Remembering John

All day long people have been marking the death of John Lennon 30 years ago today. They played his songs on the radio, ran stories in the newspapers and on the nightly news; they posted nostalgia on Facebook.

All this nostalgia made me pine for a feeling I cannot duplicate no matter how hard I squeeze the emotion box. All day, what I wanted was to recapture a modicum of the excitement l felt about the Beatles when I was 15.

It was 1963, Dean Hagopian of CFOX (or was it Dave Boxer at CFCF) played Twist and Shout. The music was crazy-making. That tune was played about every 15 minutes and was soon alternating with Please Please Me and Love, Love Me Do. Just like that, I was hooked. There was something about the beat, the voices, the abandon - I couldn’t wait to hear the songs played over and over again. I stayed glued to the radio but when my friends all started to buzz about them I kept my excitement to myself. The Beatles were my guilty secret.

At 15, I was no dedicated follower of fashion. Elvis had always embarrassed me a little with that curl in his lip and what looked like too much mascara (nobody has lashes that black). I favoured neither Fabian (too pretty) nor Tab Hunter (even prettier), not crooning Frankie Avalon nor miniscule Paul Anka. In my book, none of the teen heartthrobs of the day could hold a candle to Cary Grant in Indiscreet or Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. (I know, I was clearly living in the wrong decade.)

Then the Beatles arrived and changed all that. My new heartthrobs were no more than a few years older than me, in short, idols most eligible for serious fantasy.

My Beatle of choice was John. Maybe it was those sloping eyes or the pouty mouth with its sneaky smile. More likely, it was his brash irreverence, his clever quips that made no sense whatsoever (paving the way for my future love affair with Monty Python). I bought his book, In His Own Write, (it disappeared sometime in the 70s and is now on eBay selling for $6.98). Anyway, I practically memorized it.

About the Awful
I was bored on the 9th of Octover 1940 when, I believe, the Nasties were still booming us led by Madalf Heatlump (Who had only one). Anyway, they didn't get me. I attended to varicous schools in Liddypol. And still didn't pass-much to my Aunties supplies. As a member of the most publified Beatles me and (P, G, and R's) records might seem funnier to some of you than this book, but as far as I'm conceived this correction of short writty is the most wonderfoul larf I've ever ready.

God help and breed you all.

How could you not love such wit? I was besotted. And John was a poet, just like I was going to be one day (except he had a dark side).

Good Dog Nigel
Arf, Arf, he goes, a merry sight
Our little hairy friend
Arf, Arf, upon the lampost bright
Arfing round the bend.
Nice dog! Goo boy,
Waggie tail and beg,
Clever Nigel, jump for joy
Because we are putting you to sleep at three of the clock, Nigel.

The Beatles came to Montreal on September 8, 1964 but after cringing at the sight of screaming girls in the audience of The Ed Sullivan Show, I was too terrified to buy a ticket, imagining myself caught up in the hysteria. They only played for half an hour so I’m not sure I missed much. Oddly enough, Montreal was the only city on that first and very long North American tour that did not sell out.

As compensation, I bought their second album With the Beatles even though I didn’t own a stereo. But that cover! I pored over those faces photographed in half shadow and mooned over John obsessively. That album was release on the day President Kennedy was shot.

The departure of Kennedy and the arrival of the Beatles are intertwined in my memory. It seems we lost Camelot but were rescued by four lads who led us into a new age - and still have a power to transport us after all these years.