The Making Of John Lennon (Francis Kenny)

Lennon’s legacy is a warm, fuzzy pacifism, a hedonistic refusal to commit yourself to anything. He’s the icon of escapism. There are millions of decrepit baby boomers who subscribe to his ethos (most of them Cosmopolitan readers), but he’s definitely not an icon for 2017. The ’causes’ he once espoused, planted in his head by a whispering Japanese con artistè: peace (in our time?), lurve (yucky orgies) & ball-busting feminism have mostly been discredited since Mark David Chapman bust a nut that night in front of the Dakota. I say it’s not “too soon” to take a pop at this champ: John lies on the slag heap of 20th century history.

As Hugh Laurie once sang: “Too long Johnny, you’ve been gone too long.” Even a lot of his (Lennon’s, not Hugh Laurie’s) music is sounding worn and threadbare after all this time. Not his lyrics or vocals, but a lack of vitality in the sound production of many of his post-Beatles work. Moving on….its a pity Britain didn’t join the Vietnam war – Harold Wilson’s government could have drafted Mr Lennon then sent him down the Ho Chi Min trail. That would have cured any pretensions about ‘peace.’ As for his pacifism – t’was of the armchair variety. He didn’t mind violently throttling the psychological well being out of his first wife and son. Why? Because he was bored. Bored with Paul McCartney. Bored with Britain. Bored with success. Bored with fans. Bored with interviewers. He was even bored with LSD. A whole nine yard boredom. It’s a wonder he didn’t top himself while gargling “All You Need Is Love.”

Anyway, the author claims John was “made” by his cruel Aunt Mimi. A real ball buster! She skewered his self esteem by giving him a complex about what class he fit into. She insisted he was middle class, but John naturally gravitated to the working class. He was too poncy to be a real Liverpudlian, so he had to act the part. A poseur. And that’s about it, really. Every white female who comes into contact with him triggers aunt Mimi. He needs someone who doesn’t remind him of his Dickensian upbringing. In other sections Lennon comes across as hopelessly indecisive. He wants to leave the Beatles, but is too scared to confront the others. He even felt soiled by his gay manager’s sordid sex life. As homosexuality was still illegal in the UK,  John felt his manager’s secret life tarnished him personally. Being a casual anti-Semite, Lennon was also rubbed up the wrong way by his manager being a Jew. Oy vey!

(Happiness isn’t a warm gun…happiness is New York 1972)

He uses Yoko as a passive aggressive intrusion so Paul, George & Ringo despair of ever having any fun in the studio. You know what kind of fun. The dirty-pictures-on-the-wall type. They can’t even pee straight because she is there. She demands a safe space from their white, privileged, micro-aggressions. She steamrolls their crude, plebian, male camaraderie. She will take those balls and bust them! No sexist or racist language in front of Queen Yoko. Could McCartney, Harrison or the other one be Oriental-phobic? Quick, call the Manchester Guardian! At least three quarters of the Beatles are honky supremacists! Meanwhile, John is out to lunch but is worried when it appears Ringo is the first Beatle to leave. Then George fucks off…twice. Finally, in a pincer movement, he has the two errant schoolboys corralled. Now he, John Lennon, can give the Beatles what he’d always desired – his middle finger.

He’s been tossing up his options since dicking around on “Revolver” when he realized Paul’s new songs were better than his. But wait! Hold the phones! Paul mouths off to the media first that he has left the Beatles. So he takes the credit for the collapse. At least he did while John was alive. Now we know John quietly broke up the band months before Paul squealed, but the public were not aware of that back then. Before the internet or all those post-December 1980 biographies rattled off the printing presses. He went to his death still seething that Paul had shrieked “I’ve left!” to the media first. How mature…anyway, I should misprint this author as Kenny Francis. Give him a bit more of a manly name. He doesn’t have a manly style. On the contrary, like many baby boomers, FK fancies himself as an armchair nanny trying to find the real reason for delinquent Johnny’s tears. As if we care this late in the game. Its irrelevant.

He wants us to feel sorry for his ‘abused’ subject. John needed therapy blah blah. If only this hadn’t happened and this did blah blah. (If ifs and buts were chocolate and nuts we’d all have a Merry Xmas) But events happen exactly the way they do. That’s life. That’s death. The trouble is his subject: there are more books about Lennon than any other rock star in rock n roll  history. There has to be an excuse for one more after the Beatle–interested public have been pummeled by Hunter Davies, Philip Norman and all the others. Mr Kenny wants us to part with our money this time around because….well, because he is a Liverpudlian! What a pathetic reason to write a biography. Read this because I came from the same area as my subject. Not a reason, Francis. You want to profit off these 300 pages. My copy was off a library shelf. Is there room for one more Lennon biography the author cries? Answer: No.

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Comments

  1. This review is comedy gold! I died laughing when you called them all honkies, priceless. XD

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Well, someone had to do it! 🙂

    Like

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