Part 4 (1/2)

”There are many ways of promoting peace. Do everything for peace. p.i.s.s for peace or smile for peace or go to school for peace or don't go to school for peace. Whatever you do, just do it for peace.”

Steve laughed, and I was outraged. ”It's not you,” he said. ”It is me! I swear it is! They cut my voice out!” I was fuming when Steve drove me to the Kodak lab to have the film developed. I couldn't pay the rush price and had to make do with waiting a few weeks. We then went to school. Every fifteen minutes, CHUM played excerpts of my interview, all the time cutting out my voice and not giving me credit. Part of me started wondering if it really happened. It was all so crazy. ”Wait! If you see Mary Hopkin tonight will you believe me?” It dawned on me that I had a date with her and that if Steve drove me downtown, he would see that she recognized me.

I walked onto the schoolyard greeted by a crowd of kids. Word had spread that I was seen at the King Edward in the evening and had gone past the police blockade. I had the two alb.u.ms-one, Life With the Lions Life With the Lions, no one had seen before. But that's all I had and no clear proof. ”Again with the alb.u.m,” one nasty boy shouted. ”He is full of s.h.i.+t.”

After school I called CHUM and spoke to someone at the news desk. He hung up on me before I could finish my sentence. I called back. He hung up again. Finally he let me finish what I had to say. ”Oh, you're the kid! No problem, call back tomorrow and we'll see what we can do.” The fact that I had to wait to get my tape disheartened me. My mother was just coming home from work when Steve and I were heading off. I could see the look of worry in her eyes. ”Where are you going now?” she asked. ”I told you, Ma, I have a date with Mary Hopkin. Steve is taking me.” Steve shrugged and off we went to pick up our cousin Larry who wanted to witness the event too.

Larry got in the car, and I told the story all over again for his benefit. The more I told it, the more I wondered if it really happened. They wanted to believe me but it was too incredible a story to accept wholeheartedly. We stood outside the Electric Circus for about an hour before the designated time eating the hamburgers and French fries we bought on the way. In between slurps of milk shakes, they grilled me about details of my story to see if it held up. Eight o'clock arrived and there was a line up to get in, but no sign of Mary Hopkin. Eight fifteen and Steve started to get restless. By 8:30 I felt gloomy when Steve said, ”Let's go.” Just then a black limousine pulled up. The driver came around to the rear pa.s.senger side and opened the door. Out stepped Mary Hopkin with a beaming smile. ”Hi, Jerry!” ”Hi, Mary,” I replied, to Steve and Larry's shock. She took my arm, and we were let right into the club. I turned and waved at my brother and cousin as I entered a nightclub, with a pop star, for the first time in my life.

Within twenty-four hours of treating me to an extraordinary day filled with life-altering experiences, John Lennon was unwittingly responsible for setting me up on a date with an Apple recording artist. Mary led me onto the dance floor of the Electric Circus. It was the hippest and newest club in Toronto and had state-of-the-art strobe lights. The place was packed and no one seemed to know that Mary Hopkin was there. I remember feeling goofy dancing to some number, all the while astounded that before me was this beautiful star from across the Atlantic, smiling and swaying to the music. All I could think was, ”She knows Paul McCartney.”

We were probably dancing to one of the hits of the time, ”Hair” by the Cowsills or the theme from Hawaii Five-O Hawaii Five-O, when the music s.h.i.+fted abruptly to ”Goodbye.” The deejay announced that ”Apple recording artist Mary Hopkin” was in the room and a spotlight hit us to the applause of everyone there. There I was dancing, sort of, with a pop star.

At some point the evening wound down, and Mary was being led out by the Capitol PR man, back to the limousine. I followed her and witnessed the crush of people who wanted to say hi and touch her. She had to get in the limo fast because of the crowd outside the club but she stopped to say good-bye to me. ”Thank you for coming,” she said sweetly and being the real man that I was I kissed her on the cheek. ”Good-bye, Mary,” I waved as she sat in the limo and the door closed. The window lowered and she waved back to me and to the fans. ”Say hi to Paul,” I shouted as she took off. Then I strutted away fully aware that people were staring at me wondering who the h.e.l.l I was.

I called CHUM everyday and was told they would call me. But they didn't. I got into such a fit that one day I showed up at CHUM's head office and started yelling in the reception area until someone from the news desk came out to talk to me. I was turning purple and causing a scene. ”It's my tape! It's my tape!” I kept shouting. ”I'll be right back,” he said nervously in front of the other people in the room. About ten minutes later he came back with a box that contained my taped interview. ”Here you are.” I took it and ran. When I got home I called my Uncle Mike. He had a reel-to-reel tape recorder and promised to come over in the evening.

We were still having dinner that night when Mike waltzed right into the house and into the kitchen. My mother, my father, Steve, and I sat there at the table watching him set up the tape that I'd given him. He pressed the play b.u.t.ton. It was my voice asking a question, a question that was answered by John Lennon. For some twenty-five minutes we sat there. My parents were mystified. Mike kept clapping his hands with enthusiasm. My brother gave me a look of awe. It was the first time I'd impressed him. ”Wow, Jerry,” he said softly. ”You really did it. You really did it.”

In the days following my meeting with John and Yoko, they spent a week in bed in a Montreal hotel suite. The door was wide open and anyone could get in. That was where he wrote and recorded ”Give Peace a Chance,” with Timothy Leary and Tommy Smothers chanting in the great chorus. I watched the news bits-there was no CNN back then-listened to the radio, and read the newspaper accounts of what my hero was up to. I felt part of what was happening even though I was far away. I would have loved to have been there but I would not have traded my experience for that one. I had been in the eye of the storm with John.

The moment it was ready, Steve drove me to the Kodak lab to pick up the film. I bolted out of the car and into the service department, gave the lady behind the counter my two slips, and watched her go through the drawer. The first was the Super 8 reel. My brother opened it up, raised it to the window, and pulled the film in front of his eye. ”There's film here. I see John! I see Yoko!” he said. My G.o.d, I thought, I had proof, for the world and for me. Waiting for the photographs, I knew that if the envelope was thin, there was hardly anything there. ”Here you go, that will be $15.95 please,” she said, handing me the envelope. It was not thin. I paid the money and we went into the car. I sat down, closed the door, and took a deep breath. The film that was in the camera was for slides, and there were many of them. I lifted them to the light and took off my gla.s.ses. One by one I saw pictures of John and Yoko. They were in focus. They were good. Mary Hopkin was there-a picure of her with Sam the Record Man, another with me. Even Engelbert in vibrant living color. ”Let's trade,” I said and gave Steve the slides. Acting like a projector, I viewed the small frames of the film. Sure enough, John and Yoko. I was there. I have proof. It really happened.

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Mary Hopkin surrounded by admirers after her concert.

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Mary Hopkin surrounded by admirers after her concert.

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Mary Hopkin surrounded by admirers after her concert.

My father was so proud of me. He would introduce me to random people and say in his thick Yiddish accent, ”He met the Beatle. My son is not a hippie, but he met the Beatle.”

I kept my word to John and played my tape to a school a.s.sembly. A few teachers and the vice princ.i.p.al listened to it first with me in the office to make sure it was appropriate. A woman teacher was flabbergasted and kept saying, ”Amazing! Amazing!” The vice princ.i.p.al was circ.u.mspect and was not happy about the ”p.i.s.s for peace” or ”you can go to school or not go to school.... as long as you do it for peace.” He cringed when I asked John if he said f.u.c.k f.u.c.k on ”Revolution 9.” ”We will have to cut some of this out,” he said to the uproar of the teachers. ”You can't do that,” was the response. ”It's John Lennon.” He acquiesced. on ”Revolution 9.” ”We will have to cut some of this out,” he said to the uproar of the teachers. ”You can't do that,” was the response. ”It's John Lennon.” He acquiesced.

The next morning, a large tape recorder was placed on the edge of the stage in the auditorium. Next to it was a turntable that I had set up. I sat there dangling my feet as kids entered. I was dressed all in white and wearing sandals. My round gla.s.ses were on. I was proud to wear them. And I could see clearly, the believers and the nonbelievers, let out from cla.s.s to hear the world's biggest star talk to me and to them. When everyone was seated, teachers closed the doors and stood against the wall. My English teacher took to the stage and walked over to the microphone stand behind me. ”You all heard the news about Jerry meeting John Lennon. You're all in for a treat, let's hear it for Jerry!” The sustained applause and hooting delayed me from pressing the play b.u.t.ton. I had done the impossible. I met the Walrus. John Lennon.

The kids laughed when John was funny. They were silent and listened to every word when he was talking about peace, about the Beatles, and about Yoko. Some shouted ”All right!!” when he suggested they not go to school for peace. As soon as the interview was over, I took out Life With the Lions Life With the Lions and gently placed the needle at the beginning of side one. ”This is John and Yoko's latest alb.u.m. They gave it to me.” Teachers, administrators, and students alike were incredulous at what they heard. Yoko's dramatic wailing and John's experimental feedback pierced the a.s.sembly hall. I let it play for about five minutes or so. There were stunned and attentive looks and there was laughter. John and Yoko hit all the chords they wanted to. People reacted. ”I'm sure you will want to talk to Jerry but let's save that for lunch time,” the teacher said. I continued to sit on the stage and watched people leave in an orderly directed fas.h.i.+on. Before they left, many of them crowded around me to tell me how great it was and to get a look at my alb.u.m. and gently placed the needle at the beginning of side one. ”This is John and Yoko's latest alb.u.m. They gave it to me.” Teachers, administrators, and students alike were incredulous at what they heard. Yoko's dramatic wailing and John's experimental feedback pierced the a.s.sembly hall. I let it play for about five minutes or so. There were stunned and attentive looks and there was laughter. John and Yoko hit all the chords they wanted to. People reacted. ”I'm sure you will want to talk to Jerry but let's save that for lunch time,” the teacher said. I continued to sit on the stage and watched people leave in an orderly directed fas.h.i.+on. Before they left, many of them crowded around me to tell me how great it was and to get a look at my alb.u.m.

The Capitol PR man had taken a liking to me. I called him a day or two after I got the pictures to give him copies of the ones he wanted. The ones with Sam the Record Man ended up on the store's wall of fame, the wall I peered at time and time again. I had made my mark. The PR man would call me up from time to time to tell me that new records of interest were coming out and give me advance copies while taking me out for dinner.

3.

IN MY LIFE.

Rumors were rampant in September 1969, the week prior to Toronto's Rock and Roll Revival at the Varsity Stadium, that John Lennon was coming. The concert was scheduled for September 13 and the lineup consisted of Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, Chuck Berry, the Doors, and a newcomer named Alice Cooper, among others. I called the Capitol man and he told me that it might happen and he would call me as soon as he heard anything. Deejays relentlessly plugged the ma.s.sive concert and each time fueled the rumors that John Lennon would make an appearance. The night before, I got the call. ”John's coming with Eric Clapton,” the Capitol man said. I shouted with excitement. ”Meet me tomorrow morning at the press office at the arena and I'll get you a press pa.s.s.”

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The all-day festival started in the morning and was going to go on through the night. I found the Capitol man and he put a chain around my neck with a card that said ”PRESS.” It was hectic there because of the artists, but the John Lennon rumor was persistent and some were saying all four Beatles would be coming. I made my way to the front row where press and VIPs had designated seats. I was getting used to this.

I sat in the sun watching these legends of rock. Chuck Berry doing his crouching duck walk to ”Hoochie Coochie Man,” Jerry Lee Lewis jumping on the piano as he sang ”Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On,” and Little Richard screeching and strutting to ”Lucille.” These were the Beatles' heroes and the artists they covered in their early alb.u.ms. I was having a rock history lesson. I saw Jim Morrison, about a year and a half before he died, sing ”Touch Me” with the Doors. Alice Cooper infuriated everyone in the front row, including me, by throwing a full watermelon into the crowd, splas.h.i.+ng us all with the insides.

Throughout the day, I would wander backstage and check out the stars wandering around outside in the secure area set up for them. A friend from school was working backstage as a roadie and we started chatting. Jim Morrison walked right by us. His skin was weirdly translucent. Jerry Lee Lewis walked by and I excitedly shouted to my friend, ”That's Jerry Lee Lewis!” My friend thinking I was referring to the comic, replied, ”That's not Jerry Lewis.” Jerry Lee, ”the Killer” as he liked to be called, turned abruptly around and walked right up to his face and said, ”You better believe it, Buddy!” and then stomped away.

It was nighttime and Little Richard had stirred the crowd into a frenzy. The over-the-top icon of early rock and roll finished his set with ”Lucille” and strutted his glittered way off the stage. It was getting late and there had been no word yet about John Lennon. I knew something was up when several frowning Toronto police officers stood on either side of the stage. Then an announcer came out and said in a disbelieving voice, ”John Lennon and the Plastic Ono Baaaaaannnnnd!” And out came the musicians: Allan White on drums, Klaus Voormann on ba.s.s (the Beatles mate from the early days in Hamburg who designed the Revolver Revolver cover), Eric Clapton, and then John and Yoko to tumultuous applause. I was front row and center. He was thinner than when I'd last seen him and the beard was thicker. Dressed all in white, he seemed unusually awkward and nervous as he approached the microphone while tuning his guitar and said, ”Good evening.” The crowd wailed reverentially. ”We're just going to do numbers that we know. We've never played together before.” The crowd didn't care. The twenty thousand fans screamed with approval as John sang into the microphone, ”It's a one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready now, go cat go, but don't you step on my blue suede shoes.” I had never seen the Beatles live, but barely four months after meeting him, he had come back to Toronto and I was watching him sing and play the guitar. cover), Eric Clapton, and then John and Yoko to tumultuous applause. I was front row and center. He was thinner than when I'd last seen him and the beard was thicker. Dressed all in white, he seemed unusually awkward and nervous as he approached the microphone while tuning his guitar and said, ”Good evening.” The crowd wailed reverentially. ”We're just going to do numbers that we know. We've never played together before.” The crowd didn't care. The twenty thousand fans screamed with approval as John sang into the microphone, ”It's a one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready now, go cat go, but don't you step on my blue suede shoes.” I had never seen the Beatles live, but barely four months after meeting him, he had come back to Toronto and I was watching him sing and play the guitar.

John sang two more rock and roll cla.s.sics, ”Money” and ”Dizzy Miss Lizzie,” his ”Yer Blues” from the Beatles' White Alb.u.m White Alb.u.m, and then premiered ”Cold Turkey,” which would be released at the end of October 1969. For the second time I heard a John Lennon song for the first time, in his presence. He ended that set with ”Give Peace a Chance.” ”This is what we came here for,” he said, and got the audience to join in. Yoko was at his side throughout holding a microphone and adding sounds not found in the original recordings or anywhere else.

When John finished his set, everyone left the stage except for him and Yoko. He positioned himself behind her and did odd things with his guitar to the amplifier. It was as if he was stabbing it. It was Two Virgins/Life With the Lions Two Virgins/Life With the Lions experimental music. As one of the few in the audience who had listened to those alb.u.ms, I was familiar with what they were doing. Not everyone was happy. The first song, ”Don't Worry Kyoko (Mummy's Only Looking for Her Hand In the Snow)” clocked in at four minutes and forty-eight seconds and was the longest song performed. She topped it with ”John, John Let's Hope For Peace” that went on for twelve minutes and thirty-eight seconds. In those days, concerts had nursing stations for people getting sick and having bad reactions to drugs. Throughout the concert an announcer would warn people about ”some bad s.h.i.+t that was going around.” When Yoko did her thing, a guy next to me held his head in his hands and repeated, ”b.u.mmer, b.u.mmer.” I was ready to strangle him. He was ruining my concentration. I motioned for a policeman who was standing guard. He took one look at him and took him away to larger and more repeated yelps of ”b.u.mmer, b.u.mmer.” I was relieved. experimental music. As one of the few in the audience who had listened to those alb.u.ms, I was familiar with what they were doing. Not everyone was happy. The first song, ”Don't Worry Kyoko (Mummy's Only Looking for Her Hand In the Snow)” clocked in at four minutes and forty-eight seconds and was the longest song performed. She topped it with ”John, John Let's Hope For Peace” that went on for twelve minutes and thirty-eight seconds. In those days, concerts had nursing stations for people getting sick and having bad reactions to drugs. Throughout the concert an announcer would warn people about ”some bad s.h.i.+t that was going around.” When Yoko did her thing, a guy next to me held his head in his hands and repeated, ”b.u.mmer, b.u.mmer.” I was ready to strangle him. He was ruining my concentration. I motioned for a policeman who was standing guard. He took one look at him and took him away to larger and more repeated yelps of ”b.u.mmer, b.u.mmer.” I was relieved.

I had brought my brother's Super 8 camera with me again. Though it was night, I was so close to the stage that I managed to get shots of John that I spliced together with a rudimentary editing machine (film was cut and then you used glue) and created one of the most unusual pop culture home movies of all time-John and Yoko interspersed with scenes of flowers from my mother's garden, a roman candle going off, and a kitchen light being zoomed in and out became my personal doc.u.mentary of the experience.

At one point John laid his guitar against the amplifier to a sustained feedback and they left the stage. Most of the crowd did not know what to do. They were stunned and had witnessed rock and roll history. John and Yoko treated the audience to rock and roll cla.s.sics, a Beatles tune, ”Give Peace a Chance,” and ”Cold Turkey,” and then turned their performance upside down.

Sensing they were not coming back, I bolted for the press area inside the stadium. I had my pa.s.s and walked right in. The Capitol man told me that John was going to give a brief press conference in the locker room and took me there. A crowd of reporters was waiting for the Beatle as I climbed on top of a locker so I could have a good view. John and Yoko came in. He looked terrible. There was a greenish hue to his skin, and he looked frightened. Years later he would say that he was sick to his stomach from nerves at performing without the Beatles. At one point in the middle of a reporter's question, he looked up at me. There was recognition on his face and he smiled. My heart skipped a beat as he whispered something to Yoko. He remembered me.

John left the Rock and Roll Revival exhilarated. He had performed his favorite songs, and some of his own songs, at a concert with his musical heroes. And he had done so without Paul, George, and Ringo. It gave him confidence to shake the burden the Beatles had become to him, and as Ringo later recalled in the Beatles Anthology Beatles Anthology, within days of his return he announced to his brothers at a meeting at Apple, ”Well, that's it lads, let's end it.” The others convinced him not to go public, that they should wait for Abbey Road Abbey Road's release, which was due September 26. The world had no idea when that cla.s.sic alb.u.m hit the radio waves, the store shelves, and the turntables that it was the Beatles' swan song.

I got the call from Capitol Records a couple days before. Steve drove me to their offices and the Capitol man came down to greet me. He smiled as he handed me Abbey Road Abbey Road. Like so many other Beatles-related moments, I remember how I felt when I saw it for the first time. Unt.i.tled, yet again, the Beatles, like superheroes on a mission, crossing Abbey Road where EMI's recording studios were. They were walking away. George in jeans, casual and independent. Paul in a dark blue suit, cigarette in his hand. Ringo, dressed to the nines and ready for the show. John, all in white, bearded and purposeful. The photo probably had been taken around the time we met. On the back, like a London street sign attached to brick, was written ”Beatles.” They had followed the minimalist approach from the White Alb.u.m White Alb.u.m. They did not have to say who they were or jazz up the cover. They had been there and beyond with Sgt. Pepper Sgt. Pepper and and Magical Mystery Tour Magical Mystery Tour. They were the biggest rock band ever.

Just like the others before it, I listened to that alb.u.m all day and all night, feeling a part of it all. John breathing ”shoot me” started it all on ”Come Together.” Like the airplane on ”Back in the USSR,” the opening sound of the alb.u.m was wildly original and set the tone with John at his lyrical best. ”One and one and one is three.... Hair down to his knee.... Hold you in his armchair you can feel his disease.... He shoot Coca-Cola.... Come together, right now, over me.” Phrases to last an eternity. Paul playing ba.s.s wrapped around Ringo's rolling drumbeat. George harmonizing his lead and John grunging out the chords on his guitar. It was scary, it was funny, it was street theater. And it was pure John.

George's ”Something” was beautiful. John thought it was the best song on the alb.u.m. He wailed his sliding lead guitar throughout defying any duplication. What I loved most about it was how sweetly Paul accompanied George on ba.s.s and in the chorus harmonies. The master of ballads knew that his younger mate had written a love song to match anything he had ever created. Yet Paul clearly held nothing back. It was the music after all. Even at this time of terrible discord and alienation, they were mates who loved each other and supported each other to achieve artistic perfection.

Side one was John's idea. He did not want another thematic Sgt. Pepper Sgt. Pepper. Just straight ahead rock and roll songs. ”Oh! Darling,” Paul's screaming tribute to Little Richard was so pure rock and roll that John always said he should have sung it. The Beatles rallied around Ringo and his ”Octopus's Garden” to give the least likely songwriter of the group his moment of independent fame. To end it, John's haunting and primal love song to Yoko, ”I Want You (She's So Heavy).” Soul, rock, jazz, and orchestral, the Beatles demonstrated how contemporary they were, always with a foot planted in the future.

”Here Comes the Sun” was a perfect uplifting opener for side two after the climactic ending of ”I Want You.” ”Because,” the Yokoinspired backward Beethoven harmonic masterpiece, followed, leading into Paul's vision, the Abbey Road Abbey Road medley: ”You Never Give Me Your Money,” Paul's fragmented lament for what the Beatles had become (a song he has to this day not performed publicly); ”Mean Mr. Mustard”; ”Polythene Pam”; and ”She Came In Through the Bathroom Window.” John and Paul were two super mutants battling each other with blasts of musical genius. They did this to ”The End” where they dueled lead guitars with George right down to the finish. But the Beatles never took themselves too seriously. The last cut was Paul singing to Queen Elizabeth on the acoustic and raunchy ”Her Majesty”: ”...someday I'm gonna make her mine, oh yeah, someday I'm gonna make her mine.” medley: ”You Never Give Me Your Money,” Paul's fragmented lament for what the Beatles had become (a song he has to this day not performed publicly); ”Mean Mr. Mustard”; ”Polythene Pam”; and ”She Came In Through the Bathroom Window.” John and Paul were two super mutants battling each other with blasts of musical genius. They did this to ”The End” where they dueled lead guitars with George right down to the finish. But the Beatles never took themselves too seriously. The last cut was Paul singing to Queen Elizabeth on the acoustic and raunchy ”Her Majesty”: ”...someday I'm gonna make her mine, oh yeah, someday I'm gonna make her mine.”

In October 1969 I heard an amazing thing on the radio. John Lennon had recorded a new song-one he had tried to unsuccessfully convince the Beatles to record-under a new name, the Plastic Ono Band. Within seconds of the deejay sharing that news, he played it for the first time. Unlike any Beatle song before, it began with a piercing, unmistakably Lennon lead guitar. It was ”Cold Turkey,” the song I heard John perform live at the Rock and Roll Revival. He openly talked about kicking heroin addiction. Was he using heroin when I met him, I wondered. He would later say that the stress of introducing Yoko to the Beatles contributed to his use of the drug. Cla.s.sic, honest John, ”Cold Turkey” had him singing and screaming about pain and hards.h.i.+p. It was the heaviest pop song ever. Shortly after its release he returned his MBE (Member of the British Empire) medal to Queen Elizabeth with this letter that he circulated to the press: Your Majesty, I am returning this in protest against Britain's involvement in the Nigeria-Biafra thing, against our support of America in Vietnam, and against Cold Turkey slipping down the charts. With love. John Lennon of Bag.

In December 1969 John and Yoko came back to Toronto. They launched their War Is Over campaign in Canada and posted billboards in eleven cities around the world proclaiming that indeed war was over ”if you want it.” I was proud that they chose Canada to be the center of their campaign and was over the moon when he met my other hero prime minister Pierre Trudeau for fifty-one minutes and described him as ”a beautiful person.” Trudeau felt likewise and put his arm around Yoko for their photo. I felt in some way responsible for that meeting and was gratified that my heroes were fans of each other.