A GIFT OF SOLACE
By Gwen Ito
“Well we all shine on, like the moon and the stars and the sun.”
- John Lennon
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John Lennon and Yoko Ono, Double Fantasy,
LENONO Music/Geffen Records, 1980. |
In the beginning, I loved the cute one. But after seeing a TV movie about the Beatles, I fell for John, whose sharp wit and youthful arrogance encouraged the rebellious part of me. With his wire-rimmed glasses and working-class British accent, he was utterly cool. And his collaboration with that eccentric artist made me reexamine my own Asian heritage. If John Lennon could fall in love with a Japanese woman, I figured there was hope.
My love affair with the Beatles, particularly Lennon, became one of the defining relationships of my adolescence. First I bought the red album, then the blue. After that came Rubber Soul, Revolver, Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. In addition to the handful of obscure early albums, my collection included all the later classics, including Abbey Road and Let it Be.
Although I restrained myself from buying Life with the Lions, I did invest a great deal of my allowance on Lennon’s solo records, too. Albums like Shaved Fish transported me to a different realm, one where I could tap into, if not actually understand, the wonder and pain of growing up a shy, sensitive kid. While my peers were patronizing hangouts like the “no-name” bar at 946 Elmwood, I was in my third-floor bedroom. Singing along with my hero, I felt safe.
Senior year I used to do my homework at the kitchen table, wearing headphones and listening to Beatles music at full volume. My mom thought I was nuts. So did my younger sister, a classical music prodigy. To them, Mozart and Bach were artists—and John Lennon just another loud rock ‘n roll star.
In November of 1980, I read about Lennon’s comeback. Away from the limelight for five years, he’d been a househusband doting on Sean, his only child with Yoko. I couldn’t wait to buy the new album. Then one Monday evening in early winter, I was rummaging around in the attic when my dad suddenly called up to me. “John Lennon’s been shot.” Thinking it was a cruel joke, I turned on the radio. Every station seemed to be playing “Imagine.” One station was playing “Beautiful Boy,” the ballad Lennon had written for his five-year-old son. That’s when the tears finally came. The stoic kid who never cried in public, I sat in my room, weeping for a man I’d never met.
After December 8, the days seemed long and flat. Then just before Christmas, I noticed a new addition to all the presents spread under the tree. It was a record wrapped in fancy paper, with a card that read simply “Sis.” One snowy afternoon Elaine had walked down to the small record store on Elmwood to buy Double Fantasy. As it turned out, the album had a huge skip right at the refrain of “Just Like Starting Over.” My sister insisted we take it back. But somehow that flaw made the record even more meaningful. I never exchanged it for an intact version.
The small record store is long gone, having been replaced by a series of trendy shops over the years. Only diehard fans have held onto their beloved LPs; the rest of us have become CD converts. To unwind after a long day, I’m more likely to put on Miles Davis than John Lennon. Yet each winter, my holiday ritual includes remembering the day my sister walked through the snow to get me one of the most touching gifts I’ve ever received.
Gwen Ito is a free-lance writer living in Buffalo.
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