A Beatle, Yes. But Lennon Not One to Esteem or Respect
When DJs began playing John Lennon’s “(Just Like) Starting Over” in the fall of 1980, the world took notice. This was Lennon’s first new music in over five years and interest and expectations were high. As a new Beatles fan, having discovered the band only three years prior, I was interested too. But after buying Double Fantasy in November and hearing nothing but run-of-the-mill, lightweight ditties, I quickly lost interest. Even though “Starting Over” sounded positive, uplifting, and tuneful in ways that were happily unLennon-like, it did not impress me; the song did not get stuck in my head or on my lips. I was willing, though, to listen to other songs from Lennon’s new album as they made it to radio, open to embracing tracks I may have overlooked the first time around. With Lennon’s murder, however, this passive way of sifting through his new music would never come to pass. And yet with the passage of time all of this would cease to matter, for I moved beyond and beneath the music to uncover a John Lennon I did not admire and could no longer esteem or respect.
On the evening of December 8, 1980, a bitterly cold night in the middle of a typically bleak and snowy Colorado winter, I was outside, in front of the house, clearing snow from around my Cuda and ice from its windows while letting the engine run and get hot so it would start the following morning — a work day at Labelle’s. In the midst of my shoveling and scraping, my mom, who had been watching TV, stepped out onto the porch to tell me that John Lennon had been shot and killed in New York City. I was dumbstruck, devastated and distraught in an instant. I may have even cried.
In the weeks that followed, “Starting Over” — which had stalled at #6 in the US and had dropped to #21 in the UK after peaking at #8 (a respectable hit but not a true chart-topper) — shot to #1 on both sides of the Atlantic. Soon after and in rapid succession, the nondescript “Woman” and “Watching the Wheels” moved into the Top Five as well. Even lesser tracks such as “Beautiful Boy,” “Cleanup Time,” and “I’m Losing You” received massive amounts of airplay, making plain that which no one would admit: Lennon’s new music was lean and lackluster, a major disappointment. If this was the best music the great John Lennon could make after an extended sabbatical, then maybe he should have made no music at all, I remember thinking. Double Fantasy proved itself little more than pop pap; 1984’s Milk and Honey (largely unfinished demos from 1979–80) would sadly be more of the same.
Double Fantasy eventually reached #1 and, along with “Starting Over,” became forever associated with the month of December and the Christmas season. [1] This counterfeit popularity of Lennon’s new music, prompted by his untimely death, set in motion unending praise for his collective work, a praise I could never understand. Nonetheless, as a young and manic Beatles fan still discovering the depth of the band’s music, I later, in the summer of 1981, purchased eight Beatles albums and five John Lennon solo records. I thrilled to the Beatle records (especially Rubber Soul and Revolver and the former’s “The Word”) while shunning the Lennon LPs (which I never listened to again). The disparity between Lennon’s inventive, happy, melody-driven work with the Beatles and the uninteresting, plodding, cheerless songs he wrote on his own was striking, especially amid the continuing accolades showered upon his person and his body of work — accolades and adulation that I began to believe were undeserved and unwarranted.
As the years passed, reading one Beatles book after another, I learned much and formed several firm conclusions about John Lennon. [2] First, he was a very confused, troubled, and unhappy man. Given up by his mother then “passed like a parcel around the family, ending up with his controlling Aunt Mimi,” Lennon’s feelings of abandonment and rejection surfaced as self-loathing and anger, in meanness, and in the compulsion to hurt others (Norman 202).
Second, Lennon was not a good husband, father, or friend. After marrying girlfriend Cynthia Powell, who was pregnant, Lennon soon felt trapped by family obligations; he envied his bandmates, all of whom were single, believing he was missing out on the wild, unrestrained life of a single, unattached rock star. The inattention and disregard Lennon paid Cynthia took the form of numerous infidelities; allowing her to be left behind in London when the Beatles boarded the train to Bangor, Wales, to visit the Maharishi; orchestrating her discovery of his affair with Yoko Ono; and his abusive drug use, from Preludin, alcohol, and marijuana to LSD and heroin. Lennon was inattentive to and dismissive of son Julian as well, often giving the children of friends and strangers more attention than he bestowed upon his own child.
As a friend, Lennon was incapable of love or loyalty, his unhappiness fueling a meanness that was always at the ready. When not throwing bandmates under the bus — “Ringo isn’t even the best drummer in the Beatles” — or betraying confidences — revealing manager Brian Epstein’s homosexuality whenever he pretended to be straight — Lennon worked to make others uncomfortable and provoke confrontation, such as asking Paul McCartney’s then-girlfriend Jane Asher questions about masturbation in mixed company (Stark 118; Spitz 547; Norman 189). The most egregious account of Lennon’s indifference to friendship, however, is the allegation that he, in a fit of rage, kicked art-school pal and one-time Beatle Stuart Sutcliff in the head, resulting in the debilitating headaches and brain trauma that eventually killed the talented graphic artist (Norman 153). If truly responsible for Sutcliff’s death, Lennon’s guilt must have been unbearable, haunting him forever and likely giving rise to an amplified self-hate and a more intense meanness.
And third, Lennon was and is extremely overrated as an intellect, musician, and songwriter. After publication of In His Own Write and A Spaniard in the Works in 1964 and 1965, respectively, Lennon was applauded by London’s pandering, sycophantic cultural elite as a “joint reincarnation of Edward Lear and James Joyce” when, in truth, Lennon’s books were little more than a collection of doodles and “nonsense” writings (Norman 224; Spitz 572). This unmerited label of “deep thinker” shaped Lennon’s reputation and followed him throughout his career, showing up, for example, in overt praise for 1971’s “Imagine,” which was nothing more than collectivist/Marxist patter from the hypocritical lips of someone who possessed infinite wealth and indulged in everything his heart desired while expecting others to do without. [3]
Musically, Lennon is often cited as the Beatles’ rock ‘n roller and, as a consequence, the band’s heart, soul, and leader. But nothing could be further from the truth. Outside of a few rocking numbers — “I Feel Fine,” “Day Tripper,” and “A Hard Day’s Night” — the most raucous Beatle tunes flowed from the pen of Paul McCartney. From “I Saw Her Standing There,” “Can’t Buy Me Love,” and “She’s a Woman” to “Back in the USSR,” “Birthday,” and “Get Back,” McCartney was, without question, the Beatles’ true rocker and spiritual leader. Paul was also a prolific songsmith, with a wondrous gift for inventing melody. While Lennon’s tunes were often finished by McCartney — “In My Life” is one instance — an uninvolved John took writing credit for songs Paul wrote solely on his own: “Yesterday,” “Hey Jude,” and “Let It Be” are just three examples (Norman 221). This unevenness is reflected in the contrast between Lennon and McCartney’s solo projects: while John’s work was most always bland, burdened, and subdued, Paul’s was and is colorful, bouncy, and bright. That Lennon labored in the long shadow of McCartney is an inconvenient truth critics to this very day refuse to acknowledge.
Forty-four years after falling for the Beatles, I still love the band’s story and music but checked my regard for Lennon early on. (Why I, for a time, thought him so high and mighty and why I felt so badly when he died is unclear and a bit embarrassing now.) An average thinker and musician at best but, more significantly, a poor husband, father, and friend, Lennon hurt a great many people and spread much unhappiness during his short lifetime. Propped up by the fictions and falsehoods of a social and cultural elite (that inexplicably reveres subversives, outliers, and the troubled), Lennon’s reputation as one of rock’s greats is itself a fable, his legacy resting more upon his fortuitous relationship with one Paul McCartney than on anything else — his own (limited) powers included.
Above piece excerpted from the forthcoming It’s Only Music: A Musical and Historical Memoir.
[1] Nicholas Schaffner, in his 1978 biography The Beatles Forever, touches upon the Fab Four’s connection to the Holidays: “The Beatles [aka The White Album] arrived in late November, continuing a nearly unbroken tradition of Beatles Christmas releases. (Which is why so many old Beatle albums nowadays evoke an intangible sense of Christmas for fans who immersed themselves in them when they first appeared. Nothing captures and preserves the mood of [a] moment like a song.)” (111)
[2] The Beatles (Hunter Davies), Shout! (Philip Norman), The Beatles: An Illustrated Record (Roy Carr and Tony Tyler), The Longest Cocktail Party (Richard DiLello), I Me Mine (George Harrison), The Beatles Forever (Nicholas Schaffner), Yesterday (Chet Flippo), The Love You Make (Peter Brown and Steven Gaines), Meet the Beatles (Steven Stark), The Beatles: The Biography (Bob Spitz), and Paul McCartney: The Life (Philip Norman) are just a few of the many Beatle books I’ve read.
[3] In a January 10, 2025, parody piece, The Babylon Bee highlighted the profound foolishness of “Imagine”: “Mourners who gathered at the National Cathedral on Thursday to say goodbye to former president Jimmy Carter came away comforted after Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood sang a song about how there is no heaven, religion is a lie, and everything is ultimately meaningless. ‘Imagine’ by John Lennon [was described as] most suitable for use at a funeral because the comforting lyrics remind people of what really matters: absolutely nothing.”
