Kevin's Blog

Lack in the USSR

2008-06-05T18:19:00.000-07:00

In 2001, the U.S. was attacked by a faction headquartered in Afghanistan. Many were aghast to learn that Afghans had recently received armaments and training from the U.S. How could we be so short-sighted as to militarily assist such scalawags?

The 1980s James Bond movie The Living Daylights puts matters into perspective. Bond, opposing the USSR, befriends the Afghan resistance. His ally is a dead-ringer for the then-little-known Osama bin Laden. Bond helped these Afghans defeat the Russian invaders, and audiences cheered.

The irony turns eerie when 007’s ally makes an unexpected appearance at the film’s conclusion. Ol’ Sorta-bin-Laden arrives late for a concert, and an inquiry is made as to what kept him. His response? He was detained at the airport.

Was it worth helping Afghanistan in the 1980s? Probably. Russia was our biggest threat at the time.

Or were they? Reality beckons. Russia embodied a policy of fear – “Our way is superior to your way; be scared” – and this philosophy can frequently be peeled away to reveal three-deep coats of bluster.

This begins in the 1800s. As America became an industrial powerhouse, Russia embraced the writings of Karl Marx. Marx hypothesized that all human conflict can be traced to the growing tensions between, shall we say, the haves and the have-nots. Some people own the tools necessary to create industrial centers – factories, textile equipment; most do not. Eventually, Marx predicted, tensions would build, then erupt, between these two factions. The have-nots would inevitably stage a worldwide revolt, and both sides would have to share everything equally. This principle was called communism, a name Marx deemed catchier than its historical moniker, socialism.

Russia decided to get in on the ground floor. If, they reasoned, the entire world would one day become communist, they would comprise its epicenter. When the rest of the world followed suit – fell like dominoes into Marx’s predicted pattern – Russia would stand as the capital of the world. Their attitude: We have something better than you have. Be nervous.

Marx’s predictions, however, failed to manifest. Yet the USSR doggedly refused to acknowledge the inherent flaws of their strategy, propping up the notion that the world was evolving toward socialism by enlisting allies at the point of a gun.

It must be remembered, in this context, it was worthwhile to help an organization that opposed the USSR. Russia’s failure to annex Afghanistan symbolized the fall of the Soviet Union. Their communist dreams of worldwide expansion ran dry, and they abandoned them a short time later. This was great news for the U.S. – the Cold War was won without firing a shot. The Soviet Union collapsed, in large part because our side helped Afghanistan.

A pattern emerges. In the 1980s, another thought-provoking film called WarGames made us American kids shiver. In it, an accidental standoff with Russia played up our belief that their technological capability was equivalent to our own, and we should be fearful. After the Iron Curtain fell, however, we got the skinny on those dreaded military installations. What high-tech security measures protected many of these Soviet outposts? Hardware-store padlocks.

Now that times have changed for Russians, their fallacies are becoming obvious. Every later-day cinematic offering about Mother Russia seems to depict the Soviet war machine as trumped-up hooey.

The Russia House states that the USSR’s military technology was ludicrously trumped-up in order to promulgate an arms race.

A 2002 submarine epic, K-19: The Widowmaker, does nothing to dispel this notion. In it, 1950s Russia unveils their latest high-tech boat. Given the Kremlin’s shoot-the-messenger mentality, no one is willing to admit that the sub is unfit for operation; components are mismatched and jury-rigged; and this seaborne jalopy would likely be the death of more Russians than Americans. As always, though, Russia was determined at all costs to convince the world they had a better way, and we'd best be scared.

Science fiction writers seek the ring of truth in their work; successful efforts are well-researched and rooted in reality. Can it be a coincidence, then, that the blockbuster Armageddon featured a Russian cosmonaut who reviles mismatched electronic junk, and takes remedial action by howling at high-tech panels and battering them with a blunt, metallic object? Are we not to get the impression, from those in a position to know, that Russian technological know-how is largely a matter of spit and glue?

Lately, Russia seems to be flaunting some new military triumphs before a bemused world. They boast of a new missile whose ‘fishtail’ motion can foil any American defense system. They also tout a new generation of bomb that duplicates an atomic warhead in every sense, down to the mushroom cloud, but without pesky fall-out. Full-dress military parades and high-profile political appointments advertise the notion that they are not to be trifled with.

Their message, in short? We are up to something scary – fear us.

Sorry, Russia, I have heard it all before and I’m not buying what you are selling.

Very truly yours,
Kevin O’Brien

The Revver

2008-03-09T11:00:00.000-07:00

I once had a car that was more like a home
I lived in it, loved in it; polished its chrome
If some of my homes had been more like my car
I probably wouldn’t have…

…traveled this far.
-Paul Simon

E Street is an ironic boulevard. Bruce made Born to Run, which ties for first on my personal chart of all-time, most unique, extraordinary, come-from-behind artistic musical triumphs. He followed up with Darkness on the Edge of Town, which shows some real-world grit weighing down the fanciful artistic notions of ‘75. Then came The River, wherein our characters revisit the Shangri-la of youthful possibility only when ensconced behind the wheel.

There’s lots of drivin’ on The River, a double album sparing no artistic expense in pursuit of this theme. Drivin’ home, she grabs something to eat; every Monday I gotta drive her to the unemployment agency; I went out for a ride and I never went back; we’d drive in my brother’s car, down to the reservoir; she’s a hot-steppin’ hemi with a four-on-the-floor; I’d drive all night just to taste your tender charms; I wanted to hold the bumper and let her drag me down the street; I got a Batmobile so I can meetcha in a fast shake; me and Dirty Annie parkin’ at the drive-in…

Too, the album concludes with a song about drivin’. Wreck on the Highway is the tale of a young man who encounters another youth, bloodied and dying alongside his demolished ride. This being a one-car accident, we must conclude that the victim was a guy like Bruce, out drivin’ too fast, chasin’ somethin’ in the night, evading some impending internal darkness, impossible to outrun. The narrator calls an ambulance for the poor chap, but it is too late. Our Samaritan is haunted by this encounter, imagining the devastation befalling his loved ones had his number come up that day.

This somber realization, however, did not presage the end of Springsteen’s reckless yen for the rugged highway. Nebraska begins and ends with tales of drivers and death; Born in the USA concludes with a tale of a dying town – Freehold, New Jersey – as seen from behind the wheel; Tunnel of Love ends with another discontented motorist. And as Bruce became one of the wealthiest and most successful entertainers in America, a peculiar irony took shape, a tug-of-war between houses and highways, movement and permanence.

The characters in Springsteen’s songs are men in transit. Escape from the mundane is about motion. They drive, the walk, they strut; in the interim, they tune up their rides, to more briskly move between points A and B. But where are they going, and why?

More importantly, where did Bruce go? As the 1980s wore on, Springsteen found himself prowling Highway 9, and the New Jersey Turnpike, late at night, continually beating a path to the doors of the houses in which he grew up. This seems ironic, in light of the fact that he seemed to learn how to drive in order to be anywhere, other than these houses.

Home life was not a source of contentment for the young Bruce, as he has stated many times from the stage. He wanted out, and badly; guitars and cars illuminating imaginary pathways radiating in every direction from Freehold. It seems incomprehensible that every real-life highway should lead to, not from, that locale.

The cars got shinier, but the destination did not change. Circa 1990, Bruce began to talk of meeting with therapists, to discuss the relentless, beacon-like pull exerted by his ex-residences. Doc, he’d say, I keep visiting the old houses where I used to live; what is going on? The therapist opined perhaps ‘something went wrong’ in those houses, and Springsteen was returning to see if he could ‘fix it’.

It is hard to believe the unspectacular town of Freehold ensnared a man who had acquired the keys to the world in the very act of escaping. Or, perhaps it all makes a measure of sense, as engineered by a God with an ironic sense of humor.

As Springsteen accumulated real estate across America, perhaps he began to learn the various legal characterizations associated with its acquisition. Some real estate ownerships, or estates, are of a permanent nature; others have legal strings attached. A leasehold estate, for example, is a conditional state of ownership lasting for a restricted period.

There is, however, a type of ownership of a permanent nature. It is a designation handed down from old English law, involving kings, and permanent, rightful ownership of parcels of land, granted permanently, no strings attached.

The law recognizes this type of ownership as a freehold estate.

Perhaps it is only fitting that an ‘estate in Freehold’ had a permanent, lifelong ownership interest in the artistic turf of its favorite son. One good ‘freehold estate’ deserves another.

In fact, freehold estates were created, legally and metaphorically, in every real estate deal Springsteen closed.

As Bruce accumulated assets, paying cash for mansions coast to coast, obtaining 100 percent, unconditional ownership in perpetuity…

Deep, deep down, in every sense, every single house Springsteen acquired…

… was his own, personal freehold.

Perhaps Bruce eventually came to realize it is as impossible to run from ‘freeholds’ as it is to outrun the darkness inside.

I hope you are finally free if the hold, Brucie.

And if the hot-steppin’ hemi ultimately did not travel terribly far, it has been an extraordinarily enjoyable ride.

Thanks for sharing the view with us, Bruce -

- Kevin

Ebony and Irony

2008-02-16T13:44:00.000-08:00

Q: Why did the tricycle make it up the hill, but the bicycle did not?

A: The bicycle was two-tired.

*

McCartney is in the news, undertaking the singularly painful ordeal of dissolving his marriage. A marriage, I believe, entered in good faith, for the right reasons, with the full expectation of lasting a lifetime.

A marriage that, ironically, did what it set out to do: Demonstrate, before God, the very definition of true love, of durability, of staying together through thick and thin. Regrettably, though, this marriage did not make this point about ‘Paul and Heather’. No, this marriage proved, before God, that the ultimate love story of the rock era was Paul and Linda.

Irony is a hobby of mine. Black humor, karma, comeuppance; I am in an industry where bad news is good news. A sly chuckle betrays my darkly ironic core, as I ponder the fact that someone got the better of Paul in a business deal.

For the past several decades, McCartney seemed invincible. A record collector brandished the very first Beatles amateur acetate recording, a creditable version of “That’ll Be the Day,” and was hawking it to the highest bidder. No way, Jose, said Paul; you cannot sell a recorded disc unless you have permission of the copyright holder. And the holder of the rights to Buddy Holly’s evergreen chestnut was, you guessed it, MPL, headed by none other than James Paul McCartney. Over a barrel, the collector ceded the coveted collectable back into Beatle hands.

Recall, too, that it is Paul who had the foresight to register the Beatles’ Apple trademark on a worldwide basis. A few years later, a certain computer company came along, unwarily undertaking a worldwide marketing bonanza brandishing that very moniker – and their oversight netted the Beatles a very pretty penny.

Take my word for it, too – it is a much longer story – but Paul is single-handedly responsible for saving the Beatles financial empire from wolves that would have otherwise picked it clean. True, he missed out on the opportunity to acquire the Beatles’ publishing catalog, but he did it for honorable reasons – friendship and loyalty, to Michael Jackson and John Lennon, respectively, compromised his killer instincts on that infamous occasion.

In my last installment, I made mention of certain criticisms directed at Paul. Though I did not attribute these to a single source, many of these allegations have, in fact, been leveled by someone who, ironically, must be one of McCartney’s biggest fans.

Geoffrey Giuliano has penned probably a dozen books about the Beats, many of which I have thoroughly enjoyed. It has been made clear, however, in his writings and his interviews, that while he admires Paul’s body of work, he does not enjoy a high personal regard for Liverpool’s Favorite Son.

And herein lies the rub: I may be one of Giuliano’s top fans, but I will no sooner sit still for Geoff’s foibles, than he will suffer in silence about Paul’s.

I recently corresponded with a reader on this blog. My previous installment, Resolver, opened a dialogue, wherein I remarked to a reader that I had written to Geoff a couple of years ago, on his Web site, protesting his harsh criticisms of Paul, but not received a response.

The ironic part was, it turned out to be exactly ‘a couple of years’ previously – to the day.

Researching the archives of Geoff’s website, I found my posting, dated Jan. 7, 2006 – exactly two years earlier than my web comment, dated Jan. 7, 2008. You can find the self-evident text by scrolling down this page:

http://www.geoffreygiuliano.com/New/Author/Reader.htm

Adding another rich level of irony, Geoffrey Giuliano goes by the nickname of “G2” – a nickname that is well-known to every employee of The Times Herald, as employed by a certain managing editor named Gordon Glantz. And the name “Giuliano” itself bears a strong resemblance to that of a certain presidential candidate, who was the first choice of another well-known name around here, Stan Huskey.

Perhaps, then, this is a suitable time to put my promised Springsteen Blog on hold, to revisit my good-natured, would-be sparring session with Geoff.

First, on the sharp decline in the quality of Paul’s post-Beatles work:

Paul saw some critical and commercial success with his premier solo release, McCartney. In recent interviews, Paul has cited several of the album’s gems among his all-time favorite originals. Maybe I’m Amazed, he cautiously offered, might top his all-time personal top 10. Honorable mention went to That Would Be Something, a cheerful ditty from the same LP, which he described as ‘very me’. Not forgetting the musical bauble The Lovely Linda, which has the distinction of being Paul’s first ode to his bride-to-be, the song Teddy Boy actually was a Beatles record, born and raised, narrowly escaping release on the Let it Be album.

The thing to remember, however, is Paul was still a Beatle when this record, McCartney was made. Though the album symbolized – even trumpeted – his departure from the band, he was, at that moment, still a Beatle; their company, Apple Corps, was still a going concern. Paul’s next album, however, Ram, was his first true post-Beatles effort. It was a clunker, a disappointment that sounded like what it was: An incapacitated man, grieving for a loss.

Try to imagine losing your job, and losing your three oldest friends – the very people you would ordinarily turn to – in the same moment. From the very first lines of the very first song, “Too Many People,” Paul is doing nothing so much as crying out.

Worse, he had to bite his tongue in the face of acrid criticism from Lennon and others. He silently suffered insult and injury, out of residual loyalty, or out of fear that John would best him in a petty war of insults. Paul did what a British man does; he put on a stiff upper lip, stifled his feelings – feelings that may remain unresolved to this day – and trod forward.

The point being, Paul was a man twice-removed from himself; his true voice and feelings buried beneath insurmountable, incomprehensible levels of grief. It is no wonder that his writing suffered.

Add to this the intimidating task of trying to follow an act like the Beatles. Remember, the Fab Four themselves shied away from the prospect of following up their Sgt. Pepper triumph with anything that could be compared head-to-head; they issued an EP – half an album – entitled Magical Mystery Tour, then a double album, The Beatles.

The next thing Giuliano has to say about Paul: How could McCartney allow Wings stalwart Denny Laine, a collaborator on some of the biggest hits of the 1970s, to go broke, living in a trailer like some disturbed Vietnam-era LSD casualty?

The simple answer: Paul did not allow it, Denny did. Denny easily had a million pounds in his hand at one time, and he blew it, and he has only himself to blame.

Did Paul put himself first in Wings transactions? You bet. Why shouldn’t he? He was the star, the draw; no one truly cared about Denny. Who would bankroll good money on a show in which Denny Laine was the star? History has, sadly, provided the answer.

On the subject of history, there is only one reason that Denny Laine is anything more than an asterisk in the rock archives: Paul McCartney. Denny has a place; a name that is reasonably well-known and respected; which is greater currency than many rock musicians can lay claim to. After fame and fortune have receded, most fools and their money were lucky enough to get together in the first place.

Furthermore, Paul McCartney must be the most ripped-off individual in the history of show business. Take his first manager, the feckless, naïve Brian “I suppose half of one percent is better than nothing” Epstein, the lowball chump who signed any piece of paper handed him… please. Honoring low-paying, inconvenient bookings rendered laughably obsolete by the Beatles’ explosive fame; allowing merchandisers to sell their Beatles knockoffs without paying a proper tribute; millions, nay billions, slipped straight through his limp-fisted grasp. Or publisher Dick James, who signed Lennon and McCartney on their understanding that songs were ‘in the air’, and ‘everyone owned them’. Why shouldn’t Paul look out for himself now? Would we have him do anything less?

Geoff’s other prominent allegation centers around McCartney’s use of lesser-known musicians, who ‘needed the gig’, and would ‘do what he wanted’. Citing Robbie Macintosh, who ‘ain’t Jimmy Page’, and a host of insolvent lesser-knowns, Giuliano proffers the idea that Paul only hires low-budget, subservient musicians. To which I say, isn’t it a better world when someone who ‘needs a gig’, gets a gig? Weren’t these guys delighted and relieved when the offer of a high-profile, paid engagement came along? Would Geoff, himself, turn down such an offer, at any price? I may just ask him that very question… on his Web site.

For my money, McCartney deserves every dollar, every ounce of respect, and every courtesy on this earth.

You’d have to go a long way to find a man of more impeccable moral fiber.

You would certainly have to look a lot farther than McCartney’s erstwhile partner, the late John Lennon.

- Kevin

"Resolver"

2008-01-07T14:06:00.000-08:00

Yes, I am a Beatles fan, but I’ve got my reasons. Paul McCartney has been soundly criticized – for musical blandness, for alleged character flaws; we may address these claims someday. But when we look at the facts, we see a pattern in the life of Paul McCartney. And this pattern tells us everything we need to know about what kind of man Paul is.
In 1965, early in their fame, John Lennon and George Harrison were, for the first time, dosed with LSD. The drug was discreetly slipped into their tea by their host at an elegant dinner party. Needless to say, from these auspicious beginnings came an important chapter in the Beatles saga. John was thrilled to try the drug again, and existed under its influence for days, weeks, some say years, at a time.
George, too, began a lifelong path toward enlightenment and spirituality, of which conscious-altering chemicals, including LSD, played a major part.
Ringo Starr voluntarily took the controversial drug a short time later, cheerfully ingesting anything his companions offered in social situations. This left Paul McCartney the lone LSD holdout.
The rest of the band chided Paul and goaded him – they were, of course, an all-for-one-and-one-for-all organization – but Paul declined. By no means a teetotaler, Paul steered clear of acid, uncertain that he wished to undergo the startling mental transformation the others promised awaited him. Continual brotherly coaxing and proselytizing did not nudge his resolve.
It was a full year later when, deep into the landmark Sgt. Pepper recording sessions, Paul finally took the plunge, ingesting a tab of acid in Lennon’s company, riding out the drug while the songwriting partners stared into each other’s eyes.
Paul, at first, was a believer. He told the others they had been right; he regretted holding out for so long; the influence of the drug on his perceptions was valuable and he was glad he’d done it, and he had no objection to other consenting adults giving it a try.
Not long afterward, a reporter came knocking on Paul’s door, asking if Paul had used LSD. He considered giving the usual coy response, but he elected to speak his truth: Yes, I have tried it and yes, I believe in it.
The startled reporter inquired what effect this might have on his fans. Good point, Paul said; please factor that into your decision to run this piece of film.
Needless to say, the film was broadcast, a lot of young people were turned on to LSD, and the three other Beatles were left to naughtily wag their fingers. They had privately encouraged the use of LSD, but Paul, the late bloomer, stepped in and stole their thunder. He went public, spoke his truth, and left the others to shake their heads at his audacity. They should have been harkened as the courageous trailblazers on this one, they quietly chuckled, not Paul. The key word, here, though, is commitment.
Times changed, and tensions grew. Ringo walked out of the1968 White Album sessions, announcing his resignation to his bandmates. They kept this crisis in the family, however, and Ringo was soon persuaded to come back, where he was greeted with a warm, familial reception. The press, however, was never the wiser.
Later that year, John gave his notice at a band meeting: “I want a divorce, like my divorce from Cynthia.” No announcement made the papers, and sure enough, he soon changed his mind, returning to work in time for their next project.
Next year, it was George’s turn to walk out, a moment that was immortalized in the film Let it Be. He, too, intended never to return, but after some coaxing and negotiation, came back into the fold. This crisis was, too, kept within the family, as few viewers realized that his was intended to be a permanent defection.
When Paul, however, decided that he wanted out… there was no ambivalence, there was no mistaking his intentions, there was no waffling. His announcement came in the no-turning-back form of a press release, distributed with his 1970 solo album, McCartney. He was out, and had no intentions of working with the old team anymore; and he lived up to this statement. Once again, Paul committed publicly, where the others vacillated privately.
A decade later, McCartney made perhaps his most profound statement about commitment. After Lennon’s murder, a grief-stricken Paul uttered the following: I will never let this happen again – have somebody die before I did my best to square things with them.
I believe Paul made good on this promise when he went to visit the deathbed-ridden George in 2001.
It is likely that Paul McCartney is the only living soul who knows what was said in that hospital. But I’m a monkey’s uncle if these are not the truest words ever spoken: Paul McCartney did not see George die without making every effort to square things with his old bandmate.
Let us trust, in our deepest hearts, that these two estranged brothers… parted as friends.

John married Cynthia – divorce. George married Patti – divorce. Ringo married Maureen – divorce. Paul married Linda. He said, I take this woman, until death, and he lived up to it, and God bless him.
The deepest commitment, the best career and the best marriage a man ever had.
Cheers, Paul.

Kevin

Band by your man

2007-12-03T14:45:00.000-08:00

Captain’s Blog… stardate 11-30-07… is this thing on? (Screeeeeech!) Tap, tap, testing, testing, one-two-three…

Uh, hello, this is Kevin, the Times Herald Newsdesk Whippersnapper. I am by no means the ‘captain’ of this hearty crew, but I am a legend in my own mind, the pilot of my own mental unicycle.

John Berry, Online Editor, observed that this publication does not have a musical blog.

Well, now it does.

There are a few subjects I know about. If you are looking for insights on the Celtics –Lakers rivalry of the 1980’s, you could do a lot worse. Star Trek / Star Wars? Specialty. Music theory, or the Disco Era? Bring it on.

While I may someday be tempted into discussing gun control, or Stop, Ask and Frisk, or any number of gooey topics I adore… let’s start this show at the only place it can start – the logical place – at the beginning – the Beatles.

John Lennon and Paul McCartney ended up in roughly the same boat – one costly divorce, with the custody of a small child at stake; one long-term marriage, with a woman they conspired to put in their band. They did this in inverse order – John divorced Cynthia in the late 60s, then shacked up with Yoko Ono; Paul married Linda in the late 60s, and subsequently married Heather Mills. Yoko was in John’s band, Cynthia not; Linda, in, Heather, out.

Intriguing… first, let’s talk about Paul. Why didn’t McCartney, perhaps the shrewdest – certainly the wealthiest – businessman in the history of entertainment, ink a prenupt before sashaying down the aisle with miss Heather Mills?

Simple – Paul was the definitive authority on nuptial bliss. He stayed with the same woman, Linda, for decades, and their union lasted till death did them part. The only occasion they were ever separated was when Paul did time in the Japanese stir. Otherwise, they were not separated for a single night.

They raised four kids together, normal, respectable, conventional kids. They indulged in common interests; they laughed often. Why would Paul do anything different this time? He was Joe In-The-Know.

No wonder Paul wholeheartedly sprinted down the aisle again. Paul and Linda were the great marriage success story of the rock era; they worked together, they loved together; they raised kids together; they never strayed. They were a completely durable couple.

Show me another.

And don’t say “John and Yoko,” because they were separated for over a year in the early 70s. Plus, John was married to someone else first. Pete Townshend and Karen; Tom Petty and Jane; Eric Clapton and Patti; every rock music tryst that seemed poised to go the distance derailed. No major rock star took one woman, stood before God, vowed to stand by her alone until death, and did it. With a lone exception: Paul and Linda.

Alas, the world has changed, but Paul has not. He is still, and ever shall be, a stiff-upper-lip Brit from the north of England. He is the same man who told former flame Jane Asher to “act [her] age” when her theatrical career compromised his nuptial intentions.

Recently, Paul attempted to apply his time-honored principles to a modern woman. Trouble might have been brewing from the first. But there was one major difference that cannot be underemphasized – Heather Mills did not play in Paul’s band.

Thusly, we come to an intriguing undercurrent of the Beatles’ saga.

Let’s take it from the top. If John Lennon liked you, he would play music with you. It is a telling pattern that informs this entire saga.

It started with Lennon’s mom, Julia, who taught him to play banjo. Next thing you know, Pete Shotton, John’s childhood friend, is recruited to scrape washboard for the Quarrymen, John’s first band; this, despite his pronounced musical ineptitude. John’s entire ‘gang’ – Nigel Whalley, Eric Griffiths, Colin Hanton – all of his childhood buddies were recruited into his band – a band that would evolve into the Beatles.

And as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow, Paul McCartney would become both a friend and a musical collaborator. Paul was a younger man, but he had musical know-how, a lot of credentials – knowledge of lyrics; capability of tuning a guitar. He was “in” – a collaborator-turned-friend, the ultimate harmonic convergence.

Soon came Stuart Sutcliffe, John’s art school friend. Though he never had played an instrument, did not know a modulation from a semi-quaver – you guessed it. When he won some money in an art contest, he bought a bass and was conscripted into service. The pattern held: John’s friend became his subordinate in his band.

Needless to say, George Harrison and Ringo Starr, the other two pillars of the Quintessential Quatro, were both John’s lifelong friends, and musical collaborators.

And, if you think John never played music with his son Julian, think again. Young Julian played the wobbly drum part on the song “Ya Ya,” on John’s 1974 album “Walls and Bridges.” John also taught Julian some chords on guitar in later years, passing on a bit of the ol’ Lennon legacy from hand to hand.

The pattern held with other notable figures in Lennon’s life. Producer Phil Spector, to whom Lennon took a particular personal shine, played piano on John’s song “Love.”

John’s drinking buddies during his wild days in exile from Yoko in the 1970’s? Jesse Ed Davis, Jim Keltner, Klaus Voorman – musical underlings, all.

Lennon’s personal assistant-turned-confidant Fred Seaman also played percussion on some of John’s final demo recordings, despite having no musical acumen whatsoever. Seaman, in fact, was delighted when a professional studio percussionist was asked to duplicate his improvised bongo pattern on the final recording of “Beautiful Boy.”

However, there are two telling exceptions to this Beatle-esque ‘friend = musician’ pattern. John never made music with his first wife, Cynthia, a marriage that splintered into bitter divorce.

Intriguingly… Paul McCartney never played music with his second wife, Heather Mills, a marriage that is one of the great disasters in modern history.

Is that what went wrong…?

Linda McCartney did not have a musical leg to stand on – neither did Yoko. But, somehow, these dubious musical mergings translated into long-surviving marriages.

While the musical contributions of Yoko and Linda are dubious at best, perhaps there is some truth to the old adage: The family that plays together, stays together.

The Beatle marriages – John’s and Paul’s – succeeded in direct proportion to the musical ambitions of their spouses.

Freud could make much of that.

Maybe Paul should invest in a tambourine for Heather. If she refuses to join his band, Paul may need it to panhandle for loose change.

Kevin