The Walrus and the Elephants

by James Mitchell

  Lennon felt free in the big city, anonymous among the crowds. The relative newcomer played eager tour guide when John and Leni Sinclair visited and took them to a restaurant on Ninety-First Street called, simply, Home. To Lennon it was a life that would have seemed impossible in London, but he’d convinced himself—for whatever reasons—that he could enjoy life’s simple pleasures in America.

  “It’s a big deal when you go out in public and don’t have any life of your own, you’re just this fantasy of people who bought your record,” John Sinclair says. “Lennon wanted to be an artist. He didn’t want to be the head of the fucking Beatles anymore with the girls screaming; he did that.”

  It was a far cry from his final days in England, where the privacy of his home was shattered by fans who wanted more than just musical memories, where the press sharpened their pens to attack his wife, where every street held Beatles memories he wanted to put in the past.

  “In London they couldn’t do that, they had people camped outside their house,” Sinclair says. “Jesus Christ, what a punishment for making good records.”

  Footnotes:

  20John Lennon, interview by Alan Smith, New Musical Express, reprinted in Hit Parader, February 1972.

  21Ben Gerson, review of Imagine by John Lennon, Rolling Stone, October 28, 1971.

  22Editorial, “Art of Hokum?” Syracuse Post-Standard, September 27, 1971.

  23John Lennon and Yoko Ono, “Love Letter from Two Artists,” Syracuse Post-Standard, October 7, 1971.

  24John Lennon, interview with David Frost, David Frost Show, June 1969.

  25The U.S. vs. John Lennon.

  26Ed McCormack, “Elephant’s Memory Without the Plastic,” Rolling Stone, August 31, 1972.

  27Toby Mamis, “Take It to the Streets,” Creem, June 1971.

  28McCormack, Rolling Stone.

  29Mike Jahn, “Elephant’s Memory Mixes Radicalism and a Rough Sound,” New York Times, July 4, 1971.

  30“Talent in Action,” Billboard, July 17, 1971.

  31McCormack, Rolling Stone.

  32The David Frost Show, broadcast January 1972.

  33Jon Wiener, Come Together: John Lennon in His Time (New York: Random House, 1990), 198.

  34Stu Werbin, “John & Jerry & David & John & Leni & Yoko,” Rolling Stone, February 17, 1972.

  35Ibid.

  36Richard Nusser, “Beatle With an Elephant’s Memory?” Village Voice, January 20, 1972.

  Chapter 3

  “Doped with Religion and Sex and TV”

  “We’d like to talk about love, peace, communicating, women’s liberation, racism, war. That’s what’s going on.”

  —John Lennon on the Mike Douglas Show

  John Lennon wasn’t being paranoid; he was being watched, even more than in the usual music-fan fishbowl way that had been his life for years by now.

  He was a celebrity, of course, and even on the jaded New York streets he attracted attention. The Bank Street residence was fairly well known in the neighborhood, his rehearsals with Elephant’s Memory at Magnagraphics common knowledge. Much of it was familiar, whether in London or America: people lingered near his home or recording studio who wanted nothing more than the gentle smile and quick autograph he offered without pause.

  But something more was going on. The same men—who didn’t look like they belonged in the West Village—seemed rooted to nearby parking spaces; Lennon’s studio-trained ears picked up on more than just static on the telephone line. Photographer Bob Gruen, a neighbor familiar with the quiet street, had become a friend of John and Yoko’s and remained so throughout the decade. In a photo book published years later Gruen recalled when the local climate changed: “My neighbors told me they often spotted guys out on Bank Street wearing trench coats and the trademark fedoras. These men would ask passersby if they’d noticed anything suspicious about John and Yoko.”37

  “What became clear was that the surveillance on John and Yoko was intensifying,” says Jay Craven, whose activities were likewise monitored. “There was a sense of danger,” he continues. “There was a desire by the government to make them feel that their every move and every word was being monitored. That clearly made John nervous.”

  Craven was well acquainted with life under surveillence; he’d spent enough time in the company of what the Federal Bureau of Investigation called “known radicals,” including Rennie Davis, Jerry Rubin, and others in the Movement, documents that included references to his involvement.

  “The FBI knew everything that was going on,” Craven says.

  Lennon’s name began appearing in federal reports as plans for the concert tour were laid at the start of an election year, linking him with those considered a threat to national security. A New York bureau agent reported on January 4, 1972, that Rubin and activist Stewart Albert were “in constant contact with John Lennon in New York. Reasons unknown (possibly financial).” A January 6 follow-up hinted that the first concert might take place that March in New Hampshire, and would include “John Lennon, of the Beatles.”38

  Craven spent much of January setting the foundation for the planned tour, to be run from an office on Hudson Street in a building John and Yoko purchased. He made several snowy trips up and down the eastern seaboard and hauled files and typewriters from the Washington office that he and Rennie Davis had used during previous protests.

  This, too, was known in Washington; a January 10 memo reported the relocation and confirmed that the principal players were together in New York. A concert was being planned, but New York field agents didn’t call it that. Instead they used terms such as “peace rally” in their reports, and the political nature of the scheme caught the highest attentions possible in Washington: FBI director J. Edgar Hoover was sent a January 23 “priority report” on “protest activities and civil disturbances”; copies went to the very top of the national ladder, including the president, vice president, secretary of state, CIA, and armed services brass.

  Hoover’s summary first identified those involved, the so-called Allamuchy Tribe, named for the location of the New Jersey meeting that confirmed Lennon’s commitment to the tour. Among the leaders of the tribe were “Rennie Davis, one of the defendants in the Chicago Seven trials, and will include Stu Alpert and J. Craven,” along with John Lennon.

  The “tribe” name coined by the FBI to describe the group was an agent’s invention—it wasn’t a title that Davis and Craven said was used by those involved—but the reported purpose was clear: “To direct Movement activities during the election year, which activities will culminate with demonstrations at the Republican National Convention.”

  How those plans would be funded was also cause for concern. A follow-up memo from the New York FBI office for the first time referenced an alleged $75,000 contribution given by Lennon for the tribe’s formation, an amount cited in subsequent reports as being the seed money for the Election Year Strategy Information Center—for practical purposes the same group under another name.

  Intelligence reports were often precise in their accuracy; other times the investigation seemed amateurish when trying to gather basic facts about a high-profile subject. A February 2 memo reported that John and Yoko vacated their last known residence, the St. Regis hotel: “Lennon has since moved to unknown address.” By then, Lennon was several months into his stay at 105 Bank Street; the agent was unable to learn what pretty much everyone in the West Village knew. Perhaps to make sure of identities, the same memo requested background information, “including photo of subject.” For some reason, obtaining a photograph in New York City of John Lennon required assistance from HQ.

  He wasn’t difficult to find. Lennon joined an early February protest—raised-fist photos of John and Yoko were widely published—at the New York office of British Ove
rseas Airways. The demonstration called for the withdrawal of British troops from Northern Ireland in the wake of the Bloody Sunday riots. The agent noted that there was no evidence that Lennon supported the Irish Republican Army militant group and its any-means-necessary stance in their quest for independence from Britain.

  Still, Lennon’s associations with political activists—under any name—stirred considerable interest: the combination of the radical leaders’ history and Lennon’s wealth and influence could very well be a political force in the forthcoming election. A bureau summary described Lennon’s recent activities, along with the reports by undercover agents at the Ann Arbor concert. John Sinclair’s near-immediate release from prison was duly noted. In New York Lennon kept company with Rubin, Davis, Craven, and assorted “New Left leaders,” known advocates of a “program to ‘dump Nixon’” through a series of rock concerts; people who had been “instrumental in disrupting the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago.”

  Plans that involved the Chicago Seven—who’d been found guilty of riot-inciting—qualified as a matter of national security. As such, copies were sent to ranking defense officials including the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, longtime South Carolina lawmaker Strom Thurmond.

  “This appears to be an important matter,” Thurmond wrote in a February 4 cover letter sent with the report to William Timmons, legislative affairs assistant to President Richard Nixon; another copy went to Attorney General John Mitchell. These youth rallies against Nixon might work—certainly with the rookie eighteen-to-twenty-year-old voters—now that they had “John Lennon as a drawing card.” The Chicago Seven seemed able to make use of Lennon’s name for a show guaranteed to “pour tremendous amounts of money into the coffers of the New Left.”

  Thurmond advised that the information be strongly considered “at the highest level,” and that something should be done about it. “As I can see, many headaches might be avoided if appropriate action be taken in time.”

  For “appropriate action,” Thurmond suggested the obvious solution to a trouble-making foreigner, although it should be done carefully: “If Lennon’s visa is terminated it would be a strategy counter-measure. The source also noted the caution which must be taken with regard to the possible alienation of the so-called 18-year-old vote if Lennon is expelled from the country.”

  The goal for which Lennon’s deportation would be good “strategy” was not specified, but referencing eighteen-year-old voters—a real wild card in the upcoming election rather than merely a demographic—strongly suggests that the motivation was the election, not security.

  The FBI investigation of John Lennon stands apart, rare if not unique for several reasons: the plan to monitor and deport Lennon came from within the government; the allegation was of what he might do, not anything he’d already done; and the threat was not of potential attacks on America. It was all about the job security of the president. The hippies and Yippies believed that Lennon could influence the election, and so did the politicians holding elected office.

  In a report entitled “New ‘New Left’ Group Formed” in the February 11 FBI Current Intelligence Analysis, Lennon was described as more than just a concert participant casually helping the Election Year Strategy Information Center and its opposition to Nixon, but perhaps its driving force: “Lennon’s money and name have placed him in a position of considerable influence in EYSIC. No key planning sessions are held without Lennon.”

  An image of John Lennon dominated the cover, an illustration rather than a photograph. Apparently, the FBI still couldn’t seem to find a picture of one of the world’s most photographed men.

  • • •

  “I’ve been practicing with Elephant’s Memory. Have you heard of them? They’re a New York band, good musicians. I really like them. They understand everything that’s going on, too. I’m going to play with them on the Mike Douglas show.”

  —John Lennon in Rolling Stone 39

  Elephant’s Memory was well known in New York; people on the downtown scene were accustomed to seeing the band’s name in the Village Voice or rocking the crowds at Max’s Kansas City. Even the youngest man, Tex Gabriel, had already experienced a measure of celebrity in Detroit, onstage with Mitch Ryder before loyal, local fans. But playing with John Lennon was something else entirely.

  “It was happening, but it was so bizarre, like I was in some fog, a dream,” Gabriel says. “Being that way kept me from going, ‘Oh my God, this is John Lennon: I’m going to fuck up so bad!’ Your consciousness sometimes protects you from drama; it put me in a surreal mode where I just went along for the ride. Where could it go from there?”

  Lennon’s musical future was as much a matter of speculation as his political plans. The Elephants were in the unfortunate position of appearing as temporary substitutes in the eyes of fans who would have preferred to see a reunion.

  “A lot of people asked him when the Beatles were getting back together,” Gabriel says. “He’d just point to us and say, ‘These are the Beatles, now.’”

  Not quite. The “Plastic Ono Elephant’s Memory Band” was not destined to replace the Fab Four by any means; nobody—including a star-studded group featuring Eric Clapton that had played with Lennon in Toronto—would be capable of doing that for any Beatle. Clearly, though, the bandsmen could bask in the reflected spotlight. Bob Dylan’s supporting players, simply known as the Band, used their time behind a star of near-Beatle brightness as a launching pad for a sound and style decidedly their own. Could the same thing happen for the veteran Village players?

  “I was really rooting for them,” Magnagraphics owner Bob Prewitt recalls of the opportunity. “I thought, ‘Damn, these guys are really gonna make it.’ And . . . yeah . . . if they made it, I was gonna make it with them. Lennon held the promise of putting us all on the map, so to speak. This was perfect.”

  The band was cautious, however, of the pitfalls of backing a legend. Stan Bronstein and Rick Frank wanted to make sure the Elephants weren’t lost in the glare, and Lennon encouraged the group to maintain its identity.

  “He wasn’t asking them to mimic what he did,” Prewitt says. “He wanted the Elephants to maintain autonomy throughout the tracks. He wanted them to be them.”

  The proximity and hours spent together invited a camaraderie where Lennon was most comfortable—the recording studio. A particular kinship formed between Lennon, whose mother, Julia, was killed by a drunk driver shortly before her son made his first record, and Gabriel, still adjusting to his mother’s recent passing.

  “They had something of a bond,” Van Scyoc says. “Besides the obvious that they were both guitar players, they had a lot in common: Tex’s mother just died, and John had lost his mother. It was pretty intense. They were always just sitting there on the floor cross-legged, face-to-face for hours playing and talking.”

  Getting to know Lennon revealed more than a few surprises to the band. Certainly they held preconceived notions—as had a generation—which they soon learned were often false, usually blurred. To those who didn’t really know the man, Lennon was often a complicated puzzle to be solved, a walking contradiction. Was he funny or sarcastic, kind or harsh, generous or self-serving?

  Was Lennon arrogant? That was one perception, a smart-ass image dating back to the Beatles’ introduction to America on Ed Sullivan’s stage, Lennon grinning like he knew something everyone else didn’t. Instead the musicians met a man not quite as cocky as they assumed. Lennon was sincerely apologetic, even humble, during his early appearances with improvised bands. Heading into another album, TV appearances, and possible tour, Lennon knew the music would be judged according to an almost impossibly high standard.

  “Sometimes I thought he was more nervous than we were,” Gabriel says. “It was the first time he’d been with a group other than the Beatles, his buddies, and now he was coming together with this street band.”

  Then there
was Lennon’s relationship with Yoko Ono. Some, including the Beatles, had questioned his habit of letting her share stage time or be a studio presence. Critics said that when Yoko was around Lennon might have lost his musical edge. Not quite: the Elephants saw a man serious about his craft and not always tolerant of distractions, no matter the source.

  Early rehearsals featured Lennon showing chords and arrangements to the group. Lennon sat at the piano; Yoko shared the bench as he ran through “Imagine.” He played the introduction and began singing. Yoko interrupted with a word of advice.

  Lennon stopped playing and politely asked Yoko to be quiet. He started playing again, and within seconds was interrupted by his wife.

  “Please,” Lennon said. “Just let me show the guys the song, okay?”

  He started again, and the inevitable happened. On the third interruption, Lennon’s fingers slowed neither a beat nor a measure in their playing.

  “Yoko, shut the fuck up,” Lennon said, and finished the song.

  The Elephants learned that Lennon’s life was far more complicated than what they read in magazines or saw on television. In the aftermath of the Beatles there were endless assumptions made about Lennon’s relationship with Paul McCartney, tales that had them either ready to reunite or at each other’s throats, depending upon the day and mood.

  “You heard a different rumor every other week that they were getting back together,” Gary Van Scyoc says. “It wasn’t going to happen then. But I didn’t really sense any animosity between John and Paul. At the Record Plant, Paul would call on the phone and the session would stop and they’d talk for an hour and a half. Then you’d see an article the next day about how they hated each other.”