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 least trouble writing the songs of all time.
Yoko: There’s no bullshit.
John: There’s no bullshit.
The arrangements are also simple and very sparse.
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 & roll, and I express myself best in rock.
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.
Yoko: He was going to have a do-it-yourself type of thing.
John: 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 the 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.
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 [Epstein, the Beatles’ manager] 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 twenty minutes, and we would go on and repeat the same twenty 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 bigheaded 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—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 okay, 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. [Laughs] 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.
You say you can make the guitar speak; what songs have you done that on?
Listen to “Why” on Yoko’s album [or] “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 & 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 verité 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 overshadowed. 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.
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 sidemen 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 fe
lt. 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 breakup 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.
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 [Evans, the Beatles’ personal assistant], 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 seventeen or eighteen. 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.
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 [Klein, the Beatles’ manager] I was leaving, I told Eric Clapton and Klaus [Voormann] 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 PR 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 [the Beatles’ music publisher] 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 you get Allen Klein into Apple?
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 Jameses, Derek Taylors and Peter Browns, all of them, they think they’re the Beatles, and Neil [Aspinal] and all of them. Well, I say, fuck ’em, you know, and after working with genius for ten, fifteen years they begin to think they’re it. They’re not.
The Rolling Stone interviews Page 5