatles, break the myth. It would be just us, with no trousers on and

no glossy paint over the cover, and no hype: This is what we are like with our

trousers off, would you please end the game now?

But that didn't happen. We ended up doing "Abbey Road" quickly, and putting
out

something slick to preserve the myth. I am weak as well as strong, you know,
and

I wasn't going to fight for "Let It Be" because I really couldn't stand it.

Finally, when "Let It Be" was going to be released, Paul wanted to bring out his

album.

There were so many clashes. It did come out at the same time or something,

didn't it? I think he wanted to show he was the Beatles.

Were you surprised when you heard it, at what he had done?

Very. I expected just a little more. If Paul and I are sort of disagreeing, and

I feel weak, I think he must feel strong, you know, that's in an argument. Not

that we've had much physical argument, you know.

What do you think Paul will think of your album?

I think it'll probably scare him into doing something decent, and then he'll

scare me into doing something decent, like that.

I think he's capable of great work and I think he will do it. I wish he

wouldn't, you know, I wish nobody would, Dylan or anybody. In me heart of

hearts, I wish I was the only one in the world or whatever it is. But I can't

see Paul doing it twice.

What was it like to go on tour? You had cripples coming up to you.

That was our version of what was happening. People were sort of touching us
as

we walked past, that kind of thing. Wherever we went we were supposed to be

not

like normal and we were supposed to put up with all sorts of shit from Lord

Mayors and their wives, be touched and pawed like "Hard Day's Night," only a

million more times, like at the American Embassy or the British Embassy in

Washington here or wherever it was when some bloody animal cut Ringo's hair.
I

walked out of that, swearing at all of them. I'd forgotten but you tripped me

off into that one. What was the question?

The cripples.

Wherever we went on tour, in Britain and everywhere we went, there were

always a

few seats laid aside for cripples and people in wheelchairs. Because we were

famous, we were supposed to have epileptics and whatever they are in our
dressing room all the time. We were supposed to be sort of "good," and really

you wanted to be alone. You don't know what to say, because they're usually

saying "I've got your record" or they can't speak and just want to touch you.

It's always the mother or the nurse pushing them on you, they themselves
would

just say hello and go away, but the mothers would push them at you like you
were

Christ or something, as if there were some aura about you which would rub off
on

them. It just got to be like that and we were very sort of callous about it. It

was just dreadful: you would open up every night, and instead of seeing kids

there, you would just see a row full of cripples along the front. It seemed that

we were just surrounded by cripples and blind people all the time, and when
we

would go through corridors, they would be all touching us and things like that.

It was horrifying.

You must have been still fairly young and naive at that point.

Yeah, well, as naive as "In His Own Write."

Surely that must have made you think for a second.

Well, I mean we knew what the game was.

It didn't astound you at that point, that you were supposed to be able to make

the lame walk and the blind see?

It was the "in" joke that we were supposed to cure them; it was the kind of

thing that we would say, because it was a cruel thing to say. We felt sorry for

them, anybody would, but there is a kind of embarrassment when you're

surrounded

by blind, deaf and crippled people. There is only so much we could say, you

know, with the pressure on us, to do and to perform.

The bigger we got, the more unreality we had to face; the more we were
expected

to do until, when you didn't sort of shake hands with a Mayor's wife, she would

start abusing you and screaming and saying "How dare they?"

There is one of Derek's stories in which we were asleep after the show in the

hotel somewhere in America, and the Mayor's wife comes and says, "Get them
up, I

want to meet them." Derek said, "I'm not going to wake them." She started to

scream, "You get them up or I'll tell the press." There was always that — they

were always threatening that they would tell the press about us, if we didn't

see their bloody daughter with her braces on her teeth. It was always the police

chief's daughter or the Lord Mayor's daughter, all the most obnoxious kids —

because they had the most obnoxious parents — that we were forced to see all
the

time. We had these people thrust on us.

The most humiliating experiences were like sitting with the Mayor of the

Bahamas, when we were making "Help" and being insulted by these fuckin'
junked

up middle-class bitches and bastards who would be commenting on our work

and

commenting on our manners. I was always drunk, insulting them. I couldn't

take

it. It would hurt me. I would go insane, swearing at them. I would do something.

I couldn't take it.

All that business was awful, it was a fuckin' humiliation. One has to completely

humiliate oneself to be what the Beatles were, and that's what I resent. I

didn't know, I didn't foresee. It happened bit by bit, gradually until this

complete craziness is surrounding you, and you're doing exactly what you don't
want to do with people you can't stand — the people you hated when you were
ten.

And that's what I'm saying in this album — I remember what it's all about now

you fuckers — fuck you! That's what I'm saying, you don't get me twice.

[From Issue 74 — January 21, 1971]

Would you take it all back?

What?

Being a Beatle?

If I could be a fuckin' fisherman I would. If I had the capabilities of being

something other than I am, I would. It's no fun being an artist. You know what

it's like, writing, it's torture. I read about Van Gogh, Beethoven, any of the

fuckers. If they had psychiatrists, we wouldn't have had Gauguin's great

pictures. These bastards are just sucking us to death; that's about all that we

can do, is do it like circus animals.

I resent being an artist, in that respect, I resent performing for fucking

idiots who don't know anything. They can't feel. I'm the one that's feeling,

because I'm the one that is expressing. They live vicariously through me and

other artists, and we are the ones... even with the boxers— when Oscar comes
in

the ring, they're booing the shit out of him, he only hits Clay once and they're

all cheering him. I'd sooner be in the audience, really, but I'm not capable of

it.

One of my big things is that I wish to be a fisherman. I know it sounds silly—

and I'd sooner be rich than poor, and all the rest of that shit— but I wish the

pain was ignorance or bliss or something. If you don't know, man, then there's

no pain; that's how I express it.

What do you think the effect was of the Beatles on the history of Britain?

I don't know about the "history"; the people who are in control and in power,

and the class system and the whole bullshit bourgeoisie is exactly the same,

except there is a lot of fag middle class kids with long, long hair walking

around London in trendy clothes, and Kenneth Tynan is making a fortune out of

the word "fuck." Apart from that, nothing happened. We all dressed up, the
same

bastards are in control, the same people are runnin' everything. It is exactly

the same.

We've grown up a little, all of us, there has been a change and we're all a bit

freer and all that, but it's the same game. Shit, they're doing exactly the same

thing, selling arms to South Africa, killing blacks on the street, people are

living in fucking poverty, with rats crawling over them. It just makes you puke,

and I woke up to that too.

The dream is over. It's just the same, only I'm thirty, and a lot of people have

got long hair. That's what it is, man, nothing happened except that we grew up,

we did our thing— just like they were telling us. You kids— most of the so

called "now generation" are getting a job. We're a minority, you know, people

like us always were, but maybe we are a slightly larger minority because of

maybe something or other.

Why do you think the impact of the Beatles was so much bigger in America
than it

was in England?

The same reason that American stars are so much bigger in England: the grass
is
greener. We were really professional by the time we got to the States; we had

learned the whole game. When we arrived here we knew how to handle the
press;

the British press were the toughest in the world and we could handle anything.

We were all right.

On the plane over, I was thinking "Oh, we won't make it," or I said it on a film

or something, but that's that side of me. We knew we would wipe you out if we

could just get a grip on you. We were new.

And when we got here, you were all walking around in fuckin' bermuda shorts,

with Boston crew cuts and stuff on your teeth. Now they're telling us, they're

all saying, "Beatles are pass?© and this is like that, man." The chicks looked

like fuckin' 1940 horses. There was no conception of dress or any of that jazz.

We just thought "what an ugly race," it looked just disgusting. We thought how

hip we were, but, of course, we weren't. It was just the five of us, us and the

Stones were really the hip ones; the rest of England were just the same as they

ever were.

You tend to get nationalistic, and we would really laugh at America, except for

its music. It was the black music we dug, and over here even the blacks were

laughing at people like Chuck Berry and the blues singers; the blacks thought it

wasn't sharp to dig the really funky music, and the whites only listened to Jan

and Dean and all that. We felt that we had the message which was "listen to
this

music." It was the same in Liverpool, we felt very exclusive and underground in

Liverpool, listening to Richie Barret and Barrett Strong, and all those old-time

records. Nobody was listening to any of them except Eric Burdon in Newcastle
and
Mick Jagger in London. It was that lonely, it was fantastic. When we came over

here and it was the same — nobody was listening to rock and roll or to black

music in America— we felt as though we were coming to the land of its origin
but

nobody wanted to know about it.

What part did you ever play in the songs that are heavily identified with Paul,

like "Yesterday"?

"Yesterday," I had nothing to do with.

"Eleanor Rigby"?

"Eleanor Rigby" I wrote a good half of the lyrics or more.

When did Paul show you "Yesterday"?

I don't remember — I really don't remember, it was a long time ago. I think he

was... I really don't remember, it just sort of appeared.

Who do you think has done the best versions of your stuff?

I can't think of anybody.

Did you hear Ike and Tina Turner doing "Come Together"?

Yeah, I didn't think they did too much of a job on it, I think they could have

done it better. They did a better "Honky Tonk Woman."

Ray Charles doing "Yesterday"?

That was quite nice.

And you had Otis doing "Day Tripper," what did you think of that?

I don't think he did a very good job on "Day Tripper." I never went much for the

covers. It doesn't interest me, really. I like people doing them — I've heard

some nice versions on "In My Life," I don't know who it was, though. [Judy

Collins], Jose Feliciano did "Help" quite nice once. I like people doing it, I

get a kick out of it. I thought it was interesting that Nina Simone did a sort

of answer to "Revolution." That was very good— it was sort of like "Revolution,"
but not quite. That I sort of enjoyed, somebody who reacted immediately to
what

I had said.

Who wrote "Nowhere Man"?

Me, me.

Did you write that about anybody in particular?

Probably about myself. I remember I was just going through this paranoia
trying

to write something and nothing would come out so I just lay down and tried to

not write and then this came out, the whole thing came out in one gulp.

What songs really stick in your mind as being Lennon-McCartney songs?

"I Want to Hold Your Hand," "From Me To You," "She Loves You" — I'd have to
have

the list, there's so many, trillions of 'em. Those are the ones. In a rock band

you have to make singles, you have to keep writing them. Plenty more. We
both

had our fingers in each others pies.

I remember that the simplicity on the new album was evident on the Beatles

double album. It was evident in "She's So Heavy," in fact a reviewer wrote of

"She's So Heavy": "He seems to have lost his talent for lyrics, it's so simple

and boring." "She's So Heavy" was about Yoko. When it gets down to it, like she

said, when you're drowning you don't say "I would be incredibly pleased if

someone would have the foresight to notice me drowning and come and help
me,"

you just scream. And in "She's So Heavy," I just sang "I want you, I want you so

bad, she's so heavy, I want you," like that. I started simplifying my lyrics

then, on the double album.

A song from the Help album, like "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away." How did
you write that? What were the circumstances? Where were you?

I was in Kenwood and I would just be songwriting. The period would be for

songwriting and so every day I would attempt to write a song and it's one of

those that you sort of sing a bit sadly to yourself, "Here I stand, head in

hand..."

I started thinking about my own emotions— I don't know when exactly it

started

like "I'm a Loser" or "Hide Your Love Away" or those kind of things— instead of

projecting myself into a situation I would just try to express what I felt about

myself which I'd done in me books. I think it was Dylan helped me realize that
—

not by any discussion or anything but just by hearing his work— I had a sort of

professional songwriter's attitude to writing pop songs; he would turn out a

certain style of song for a single and we would do a certain style of thing for

this and the other thing. I was already a stylized songwriter on the first

album. But to express myself I would write "Spaniard in the Works" or "In His

Own Write," the personal stories which were expressive of my personal

emotions.

I'd have a separate songwriting John Lennon who wrote songs for the sort of
meat

market, and I didn't consider them— the lyrics or anything— to have any depth
at

all. They were just a joke. Then I started being me about the songs, not writing

them objectively, but subjectively.

What about on "Rubber Soul," "Norwegian Wood"?

I was trying to write about an affair without letting me wife know I was writing
about an affair, so it was very gobbledegook. I was sort of writing from my

experiences, girls' flats, things like that.

Where did you write that?

I wrote it at Kenwood.

When did you decide to put a sitar on it?

I think it was at the studio. George had just got the sitar and I said "Could

you play this piece?" We went through many different sort of versions of the

song, it was never right and I was getting very angry about it, it wasn't coming

out like I said. They said, "Well just do it how you want to do it" and I said,

"Well I just want to do it like this." They let me go and I did the guitar very

loudly into the mike and sang it at the same time and then George had the
sitar

and I asked him could he play the piece that I'd written, you know, dee diddley

dee diddley dee, that bit, and he was not sure whether he could play it yet

because he hadn't done much on the sitar but he was willing to have a go, as is

his wont, and he learned the bit and dubbed it on after. I think we did it in

sections.

You also have a song on that album "In My Life." When did you write that?

I wrote that in Kenwood. I used to write upstairs where I had about ten Brunell

tape recorders all linked up, I still have them, I'd mastered them over the

period of a year or two— I could never make a rock and roll record but I could

make some far out stuff on it. I wrote it upstairs, that was one where I wrote

the lyrics first and then sang it. That was usually the case with things like

"In My Life" and "Universe" and some of the ones that stand out a bit.

Would you just record yourself and a guitar on a tape and then bring it in to

the studio?

I would do that just to get an impression of what it sounded like sung and to
hear it back for judging it— you never know 'til you hear the song yourself. I

would double track the guitar or the voice or something on the tape. I think on

"Norwegian Wood" and "In My Life" Paul helped with the middle eight, to give

credit where it's due.

From the same period, same time, I never liked "Run For Your Life," because it

was a song I just knocked off. It was inspired from— this is a very vague

connection — from "Baby Let's Play House." There was a line on it— I used to

like specific lines from songs— "I'd rather see you dead, little girl, than to

be with another man"— so I wrote it around that but I didn't think it was that

important. "Girl" I liked because I was, in a way, trying to say something or

other about Christianity which I was opposed to at the time.

Why Christianity in that song?

Because I was brought up in the church. One of the reviews of "In His Own
Write"

was that they tried to put me in this satire boom with Peter Cook and those

people that came out of Cambridge, saying well he's just satirizing the normal

things like the church and the state, which is what I did in "In His Own Write".

Those are the things that you keep satirizing because they're the only things. I

was pretty heavy on the church in both books, but it was never picked up

although it was obviously there. I was just talking about Christianity in that —

a thing like you have to be tortured to attain heaven. I'm only saying that I

was talking about "pain will lead to pleasure" in "Girl" and that was sort of

the Catholic Christian concept— be tortured and then it'll be alright, which

seems to be a bit true but not in their concept of it. But I didn't believe in

that, that you have to be tortured to attain anything, it just so happens that

you were.

Let me ask you about one on the double album, "Glass Onion." You set out to
write a little message to the audience.

Yeah, I was having a laugh because there'd been so much gobbledegook about

Pepper, play it backwards and you stand on your head and all that. Even now, I

just saw Mel Torme on TV the other day saying that "Lucy" was written to
promote

drugs and so was "A Little Help From My Friends" and none of them were at all
—

"A Little Help From My Friends" only says get high in it, it's really about a

little help from my friends, it's a sincere message. Paul had the line about

"little help from my friends," I'm not sure, he had some kind of structure for

it and— we wrote it pretty well 50-50 but it was based on his original idea.

Why did you make "Revolution"?

Which one?

Both.

There's three of them.

Starting with the single.

When George and Paul and all of them were on holiday, I made "Revolution"
which

is on the LP and "Revolution #9." I wanted to put it out as a single, I had it

all prepared, but they came by, and said it wasn't good enough. And we put out

what? "Hello Goodbye" or some shit like that? No, we put out "Hey Jude," which

was worth it— I'm sorry— but we could have had both.

I wanted to put what I felt about revolution; I thought it was time we fuckin'

spoke about it, the same as I thought it was about time we stopped not
answering

about the Vietnamese War when we were on tour with Brian Epstein and had to
tell

him, "We're going to talk about the war this time and we're not going to just
waffle." I wanted to say what I thought about revolution.

I had been thinking about it up in the hills in India. I still had this "God

will save us" feeling about it, that it's going to be all right (even now I'm

saying "Hold on, John, it's going to be all right," otherwise, I won't hold on)

but that's why I did it, I wanted to talk, I wanted to say my piece about

revolution. I wanted to tell you, or whoever listens, to communicate, to say

"What do you say? This is what I say."

On one version I said "Count me in" about violence, in or out, because I wasn't

sure. But the version we put out said "Count me out," because I don't fancy a

violent revolution happening all over. I don't want to die; but I begin to think

what else can happen, you know, it seems inevitable.

"Revolution #9" was an unconscious picture of what I actually think will happen

when it happens; that was just like a drawing of revolution. All the thing was

made with loops, I had about thirty loops going, fed them onto one basic track.

I was getting classical tapes, going upstairs and chopping them up, making it

backwards and things like that, to get the sound effects. One thing was an

engineer's testing tape and it would come on with a voice saying "This is EMI

Test Series #9." I just cut up whatever he said and I'd number nine it. Nine

turned out to be my birthday and my lucky number and everything. I didn't

realize it; it was just so funny the voice saying "Number nine"; it was like a

joke, bringing number nine into it all the time, that's all it was.

Ono: It also turns out to be the highest number you know, one, two, etc., up to

nine.

Lennon: There are many symbolic things about it but it just happened you
know,

just an engineer's tape and I was just using all the bits to make a montage. I

really wanted that released.

So that's my feeling. The idea was don't aggravate the pig by waving the thing

that aggravates— by waving the Red flag in his face. You know, I really thought

that love would save us all. But now I'm wearing a Chairman Mao badge.

I'm just beginning to think he's doing a good job. I would never know until I

went to China. I'm not going to be like that, I was just always interested

enough to sing about him. I just wondered what the kids who were actually

Maoists were doing. I wondered what their motive was and what was really
going

on. I thought if they wanted revolution, if they really want to be subtle,

what's the point of saying "I'm a Maoist and why don't you shoot me down?" I

thought that wasn't a very clever way of getting what they wanted.

You don't really believe that we are headed for a violent revolution?

I don't know; I've got no more conception than you. I can't see... eventually

it'll happen, like it will happen— it has to happen; what else can happen? It

might happen now, or it might happen in a hundred years, but...

Having a violent revolution now might just be the end of the world.

Not necessarily. They say that every time, but I don't really believe it, you

see. If it is, OK, I'm back to where I was when I was 17 and at 17 I used to

wish a fuckin' earthquake or revolution would happen so that I could go out and

steal and do what the blacks are doing now. If I was black, I'd be all for it;

if I were 17 I'd be all for it, too. What have you got to lose? Now I've got

something to lose. I don't want to die, and I don't want to be hurt physically,

but if they blow the world up, fuck it, we're all out of our pain then, forget

it, no more problems!

You sing, "Hold on world..."

I sing "Hold on John," too, because I don't want to die. I don't want to be

hurt, and "please don't hit me."

You think by holding on it will be all right?

It's only going to be all right— it's now, this moment. That's all right this

moment, and hold on now; we might have a cup of tea or we might get a
moment's

happiness any minute now, so that's what it's all about, just moment by
moment;

that's how we're living, cherishing each day and dreading it, too. It might be

your last day— you might get run over by a car— and I'm really beginning to

cherish it. I cherish life.

"Happiness is a Warm Gun" is a nice song.

Oh, I like that one of my best, I had forgotten about that. Oh, I love it. I

think it's a beautiful song. I like all the different things that are happening

in it. Like "God," I had put together some three sections of different songs, it

was meant to be— it seemed to run through all the different kinds of rock
music.

It wasn't about "H" at all. "Lucy In The Sky" with diamonds which I swear to

God, or swear to Mao, or to anybody you like, I had no idea spelled L.S.D.— and

"Happiness"— George Martin had a book on guns which he had told me about—
I

can't remember— or I think he showed me a cover of a magazine that said

"Happiness Is A Warm Gun." It was a gun magazine, that's it: I read it, thought

it was a fantastic, insane thing to say. A warm gun means that you just shot

something.

When did you realize that those were the initials of "Lucy In The Sky With

Diamonds"?

Only after I read it or somebody told me, like you coming up. I didn't even see
it on the label. I didn't look at the initials. I don't look— I mean I never

play things backwards. I listened to it as I made it. It's like there will be

things on this one, if you fiddle about with it. I don't know what they are.

Every time after that though I would look at the titles to see what it said, and

usually they never said anything.

You said to me " 'Sgt. Pepper' is the one." That was the album?

Well, it was a peak. Paul and I were definitely working together, especially on

"A Day In The Life" that was a real... The way we wrote a lot of the time: you'd

write the good bit, the part that was easy, like "I read the news today" or

whatever it was, then when you got stuck or whenever it got hard, instead of

carrying on, you just drop it; then we would meet each other, and I would sing

half, and he would be inspired to write the next bit and vice versa. He was a

bit shy about it because I think he thought it's already a good song. Sometimes

we wouldn't let each other interfere with a song either, because you tend to be

a bit lax with someone else's stuff, you experiment a bit. So we were doing it

in his room with the piano. He said "Should we do this?" "Yeah, let's do that."

I keep saying that I always preferred the double album, because my music is

better on the double album; I don't care about the whole concept of Pepper, it

might be better, but the music was better for me on the double album, because

I'm being myself on it. I think it's as simple as the new album, like "I'm So

Tired" is just the guitar. I felt more at ease with that than the production. I

don't like production so much. But Pepper was a peak all right.

Ono: People think that's the peak and I'm just so amazed... John's done all that

Beatle stuff. But this new album of John's is a real peak, that's higher than

any other thing he has done.

Lennon: Thank you, dear.

Do you think it is?

Yeah, sure. I think it's "Sergeant Lennon." I don't really know how it will sink

in, where it will lie, in the spectrum of rock and roll and the generation and

all the rest of it, but I know what it is. It's something else, it's another

door.

Ono: That you don't even know yet or realize it.

Lennon: I'm sneakingly aware of it, but not fully, until it is all over like

anyone else. We didn't really know what Pepper was going to do or what
anything

was going to do. I had a feeling, but, I don't know whether it's going to settle

down in a minority position. The new album could do that because, in one way

it's terribly uncommercial, it's so miserable in a way and heavy, but it's

reality, and I'm not going to veer away from it for anything.

Ono: I was thinking that Tom Jones is like medium without message, but John's

stuff is like the message is the medium; it's the message. He didn't need any

decorative sound, or decorativeness about it. That is why in some songs it

seems

that the accompaniment is simple but it's like an urgent message, I feel.

Lennon: Thank you and good night.

How did you get in touch with Allen Klein?

I got various messages through various people that Allen Klein would like to

talk to you. Really, it was Mick who got us together. I mean I knew who he was.

I didn't want to talk. I had heard about him over the years; the first time I

heard about him was that he said one day he would have the Beatles, and this
was

when Brian was with us. He had offered Brian this good deal, which in
retrospect
was something Brian should have done. This was years ago. I had heard about
all

these dreadful rumors about him but I could never coordinate it with the fact

that the Stones seemed to be going on and on with him and nobody ever said a

word. Mick's not the type to just clam up, so I started thinking he must be all

right.

But still, when I heard he wanted to see me, I got nervous, because "some

business man wants to see me, it's going to be business and business makes
me

nervous." Finally I got a message from Mick— Allen had really set up the whole

deal you know, Mick and us nearly went into Apple together a few years back
and

we had big meetings and discussions about the studios and all of that, but it

never happened— and Allen would have come in that way. That was after Brian

died, but it didn't happen. All these approaches were coming from all over the

place, and then I met him at the "Rock and Roll Circus" [the TV film] which has

never been seen, with John and Yoko performing together for the first time with

a crazy violinist and Keith on bass and all that— I always regret that— and I

met him there. I didn't know what to make of him; we just shook hands and

then... Yoko, what happened next?

Ono: Then one day we finally decided to meet him, you remember...

Lennon: I don't know, we just decided to meet him. Did we call him or did we

accept his call? He called me once, but I never accepted it; I never accepted

the call at the house; I think in Kenwood once he called, and I didn't take it,

I was too nervous.

I don't like talking to strangers as it is, strangers want to talk about

reality, or something else, so I didn't accept the call. Then finally did we

accept the call or did I put a call through? He'll tell you.
Do you know he knows the lyrics to every fuckin' song you could ever imagine

from the Twenties on? I was with him last night eating, and I was just singing a

few things— Yoko thinks I know every song, I know millions of songs— I'm like
a

juke box, thousands upon millions. G chords and so on— but Allen not only
knows

it, but he knows every fuckin' word, even the chorus. He's got a memory like

that, so ask him. But then we met and it was very traumatic.

In what way?

We are both very nervous. He was nervous as shit, and I was nervous as shit,
and

Yoko was nervous. We met at the Dorchester, we went up to his room, and we
just

went in you know.

He was sitting there all nervous. He was all alone, he didn't have any of his

helpers around, because he didn't want to do anything like that. But he was
very

nervous, you could see it in his face. When I saw that I felt better. We talked

to him a few hours, and we decided that night, he was it!

What made you decide that?

He not only knew my work, and the lyrics that I had written but he also

understood them, and from way back. That was it. If he knew what I was saying

and followed my work, then that was pretty damn good, because it's hard to
see

me, John Lennon, amongst that. He talked sense about what had happened. He
just

said what was going on, and I just knew.

He is a very intelligent guy; he told me what was happening with the Beatles,

and my relationship with Paul and George and Ringo. He knew every damn
thing

about us, the same as he knows everything about the Stones. He's a fuckin'
sharp

man.

There are things he doesn't know, but when it comes to that kind of business,
he

knows. And anybody that knew me that well— without having met me— had to
be a

guy I could let look after me.

So I wrote to Sir Joe Lockwood that night. We were so pleased, I didn't care

what the others might say. I told Allen, "You can handle me."

Yoko had become my advisor so that I wouldn't go into Maharishi's anymore. It

was Derek and Yoko and I interviewing people coming in to take over Apple
when

we were running it at Wigmore Street, and Yoko would sit behind me and I'd
play

me games and she would tell me what they were doing when I blinked, and
how they

were in her opinion, because she wasn't as stupid or emotional as me. And I've

never had that except when the Beatles were against the world I did have the

cooperation of a good mind like Paul's. It was us against them.

So you wrote Lockwood?

So I wrote Lockwood saying: "Dear Sir Joe: From now on Allen Klein handles all

my stuff," Allen has it framed somewhere. I posted it that night and Allen

couldn't believe it. He was so excited— "At last, at last!" He was trying not to

push, and I was just saying "You can handle me, and I'll tell the others you

seem all right and you can come and meet George and everything, and Paul
and all
of them."

I had to present a case to them, and Allen had to talk to them himself. And of

course, I promoted him in the fashion in which you will see me promoting or

talking about something. I was enthusiastic about him and I was relieved
because

I had met a lot of people including Lord Beeching who was one of the top
people

in Britain and all that. Paul had told me, "Go and see Lord Beeching" so I went.

I mean I'm a good boy, man, and I saw Lord Beeching and he was no help at
all. I

mean, he was all right. Paul was in America getting Eastman and I was

interviewing all these so-called top people, and they were animals. Allen was a

human being, the same as Brian was a human being. It was the same thing
with

Brian in the early days, it was an assessment; I make a lot of mistakes

characterwise, but now and then I make a good one and Allen is one, Yoko is
one

and Brian was one. I am closer to him than to anybody else, outside of Yoko.

How did the rest of them react?

I don't remember. They were nervous like me, because this terrible man who
had

got the Rolling Stones, and said that he was going to get the Beatles years ago
—

you don't know what's going on. I can't remember. I don't know what we did

next...

Ono: So somebody said, please, let's see Allen and Eastman together, and see
how

it is.

Lennon: Right. But what did I say to George then, did I ring them or something?

I suppose I rung them.

Ono: We were going to Apple all the time so we met George there.

Lennon: What did I say? "This is Allen Klein, we met him last night." I just

sort of said he was OK, and you should meet and all that.

[Paul meantime had met and married American photographer Linda Eastman
whose

father Lee and brother John were music business lawyers, who also wanted to

"manage" the Beatle affairs.]

Then we got Paul. John Eastman had already been in, in fact, we almost signed

ourselves over to the Eastmans at one time, because when Paul presented me
with

John Eastman, I thought well... when you're not presented with a real

alternative, you take whatever is going. I would say "yes", like I said "Yes,

let's do "Let It Be." I have nothing to produce so I will go along", and we

almost went away with Eastman. But then Eastman made the mistake of
sending his

son over and not coming over himself, to look after the Beatles, playing it a

bit cool.

Finally, when we got near the point when Allen came in, the Eastmans
panicked;

yet I was still open. I liked Allen but I would have taken Eastman if he would

have turned out something other than what he was.

We arranged to see Eastman and Klein together in a hotel where one of them
was

staying. For the four Beatles and Yoko to go and see them both. We hadn't
been

in there more than a few minutes when Lee Eastman was having something
like an

epileptic fit, and screaming at Allen, that he was "the lowest scum on earth,"

and calling him all sorts of names. Allen was sitting there, taking it, you
know, just takin' it. Eastman was abusing him with class snobbery. What
Eastman

didn't know then is that Neil had been in New York and found out that Lee

Eastman's real name was Lee Epstein! That's the kind of people they are. But

Paul fell for that bullshit, because Eastman's got Picassos on the wall and

because he's got some sort of East Coast suit; form and not substance. Now,

that's McCartney. We were all still not sure and they brought in this fella, and

he had a fuckin' fit.

We had thought it was one in a million but that was enough for me, soon as he

started nailing Klein on his taste. Paul was getting in little digs about

Allen's dress. I mean you just go and look at Paul's dress, or at his father, or

anything — who the fuck does he think he is? Him talking about dress!

Man, so that was it, and we said, "fuck it!" I wouldn't let Eastman near me; I

wouldn't let a fuckin' animal like that who has a mind like that near me. Who

despises me, too, despises me because of what I am and what I look like.

You know, these people like Eastman and Dick James and people like that,
think

that I'm an idiot. They really can't see me; they think I'm some kind of guy who

got struck lucky, a pal of Paul's or something. They're so fuckin' stupid they

don't know.

The reason Allen knew was because he knew who I was. He wasn't going on
what a

pretty face I've got. Eastman blew it, and then he went on to do it again. Where

did he do it? Next time he did it was in the Apple office. He kept coming to me,

trying to hold his madness down, this insanity that kept coming out. He was

coming up to me saying "I can't tell you how much I admire you." Gortikov [the

chairman of Capitol Records] does that too; you know them, full of praise, like

"I can't tell you how much I've admired your work, John."
And I'm just watchin' this and I'm thinkin' "it's happening to me," and "thank

you very much," and all that [To Yoko:] What was the second fit, because I
want

this out. What was the second time he blew it?

Ono: In Apple or something.

Lennon: He did it in front of everybody.

This was supposed to be the guy who was taking over the multi-million dollar

corporation, and it was going to be slick. Paul was sort of intimating that

Allen's business offices on Broadway were not nice enough as if that were any

fuckin' difference! Eastman was in the good section of town. "Oh, boy, man,

that's where it's at!" And Eastman's office has got class! I don't care if this

is fuckin' red white and blue, I don't care what Allen dresses like, he's a

human being, man.

So you said "No" to Eastman, and what did Paul do?

The more we said "no," the more he said "yes." Eastman went mad and
shouted and

all that. I didn't know what Paul was thinking when he was in the room; I mean,

his heart must have sunk.

Ono: They didn't even want to come to a meeting with Allen.

Lennon: Eastman at first refused to meet Allen. He said "I will not meet such a

low rat." What the fuck had Klein done? He'd never done a fuckin' thing— he'd

been cleared of all this income tax shit— and even if he hadn't, what the fuck,

how dare all these fuckin' wolves and sharks call him down for being what he
is.

How dare they insult anybody like that? They're fuckin' bastards. And Eastman
is
a Wasp Jew, man, and that's the worst kind of person on earth.

They refused to meet him. I said I don't talk to anybody unless I come along

with Allen. They said "Come on, John, I want to meet you alone," and I said "I

don't see any of you, unless Allen's with me."

Ono: But the thing is that finally when they met, they invited Allen to the

Harvard Club. Can you imagine that? Just to show, you know...

Lennon: When Eastman was finally signing the Northern Songs deal, God knows
what

it was, I had to jump over a fence to get Paul's signature for something which

finally secured us our position, and then also Eastman lost his temper. He

really started insulting me then. Eastman, he knew the game was over. This
was

in London: three of us had to go there to get his final approval on Paul's

signature, which we got.

He's initiating all these things just to slow us down, like an immigration

officer, really putting us through it. I'm sitting there, waiting, and we're

thinking, "sign it you fuckin' idiot, and let's get out," but he starts

insulting me; Yoko said to him "Will you please stop insulting my husband." She

was saying "Don't call my husband stupid." I wasn't saying anything but "sign it

and give me the signature, just put your initials on it, Epstein," I was

thinking let's get out of here, and we'll wrap you up, and that's what we did.

You can't believe it, man, epileptic fits, and they expected to run the company.

Allen even offered to let John Eastman be the lawyer on the deals we were
making

with Northern Songs, but they were screwing everything Allen did, by putting
on

an argument. It fucked that Northern Songs deal and all that, but we still came

out with all the money. Whatever they could do they did but in the end they
couldn't out-maneuver him. Klein was the only one who knew exactly what was

going on. He not only knew our characters, and what the relationship between
the

group was, but he also knows his business, he knows who's who in the group,
what

you have to do to get things done, and he knew about every fuckin' contract
and

paper we ever had. He understood. Eastman was just making judgments and
saying

things to Paul based on something that he had never seen. It was a wipe-out,
you

can't imagine. The real story will come out, because Allen knows every detail

and he remembers everything we've said.

Ono: The first approach was, well... he knew I went to Sarah Lawrence. He was

saying "Kafkaesque" and all of that, and talking in a very "in" way; "we're

middle class, aren't we?"

But the point is that the Eastman family doesn't know John's a drop-out— I was

sick and tired of that middle class thing and I married a "working class hero";

and if he is a true aristocrat, he is not going to invite Allen to the Harvard

Club, but would make sure that he invites Allen to somewhere Allen would
enjoy.

So what was going down with Paul then?

Paul was getting more and more uptight until Paul wouldn't speak to us. He
told

us "You speak to my lawyer."

When did you first start having unpleasant words with Paul?

We never had unpleasant words. It never got to a talking thing, you see, it just

got that Paul would say "Speak to my lawyer, I don't want to speak about

business anymore" which meant, "I'm going to drag my feet and try and fuck
you."
When the whole Northern thing was going on, we tried to save our fuckin' stuff

[the publishing rights to most of the Lennon/McCartney songs] and he was

playing

hard to get, like a fuckin' chick, because he hadn't thought of it. It was a

pure ego game, and I got into the ego thing, of course, but I was really

fighting for our fuckin' business, and what I believed was our money. It wasn't

just because I'd found Allen. I would have dropped Allen if Eastman had been

something; but he was an animal, a fuckin' stupid middle-class pig, and

thought

he could con me with fuckin' talking about Kafka, and shit, and Picasso and

DeKooning, for Christ's sake, and I shit on the fuckin' lot of them.

I don't even know who the fuck they are; I just know that it's something that

somebody has got hung up on the wall that he thinks is an investment.

What was the state of the Beatles' business at that point?

Chaos! Exactly what I've said in the Rolling Stone, wasn't it— it all happens in

the Rolling Stone!

Steve Maltz, I think; Allen said I must have gotten it from Steve Maltz, this

accountant we had had, a young guy, who just sent me a letter one day saying,

"You're in chaos, you're losing money, there is so much a week going out of

Apple."

People were robbing us and living on us to the tune of... 18 or 20 thousand

pounds a week, was rolling out of Apple and nobody was doing anything about
it.

All our buddies that worked for us for fifty years, were all just living and

drinking and eating like fuckin' Rome, and I suddenly realized it and— I said to

you— "we're losing money at such a rate that we would have been broke,
really

broke."
We didn't have anything in the bank really, none of us did. Paul and I could

have probably floated, but we were sinking fast. It was just hell, and it had to

stop. When Allen heard me say that— he read it in Stone— he came over right

away. As soon as he realized that I knew what was going on, he thought to

himself, "Now I can get through." Until somebody knows that they are on shit

street, how can somebody come and get in... it's just like somebody coming up
to

me now and saying "I want to help you with the business." I would say "I've got

somebody," or "I'm doing all right, Jack..." As soon as Allen realized that I

realized all that was going on, he came over.

How much money do you have now?

I'm not telling. Lots more than I ever had before. Allen has got me more real

money in the bank than I've ever had in the whole period and I've got money
that

I earned for eight or ten years of my fuckin' life, instead of all the Dick

James Music Company having it.

How much were you making in that period?

I don't know, I just know it was millions. Brian was a not a good businessman.

He had a flair for presenting things, he was more theatrical than business. He

was hyped a lot. He was advised by a gang of crooks, really. That's what went

on, and the battle is still going on for the Beatles rights. The latest one is

the Lew Grade thing. If you read Cashbox you'll see what's happening— we've
put

in a claim to Lew Grade for five million pounds [$12,000,000], in unpaid

royalties. They have been underpaying us for years. Dick James— the whole lot
of

them— sold us out. They still think we're like Tommy Steele or some fuckin'
product. None of them realized— simply because of "A Hard Day's Night" — we
had

to wake up one day, and we were not the same as the last generation of stars
or

whatever they were called.

How did Paul get down to telling Ringo he was going to get him someday?

It was Paul's new album and he wanted to put it out at the same time "Let It
Be"

was scheduled to come out. We weren't against him putting an album out, I
mean

I'd done it, and I didn't think it was any different. Mine happened to be

Toronto, because that happened to happen. If I hadn't gone to Toronto, I would

have made an album, probably. I was half hoping I would make single after
single

until there was enough for an album that way, because I'm lazy.

We didn't want to put out "Let It Be" and Paul's at the same time. It would have

killed the sales. In the old days we used to watch it: if the Stones were coming

out... we would ask Brian, "who is coming out"? and he would tell us who's

coming out. We could always beat everyone, but what is the point of losing

sales? There has to be timing. Mick timed it. We never came out together,
we're

not idiots. With Elvis, we miss every one; I would miss Tom Jones, anybody,
now.

I don't want to fight on the charts, I want to get in when the going is good. It

would have killed — Paul's was just an ego game — it would have killed "Let It

Be."

We asked Ringo to go and talk to him because Ringo— the real fighting had
been

going on between me and Paul, because of Eastman and Klein, and we were on
the
opposite ends of our bats— Ringo had not taken sides, or anything like that,
and

he had been straight about it, and we thought that Ringo would be able to talk

fairly, to Paul— I mean if Ringo agreed that it was unfair, then it was unfair.

(At one time Paul wanted a fuckin' extra vote on a voting trust, but that was

the same as like the four of us at a table, except that Paul has two votes. I

mean, Eastman— something was going on... Paul thought he was the fuckin'

Beatles, and he never fucking was, never... none of us were the fucking
Beatles,

four of us were.) Ringo went and asked him and he attacked Ringo and he
started

threatening him and everything, and that was the kibosh for Ringo. What the

situation is now, I don't know.

Allen says that you are all going to get together in a few months.

I think that we have to have a meeting shortly, because we are all— we all

agreed to meet sometime in February, I think, to see where we are at.

Financially, its business, or whatever.

Do you think you will record together again?

I record with Yoko, but I'm not going to record with another egomaniac. There
is

only room for one on an album nowadays. There is no point, there is just no

point at all. There was a reason to do it at one time, but there is no reason to

do it anymore.

I had a group, I was the singer and the leader; I met Paul and I made a decision

whether to— and he made a decision too— have him in the group: was it better
to

have a guy who was better than the people I had in, obviously, or not? To make

the group stronger or to let me be stronger? That decision was to let Paul in
and make the group stronger.

Well, from that, Paul introduced me to George, and Paul and I had to make the

decision, or I had to make the decision, whether to let George in. I listened to

George play, and I said "play 'Raunchy' " or whatever the old story is, and I

let him in. I said "OK, you come in"; that was the three of us then. Then the

rest of the group was thrown out gradually. It just happened like that, instead

of going for the individual thing, we went for the strongest format, and for

equals.

George is ten years younger than me, or some shit like that. I couldn't be

bothered with him when he first came around. He used to follow me around like
a

bloody kid, hanging around all the time, I couldn't be bothered. He was a kid

who played guitar, and he was a friend of Paul's which made it all easier. It

took me years to come around to him, to start considering him as an equal or

anything.

We had all sorts of different drummers all the time, because people who owned

drum kits were few and far between; it was an expensive item. They were
usually

idiots. Then we got Pete Best, because we needed a drummer to go to

Hamburg the

next day. We passed the audition on our own with a stray drummer. There are

other myths about Pete Best was the Beatles and Stuart Sutcliffe's mother is

writing in England that he was the Beatles.

Are you the Beatles?

No, I'm not the Beatles. I'm me. Paul isn't the Beatles. Brian Epstein wasn't

the Beatles, neither is Dick James. The Beatles are the Beatles. Separately,
they are separate. George was a separate individual singer, with his own group

as well, before he came in with us, the Rebel Rousers. Nobody is the Beatles.

How could they be? We all had our roles to play.

You say on the record, "I don't believe in the Beatles."

Yeah. I don't believe in the Beatles, that's all. I don't believe in the Beatles

myth. "I don't believe in the Beatles"— there is no other way of saying it, is

there? I don't believe in them whatever they were supposed to be in

everybody's

head, including our own heads for a period. It was a dream. I don't believe in

the dream anymore.

I made my mind up not to talk about all that shit, I'm sick of it, you know. I

would like to talk about the album, I was going to say to you "Look, I don't

want to talk about all that about the Beatles splitting up because it not only

hurts me, and it always ends up looking like I'm blabbing off and attacking

people." I don't want it.

How would you assess George's talents?

I don't want to assess him. George has not done his best work yet. His talents

have developed over the years and he was working with two fucking brilliant

songwriters, and he learned a lot from us. I wouldn't have minded being
George,

the invisible man, and learning what he learned. Maybe it was hard for him

sometimes, because Paul and I are such egomaniacs, but that's the game.

I'm interested in concepts and philosophies. I am not interested in wallpaper,

which most music is.

What music do you listen to today?

If you want the record bit, since I've been listening to the radio here, I like

a few things by Neil Young and something by Elton John. There are some really
good sounds, but, then there is usually no follow-through. There will be a

section of fantastic sound come over the radio, then you wait for the

conclusion, or the concept or something to finish it off, but nothing happens

except it just goes on to a jam session or whatever.

You've had a chance to listen to FM radio in New York. What have you heard?

Yeah. "My Sweet Lord." Every time I put the radio on it's "oh my Lord"— I'm

beginning to think there must be a God! I knew there wasn't when "Hare
Krishna"

never made it on the polls with their own record, that really got me suspicious.

We used to say to them, "you might get number one" and they'd say, "Higher
than

that."

What do we hear? It's interesting to hear Van Morrison. He seems to be doing

nice stuff — sort of 1960s black music— he is one of them that became an

American like Eric Burdon. I just never have time for a whole album. I only

heard Neil Young twice— you can pick him out a mile away, the whole style. He

writes some nice songs. I'm not stuck on Sweet Baby [James Taylor]— I'm
getting

to like him more hearing him on the radio, but I was never struck by his stuff.

I like Creedence Clearwater. They make beautiful Clearwater music— they

make

good rock and roll music. You see it's difficult when you ask me what I like,

there's lots of stuff I've heard that I think is fantastic on the radio here,

but I haven't caught who they are half the time.

I'm interested in things with more of a world-wide... I'm interested in, what's

it called, something that means something for everyone, not just for a few kids

listening to wallpaper. I am just as interested in poetry or whatever or art,

and always have been, that's been my hang-up, you know— continually trying
to be

Shakespeare or whatever it is. That's what I'm doing, I'm not pissing about. I

consider I'm up against them. I'm not competing myself against Elvis. Rock just

happens to be the media which I was born into, it was the one, that's all. Those

people picked up paint brushes, and Van Gogh probably wanted to be Renoir or

whoever went before him just as I wanted to be Elvis or whatever the shit it is.

I'm not interested in good guitarists. I'm in the game of all those things, of

concept and philosophy, ways of life, and whole movements in history. Just like

Van Gogh was or any other of those fuckin' people— they are no more or less
than

I am or Yoko is— they were just living in those days. I'm interested in

expressing myself like they expressed it, in some way that will mean
something

to people in any country, in any language, and at any time in history.

When did you realize, that what you were doing transcended...

People like me are aware of their so-called genius at ten, eight, nine... I

always wondered, "why has nobody discovered me?" In school, didn't they see
that

I'm cleverer than anybody in this school? That the teachers are stupid, too?

That all they had was information that I didn't need.

I got fuckin' lost in being at high school. I used to say to me auntie "You

throw my fuckin' poetry out, and you'll regret it when I'm famous," and she

threw the bastard stuff out.

I never forgave her for not treating me like a fuckin' genius or whatever I was,

when I was a child.

It was obvious to me. Why didn't they put me in art school? Why didn't they
train me? Why would they keep forcing me to be a fuckin' cowboy like the rest
of

them? I was different, I was always different. Why didn't anybody notice me?

A couple of teachers would notice me, encourage me to be something or other,

to

draw or to paint— express myself. But most of the time they were trying to
beat

me into being a fuckin' dentist or a teacher. And then the fuckin' fans tried to

beat me into being a fuckin' Beatle or an Engelbert Humperdinck, and the

critics

tried to beat me into being Paul McCartney.

Ono: So you were very deprived in a way...

Lennon: That's what makes me what I am. It comes out, the people I meet have
to

say it themselves, because we get fuckin' kicked. Nobody says it, so you
scream

it: look at me, a genius, for fuck's sake! What do I have to do to prove to you

son-of-a-bitches what I can do, and who I am? Don't dare, don't you dare
fuckin'

dare criticize my work like that. You, who don't know anything about it.

Fuckin' bullshit!

I know what Zappa is going through, and a half. I'm just coming out of it. I

just have been in school again. I've had teachers ticking me off and marking
my

work. If nobody can recognize what I am then fuck 'em, it's the same for Yoko...

Ono: That's why it's an amazing thing: after somebody has done something like

the Beatles, they think that he's sort of satisfied, where actually the

Beatles...

Lennon: The Beatles was nothing.

Ono: It was like cutting him down to a smaller size than he is.
Lennon: I learned lots from Paul and George, in many ways, but they learned a

damned sight lot from me — they learned a fucking lot from me. It's like
George

Martin, or anybody: just come back in 20 years' time and see what we're doing,

and see who's doing what— don't put me— don't sort of mark my papers like
I'm

top of the math class or did I come in Number One in English Language,
because I

never did. Just assess me on what I am and what comes out of me mouth, and
what

me work is, don't mark me in classrooms. It's like I've just left school again!

I just graduated from the school of Show Biz or whatever it was called.

Who do you think is good today? In any arts...

The unfortunate thing about egomaniacs is that they don't take much attention
of

other people's work. I only assess people on whether they are a danger to me
or

my work or not.

Yoko is as important to me as Paul and Dylan rolled into one. I don't think she

will get recognition until she's dead. There's me, and maybe I could count the

people on one hand that have any conception of what she is or what her mind
is

like, or what her work means to this fuckin' idiotic generation. She has the

hope that she might be recognized. If I can't get recognized, and I'm doing it

in a fuckin' clown's costume, I'm doing it on the streets, you know, I don't

know what— I admire Yoko's work.

I admire "Fluxus," a New York-based group of artists founded by George

Macuinas.

I really think what they do is beautiful and important.

I admire Andy Warhol's work, I admire Zappa a bit, but he's a fuckin'
intellectual— I can't think of anybody else. I admire people from the past. I

admire Fellini. A few that Yoko's educated me to... She's educated me into

things that I didn't know about before, because of the scene I was in; I'm

getting to know some other great work that's been going on now and in the
past—

there is all sorts going on.

I still love Little Richard, and I love Jerry Lee Lewis. They're like primitive

painters...

Chuck Berry is one of the all-time great poets, a rock poet you could call him.

He was well advanced of his time lyric-wise. We all owe a lot to him, including

Dylan. I've loved everything he's done, ever. He was in a different class from

the other performers, he was in the tradition of the great blues artists but he

really wrote his own stuff — I know Richard did, but Berry really wrote stuff,

just the lyrics were fantastic, even though we didn't know what he was saying

half the time.

Ono: I'm really getting into it.

Lennon: We are both showing each other's experience to each other. When you
play

Yoko's music, I had the same thing: I had to open up to hear it— I had to get

out the concept of what I wanted to hear... I had to allow abstract art or music

in. She had to do the same for rock and roll, it was an intellectual exercise,

because we're all boxed in. We are all in little boxes, and somebody has to go

in and rip your fuckin' head open for you to allow something else in.

A drug will do it. Acid will box your head open. Some artists will do it, but

they usually have to be dead two hundred years to do it. All I ever learned in

art school was about Van Gogh and stuff; they didn't teach me anything about

anybody that was alive now, or they never taught me about Marcel Duchamp
which I
despised them for. Yoko has taught me about Duchamp and what he did, which
is

just out of this world. He would just put a bike wheel on display and he would

say this is art, you cunts. — He wasn't Dali; Dali was all right, but he's like

Mick, you know. I love Dali, but fuckin' Duchamp was spot on. He was the first

one to do that, just take an object from the street and put his name on it, and

say this is art because I say it is.

Why Warhol?

Because he is an original, and he's great. He is an original great and he is in

so much pain. He's got his fame, he's got his own cinema and all of that. I

don't dig that junkie fag scene he lives in; I don't know whether he lives like

that or what. I dig Heinz Soup cans. That was something, that wasn't just a pop

art, or some stupid art. Warhol said it, nobody's else has said it— Heinz Soup.

He's said that to us, and I thanked him for it.

What do you think of Fellini?

Fellini's just like Dali, I suppose. It's a great meal to go and see Fellini, a

great meal for your senses.

Like Citizen Kane, that's something else, too. Poor old Orson, he goes on Dick

Cavett, and says "Please love me, now I'm a big fat man, and I've eaten all this

food, and I did so well when I was younger, I can act, I can direct, and you're

all very kind to me, but at the moment I don't do anything."

Do you see a time when you'll retire?

No. I couldn't, you know.

Ono: He'll probably work until he's eighty or until he dies.

Lennon: I can't foresee it. Even when you're a cripple you carry on painting. I

would paint if I couldn't move. It doesn't matter, you see, when I was saying
what Yoko did with "Greenfield Morning"— took half an inch she taped and
none of

us knew what we were doing, and I saw her create something. I saw her start
from

scratch with something we would normally throw away. With the other stuff we

did, we were all good in the backing and everything went according to plan, it

was a good session, but with "Greenfield Morning" and "Paper Shoes" there
was

nothing there for her to work with. She just took nothing — the way Spector did

— that's the way the genius shows through any media. You give Yoko or
Spector a

piece of tape, two inches of tape, they can create a symphony out of it. You

don't have to be trained in rock and roll to be a singer; I didn't have to be

trained to be a singer: I can sing. Singing is singing to people who enjoy what

you're singing, not being able to hold notes— I don't have to be in rock and

roll to create. When I'm an old man, we'll make wallpaper together, but just to

have the same depth and impact. The message is the medium.

What is holding people back from understanding Yoko?

She was doing all right before she met Elvis. Howard Smith announced he was

going to play her music on FM and all these idiots rang up and said "Don't you

dare play it, she split the Beatles." She didn't split the Beatles and even if

she did what does that have to do with it or her fucking record. She is a
woman,

and she's Japanese; there is racial prejudice against her and there is female

prejudice against her. It's as simple as that.

Her work is far out, Yoko's bottom thing is as important as "Sgt. Pepper." The

real hip people know about it. There are a few people that know; there is a

person in Paris who knows about her; a person in Moscow knows about her;
there's
a person in fucking China that knows about her. But in general, she can't be

accepted, because she's too far out. It's hard to take. Her pain is such that

she expresses herself in a way that hurts you— you cannot take it. That's why

they couldn't take Van Gogh, it's too real, it hurts; that's why they kill you.

How did you meet Yoko?

I'm sure I've told you this many times. How did I meet Yoko? There was a sort
of

underground clique in London; John Dunbar, who was married to Marianne

Faithful,

had an art gallery in London called Indica and I'd been going around to

galleries a bit on my off days in between records. I'd been to see a Takis

exhibition, I don't know if you know what that means, he does multiple

electro-magnetic sculptures, and a few exhibitions in different galleries who

showed these sort of unknown artists or underground artists. I got the word
that

this amazing woman was putting on a show next week and there was going to
be

something about people in bags, in black bags, and it was going to be a bit of a

happening and all that. So I went down to a preview of the show. I got there the

night before it opened. I went in — she didn't know who I was or anything — I

was wandering around, there was a couple of artsy type students that had
been

helping lying around there in the gallery, and I was looking at it and I was

astounded. There was an apple on sale there for 200 quid, I thought it was

fantastic— I got the humor in her work immediately. I didn't have to sort of

have much knowledge about avant garde or underground art, but the humor
got me
straight away. There was a fresh apple on a stand, this was before Apple— and
it

was 200 quid to watch the apple decompose. But there was another piece
which

really decided me for-or-against the artist, a ladder which led to a painting

which was hung on the ceiling. It looked like a blank canvas with a chain with a

spy glass hanging on the end of it. This was near the door when you went in. I

climbed the ladder, you look through the spyglass and in tiny little letters it

says "yes".

So it was positive. I felt relieved. It's a great relief when you get up the

ladder and you look through the spyglass and it doesn't say "no" or "fuck you"

or something, it said "yes."

I was very impressed and John Dunbar sort of introduced us — neither of us

knew

who the hell we were, she didn't know who I was, she'd only heard of Ringo I

think, it means apple in Japanese. And John Dunbar had been sort of hustling
her

saying "that's a good patron, you must go and talk to him or do something"

because I was looking for action, I was expecting a happening and things like

that. John Dunbar insisted she say hello to the millionaire, you know what I

mean. And she came up and handed me a card which said "Breathe" on it, one
of

her instructions, so I just went (pant). That was our meeting.

Then I went away and the second time I met her was at a gallery opening of
Claes

Oldenberg in London. We were very shy, we sort of nodded at each other and
we

didn't know — she was standing behind me, I sort of looked away because I'm
very

shy with people, especially chicks. We just sort of smiled and stood frozen
together in this cocktail party thing.

The next thing was she came to me to get some backing — like all the bastard

underground do— for a show she was doing. She gave me her "Grapefruit"
book and

I used to read it and sometimes I'd get very annoyed by it; it would say things

like "paint until you drop dead" or "bleed" and then sometimes I'd be very

enlightened by it and I went through all the changes that people go through
with

her work— sometimes I'd have it by the bed and I'd open it and it would say

something nice and it would be alright and then it would say something heavy
and

I wouldn't like it. There was all that and then she came to me to get some

backing for a show and it was half a wind show. I gave her the money to back it

and the show was, this was in a place called Lisson Gallery, another one of

those underground places. For this whole show everything was in half: there
was

half a bed, half a room, half of everything, all beautifully cut in half and all

painted white. And I said to her "why don't you sell the other half in bottles?"

having caught on by then what the game was and she did that— this is still

before we'd had any nuptials— and we still have the bottles from the show, it's

my first. It was presented as "Yoko Plus Me"— that was our first public

appearance. I didn't even go to see the show, I was too uptight.

When did you realize that you were in love with her?

It was beginning to happen; I would start looking at her book and that but I

wasn't quite aware what was happening to me and then she did a thing called

Dance Event where different cards kept coming through the door everyday
saying

"Breathe" and "Dance" and "Watch all the lights until dawn," and they upset
me
or made me happy depending on how I felt.

I'd get very upset about it being intellectual or all fucking avant garde, then

I'd like it and then I wouldn't. Then I went to India with the Maharoonie and we

were corresponding. The letters were still formal but they just had a little

side to them. I nearly took her to India as I said but I still wasn't sure for

what reason, I was still sort of kidding myself, with sort of artistic reasons,

and all that.

When we got back from India we were talking to each other on the phone. I
called

her over, it was the middle of the night and Cyn was away, and I thought well

now's the time if I'm gonna get to know her anymore. She came to the house
and I

didn't know what to do; so we went upstairs to my studio and I played her all

the tapes that I'd made, all this far out stuff, some comedy stuff, and some

electronic music. She was suitably impressed and then she said well let's make

one ourselves so we made "Two Virgins." It was midnight when we started

"Two

Virgins," it was dawn when we finished, and then we made love at dawn. It was

very beautiful.

What was it like getting married? Did you enjoy it?

It was very romantic. It's all in the song, "The Ballad of John and Yoko," if

you want to know how it happened, it's in there. Gibraltar was like a little

sunny dream. I couldn't find a white suit — I had sort of off-white corduroy

trousers and a white jacket. Yoko had all white on.

What was your first peace event?

The first peace event was the Amsterdam Bed Peace when we got married.

What was that like — that was your first re-exposure to the public.

It was a nice high. We were on the seventh floor of the Hilton looking over
Amsterdam— it was very crazy, the press came expecting to see us fucking in
bed—

they all heard John and Yoko were going to fuck in front of the press for peace.

So when they all walked in— about 50 or 60 reporters flew over from London all

sort of very edgy, and we were just sitting in pajamas saying "Peace, Brother,"

and that was it. On the peace thing there's lots of heavy discussions with

intellectuals about how you should do it and how you shouldn't.

When you got done, did you feel satisfied with the Bed Peace...

They were great events when you think that the world newspaper headlines
were

the fact that we were a married couple in bed talking about peace. It was one
of

our greater episodes. It was like being on tour without moving, sort of a big

promotional thing. I think we did a good job for what we were doing, which was

trying to get people to own up.

You chose the word "peace" and not "love," or another word that means the
same

thing. What did you like about the word "peace."

Yoko and I were discussing our different lives and careers when we first got

together. What we had in common in a way, was that she'd done things for
peace

like standing in Trafalgar Square in a black bag and things like that— we were

just trying to work out what we could do— and the Beatles had been singing
about

"love" and things. So we pooled our resources and came out with the Bed
Peace—

it was some way of doing something together that wouldn't involve me

standing in

Trafalgar Square in a black bag because I was too nervous to do that. Yoko

didn't want to do anything that wasn't for peace.

Did you ever get any reaction from political leaders?

I don't know about the Bed-In. We got reaction to sending acorns— different

heads of state actually planted their acorns, lots of them wrote to us answering

about the acorns. We sent acorns to practically everybody in the world.

Who answered?

Well I believe Golda Meir said "I don't know who they are but if it's for peace,

we're for it" or something like that. Scandinavia, somebody or other planted it.

I think Haile Salassie planted his, I'm not sure. Some Queen somewhere. There

was quite a few people that understood the idea.

Did you send one to Queen Elizabeth?

We sent one to Harold Wilson, I don't think we got a reply from Harold, did we?

What was it like meeting [Canadian] Prime Minister Trudeau? What was his

response to you?

He was interested in us because he thought we might represent some sort of

youth

faction— he wants to know, like everybody does, really. I think he was very

nervous — he was more nervous than we were when we met. We talked about

everything — just anything you can think of. We spent about 40 minutes — it
was

5 minutes longer than he'd spent with the heads of state which was the great

glory of the time. He'd read "In His Own Write," my book, and things like that.

He liked the poetry side of it. We just wanted to see what they did, how they

worked.

You appeared in the bags for Hanratty.

For Hanratty, yes, we did a sort of bag event, but it wasn't us in the bag it

was somebody else. The best thing we did in a bag together was a press

conference in Vienna. When they were showing Yoko's "Rape" on Austrian TV

— they
commissioned us to make the film and then we went over to Vienna to see it.

It was like a hotel press conference. We kept them out of the room. We came
down

the elevator in the bag and we went in and we got comfortable and they were
all

ushered in. It was a very strange scene because they'd never seen us before,
or

heard — Vienna is a pretty square place. A few people were saying, "C'mon,
get

out of the bags." And we wouldn't let 'em see us. They all stood back saying "Is

it really John and Yoko?" and "What are you wearing and why are you doing
this?"

We said, "this is total communications with no prejudice." It was just great.

They asked us to sing and we sang a few numbers. Yoko was singing a
Japanese

folk song, very nicely, just very straight we did it. And they never did see us.

What kind of a response did you get to the "War Is Over" poster?

We got a big response. The people that got in touch with us understood what a

grand event it was apart from the message itself. We got just "thank you's"
from

lots of youths around the world— for all the things we were doing — that

inspired them to do something. We had a lot of response from other than pop

fans, which was interesting, from all walks of life and age. If I walk down the

street now I'm more liable to get talked to about peace than anything I've
done.

The first thing that happened in New York was just walking down the street and
a

woman just came up to me and said "Good luck with the peace thing," that's
what

goes on mainly — it's not about "I Want to Hold Your Hand." And that was
interesting — it bridged a lot of gaps.

What do you think of those erotic lithographs now?

I don't think about them.

Why did you do them?

Because somebody said do some lithographs and I was in a drawing mood and
I drew

them.

You also did a scene for the Tynan play. How did that come about?

I met Tynan a few times around and about and he just said— this is about two

years ago or more— he just said I'm getting all these different people to write

something erotic, will you do it? And I told him that if I come up with

something I'd do it and if I don't, I don't. So I came up with two lines, two or

three lines which was the masturbation scene. It was a great childhood thing,

everybody'd been masturbating and trying to think of something sexy and

somebody'd shout Winston Churchill in the middle of it and break down. So I

just

wrote that down on a paper and told them to put whichever names in that
suited

the hero and they did it. I've never seen it.

What accounts for your great popularity?

Because I fuckin' did it. I copped out in that Beatle thing. I was like an

artist that went off... Have you never heard of like Dylan Thomas and all them

who never fuckin' wrote but just went up drinking and Brendan Behan and all of

them, they died of drink... everybody that's done anything is like that. I just

got meself in a party, I was an emperor, I had millions of chicks, drugs, drink,

power and everybody saying how great I was. How could I get out of it? It was
just like being in a fuckin' train. I couldn't get out.

I couldn't create, either. I created a little, it came out, but I was in the

party and you don't get out of a thing like that. It was fantastic! I came out

of the sticks, I didn't hear about anything— Van Gogh was the most far out
thing

I had ever heard of. Even London was something we used to dream of, and
London's

nothing. I came out of the fuckin' sticks to take over the world it seemed to

me. I was enjoying it, and I was trapped in it, too. I couldn't do anything

about it, I was just going along for the ride. I was hooked, just like a junkie.

What did being from Liverpool have to do with your art?

It was a port. That means it was less hick than somewhere in the English

Midlands, like the American Midwest or whatever you call it. We were a port,
the

second biggest port in England, between Manchester and Liverpool. The North
is

where the money was made in the Eighteen Hundreds, that was where all the
brass

and the heavy people were, and that's where the despised people were.

We were the ones that were looked down upon as animals by the Southerners,
the

Londoners. The Northerners in the States think that people are pigs down
South

and the people in New York think West Coast is hick. So we were hicksville.

We were a great amount of Irish descent and blacks and Chinamen, all sorts

there. It was like San Francisco, you know. That San Francisco is something

else! Why do you think Haight-Ashbury and all that happened there? It didn't

happen in Los Angeles, it happened in San Francisco, where people are going.

L.A. you pass through and get a hamburger.

There was nothing big in Liverpool; it wasn't American. It was going poor, a

very poor city, and tough. But people have a sense of humor because they are
in

so much pain, so they are always cracking jokes. They are very witty, and it's

an Irish place. It is where the Irish came when they ran out of potatoes, and

it's where black people were left or worked as slaves or whatever.

It is cosmopolitan, and it's where the sailors would come home with the blues

records from America on the ships. There is the biggest country & western

following in England in Liverpool, besides London — always besides London,

because there is more of it there.

I heard country and western music in Liverpool before I heard rock and roll. The

people there — the Irish in Ireland are the same — they take their country and

western music very seriously. There's a big heavy following of it. There were

established folk, blues and country and western clubs in Liverpool before rock

and roll and we were like the new kids coming out.

I remember the first guitar I ever saw. It belonged to a guy in a cowboy suit in

a province of Liverpool, with stars, and a cowboy hat and a big dobro. They
were

real cowboys, and they took it seriously. There had been cowboys long before

there was rock and roll.

What do you think of America?

I love it, and I hate it. America is where it's at. I should have been born in

New York, I should have been born in the Village, that's where I belong. Why

wasn't I born there? Paris was it in the Eighteenth Century, London I don't

think has ever been it except literary-wise when Wilde and Shaw and all of
them

were there. New York was it.

I regret profoundly that I was not an American and not born in Greenwich
Village. That's where I should have been. It never works that way. Everybody

heads toward the center, that's why I'm here now. I'm here just to breathe it.

It might be dying and there might be a lot of dirt in the air that you breathe,

but this is where it's happening. You go to Europe to rest, like in the country.

It's so overpowering, America, and I'm such a fuckin' cripple, that I can't take

much of it, it's too much for me.

Ono: He's very New York, you know.

Lennon: I'm frightened of it. People are so aggressive, I can't take all that I

need to go home, I need to have a look at the grass. I'm always writing about
my

English garden. I need the trees and the grass; I need to go into the country,

because I can't stand too much people.

Right after "Sergeant Pepper" George came to San Francisco.

George went over in the end. I was all for going and living in the Haight. In my

head, I thought, "Acid is it, and let's go, I'll go there." I was going to go

there, but I'm too nervous to do anything, actually. I thought I'll go there and

we'll live there and I'll make music and live like that. Of course, it didn't

come true.

But it happened in San Francisco. It happened all right, didn't it. I mean it

goes down in history. I love it. It's like when Shaw was in England, and they

all went to Paris; and I see all that in New York, San Francisco and London,

even London. We created something there— Mick and us, we didn't know what
we

were doing, but we were all talking blabbing over coffee, like they must have

done in Paris, talking about paintings... Me, Burdon and Brian Jones would be
up

night and day talking about music, playing records, and blabbing and arguing
and
getting drunk. It's beautiful history, and it happened in all these different

places. I just miss New York. In New York they have their own cool clique. Yoko

came out of that.

This is the first time I'm really seeing it, because I was always too nervous, I

was always the famous Beatle. Dylan showed it to me once on sort of a guided

tour around the Village, but I never got any feel of it. I just knew Dylan was

New York, and I always sort of wished I'd been there for the experience that
Bob

got from living around here.

What is the nature of your relationship with Bob?

It's sort of an acquaintance, because we were so nervous whenever we used to

meet. It was always under the most nervewracking circumstances, and I know I
was

always uptight and I know Bobby was. We were together and we spent some
time,

but I would always be too paranoid or I would be aggressive or vice versa and
we

didn't really speak. But we spent a lot of time together.

He came to me house, which was Kenwood, can you imagine it, and I didn't
know

where to put him in this sort of bourgeois home life I was living; I didn't know

what to do and things like that. I used to go to his hotel rather, and I loved

him, you know, because he wrote some beautiful stuff. I used to love that, his

so-called protest things. I like the sound of him, I didn't have to listen to

his words, he used to come with his acetate and say "Listen to this, John, and

did you hear the words?" I said that doesn't matter, the sound is what counts—

the overall thing. I had too many father figures and I liked words, too, so I

liked a lot of the stuff he did. You don't have to hear what Bob Dylan's is
saying, you just have to hear the way he says it.

Do you see him as a great?

No, I see him as another poet, or as competition. You read my books that were

written before I heard of Dylan or read Dylan or anybody, it's the same. I

didn't come after Elvis and Dylan, I've been around always. But if I see or meet

a great artist, I love 'em. I go fanatical about them for a short period, and

then I get over it. If they wear green socks I'm liable to wear green socks for

a period too.

When was the last time you saw Bob?

He came to our house with George after the Isle of Wight and when I had
written

"Cold Turkey."

Ono: And his wife.

Lennon: I was just trying to get him to record. We had just put him on piano for

"Cold Turkey" to make a rough tape but his wife was pregnant or something
and

they left. He's calmed down a lot now.

I just remember before that we were both in shades and both on fucking junk,
and

all these freaks around us and Ginsberg and all those people. I was anxious as

shit, we were in London, when he came.

You were in that movie with him, that hasn't been released.

I've never seen it but I'd love to see it. I was always so paranoid and Bob said

"I want you to be in this film." He just wanted to me to be in the film.

I thought why? What? He's going to put me down; I went all through this
terrible

thing.

In the film, I'm just blabbing off and commenting all the time, like you do when
you're very high or stoned. I had been up all night. We were being smart
alecks,

it's terrible. But it was his scene, that was the problem for me. It was his

movie. I was on his territory, that's why I was so nervous. I was on his

session.

You're going back to London, what's a rough picture of your immediate future,

say the next three months.

I'd like to just vanish just a bit. It wore me out, New York. I love it. I'm

just sort of fascinated by it, like a fucking monster. Doing the films was a

nice way of meeting a lot of people. I think we've both said and done enough
for

a few months, especially with this article. I'd like to get out of the way and

wait till they all...

Do you have a rough picture of the next few years?

Oh no, I couldn't think of the next few years; it's abysmal thinking of how many

years there are to go, millions of them. I just play it by the week. I don't

think much ahead of a week.

I have no more to ask.

Well, fancy that.

Do you have anything to add?

No, I can't think of anything positive and heartwarming to win your readers

over.

Do you have a picture of "when I'm 64"?

No, no. I hope we're a nice old couple living off the coast of Ireland or

something like that — looking at our scrapbook of madness.

This is the last known picture of john