While doing a bit of research for something other than this, I chanced upon the John Lennon biography on the Rolling Stone website. Prior to reading it, I anticipated that the unsigned item would be nothing less than the most fawning hagiography imaginable. After all, of the Beatles, Lennon was evidently the most in keeping with RS‘s ostensible ethos of edginess in all things.

But much to my surprise, I find that the Lennon biography is downright dismissive of much of Lennon’s work and archly critical (perhaps the old damning with faint praise approach) of his lifestyle.

In the opening paragraph, the writer notes that Lennon and McCartney split the songwriting for the Beatles, and that while McCartney’s songs were “more pop-oriented,” Lennon “contributed more experimental and mystical music during the band’s later years.” There is no mention of the type of music contributed by either during the band’s earlier years; the implication, however, is that the songs were neither experimental nor mystical. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Presumably there is an explanation for this musical wackiness: “Lennon also led the group into drug use during the mid-’60s and encouraged them to follow his guru, the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.” While the mid-’60s isn’t exactly their later years, one can see the seeds of discord.

As the bio moves on, we learn that John had a “rocky” marriage with Cynthia Powell, mother of Julian, “especially after Lennon began openly dating an older Japanese-American artist named Yoko Ono.” [Enter villain, stage right] An “older Japanese-American artist”? What’s interesting here is that while the first sentence of the piece indicates John’s date of birth (10/9/40), there isn’t any other discussion of age. So I can only assume that the writer figured that s/he couldn’t get away with the adjectives that were really being thought of when the dreaded Ono appears in this story.

In ’68, not only were John and Cynthia divorced, but the Beatles produced The White Album. Then the other shoe (yes, I know that this would be the third one) drops: “John and Yoko released the experimental ‘found sound’ collection Unfinished Music, No. 1—Two Virgins.” This is the recording with the naked John and “older Japanese-American artist” on the cover. The Beatles put out a blank cover; Unfinished Music, No. 1, was banned from many stores and caused a hue and cry from the media: “reporters speculated that Ono was ‘controlling’ Lennon and causing trouble for the beloved Beatles.” The “beloved Beatles”? Beloved by whom? The structure of the phrase is unclear whether it is the reporters who love them or, what is more likely, the anonymous biographer.

1969 sees “Lennon and a very pregnant Ono”—note, again, the adjective—”embarked on a ‘honeymoon’ in Europe, stopping along the way to get married in Gibraltar on March 20th.” The quotation marks around “honeymoon” can be construed as some raised eyebrows: How dare they! The two “staged a notorious ‘Bed-In’ at the Amsterdam Hilton.” Notorious in what way? could be wondered but never answered. The duo went on to “constantly” decry “political injustices from their celebrity bully pulpit.” The bully pulpit, of course, is something that is ordinarily associated with historic figures like, say, Theodore Roosevelt, not a falling rock star and his controlling interest.

Next, the biographer claims that in order to deal with the “anguish” of a miscarriage that Ono experienced in May, 1969, the two “hastily recorded two more avante- [sic] garde albums, Life with the Lions—Unfinished Music No. 2 (which features such ‘songs’ as flipping through various radio stations and several minutes of silence) and The Wedding Album (whose entire B-side consists of John and Yoko screaming each other’s name).” At this point the venom of the biographer is almost palpable, especially since 1969 was the year of Abbey Road, yet John had to go form that damned Plastic Ono Band the same year.

“As Lennon spent more time collaborating with Ono, he began to distance himself from the other Beatles”—which is obviously a heinous thing. He wanted to quit the band in late ’69, but “contract negotiations were underway with EMI,” so he kept his mouth shut. Presumably, John was wise enough to know that he wasn’t going to be earning quite the same royalties from things like Unfinished Music as he would from Beatles’ records. In the spring of ’70, Paul McCartney evidently didn’t have such compunction because not only did he release his first solo album, but he publicly announced the End of the Beatles. [I’ll pause here for genuflection and a moment of silence.]

The Beatles are a sterling example of the concept that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

It came as something of a surprise to me—a pleasant surprise, I must say—that there was no blow-by-blow breakdown of the “tribute” to John Lennon that appeared on cable earlier this week. Although I still remember where I was when I heard that Lennon had been shot (for some reason, remembrances of such things are supposed to signify an import beyond the norm, which I’m not so sure about, as it could simply be a function of difference, not significance), it has always seemed to me that his post-Beatles career with such things as “Instant Karma,” wasn’t much more than a variant of a Ray Stevens novelty act.

The whole veneration of Lennon goes back to something that happened during my generation, when The Beatles were new and we were children. Everyone had their “favorite” Beatle. Although they were considered as individuals (e.g., “Paul is the cute one”; “George is the shy one”), the band members were inextricably tied to the band as a whole; there was no notion that there could be solos. Of course, the main dichotomy was between John and Paul for the simple reason that they were the two up front: No one—at least no one at age 10—was pouring over the small type on the label on the vinyl to see who was responsible for what. Even on the Saturday morning cartoon of the band there were obvious differences between the two. John was the guy who made the most cracks while Paul evinced a certain niceness. And so it has remained ever since.

But let’s face it: for every “Mind Games” or “Maybe I’m Amazed,” there has been a whole lot of post-Beatles dreck. Not that I think that those guys should have stopped working after the band broke up, but it does seem to me that there should have been a bit of critical distance applied to their subsequent music. Less fawning. More listening.

For some reason, musicians who have gained success, recognition and popularity through their membership in a band almost never (I really can’t think of a good counter example, but I’m keeping my options open) do as well solo. Think, for example, of all of the albums released by Mick Jagger, Robert Plant, Pete Townshend and on and on and on. How many of these are better than the Stones, Zeppelin, Who, or Whomever?

Note how the Patron Musician of this site, Neil Young, has been a part of many bands but has always been apart from them. In my argument, Buffalo Springfield been successful, we would probably not be giving Neil quite as many props today—if any at all.