I STILL Blame Yoko...

I read an article today saying that said that Paul McCartney doesn't blame Yoko Ono for the breakup of the Beatles and neither should I. Well, balderdash, I say. This is one of the basic tenets on which I have based my rather shaky belief system. Sure, my anger and heartbreak over the breakup and the seemingly innate instinct to foist all that anger and heartbreak on her slender Japanese shoulders was stronger when I was an impressionable lad than now that I have become a raging cynic. But the fact remains, if something (anything, really) goes wrong, I could always fall back on "I blame Yoko". It is a sad time indeed, friends, when a man can't simply blame Yoko Ono.

That said, I have to wonder what kind of shrewd political maneuvering Sir Paul is plotting by lobbing such a "Give Peace A Chance"-style poli-grenade out there for all to read. In the panic and confusion of the patchouli smoke and flower petal fallout, I would almost expect that McCartney will make some sort of drastic Beatle power-move that will blindside not only the music followers, Beatlemaniacs and critics alike, but also the vicious shrew and obvious breaker-upper of the Beatles, Yoko Ono. That's right, so smitten will the widow of the late John Lennon be over these comments (made about 40 years too late, I might point out), that she will be completely unprepared and totally defenseless when Sir Macca makes his move.

 

"I'd like to retire soon, and the way things are going I might be able to." McCartney stated in the same interview. Perhaps not quite yet, he might have added. Perhaps just not quite yet... Is this a hint that there is something up his Edwardian-throwback jacketed sleeve? You be the judge.

 

All the political posturing and "All You Need Is Love" camouflage aside, let's take a look at the facts.

"Reasons why Yoko didn't break up the Beatles", by Paul McCartney:

 

 "She certainly didn't break the group up; the group was breaking up." Ah, well stated, Paul. It is true that George and Ringo had already left the group by the time Yoko had had finagled her way into the ultimate backstage pass. They subsequently figured out that nobody cared and came back to the band shortly thereafter. The fact is, lots of bands break up, have members leave, or have their manager die and ultimately get back together. I believe that The Beatles would have been no different, had Yoko not been around to plant the seeds of subversion on everything her dainty little fingers touched.

 

Yoko Ono and her Electric Subversion Hammer

 

"Part of her attraction was her avant-garde side, her view of things, so she showed him (Lennon) another way to be, which was very attractive to him."  But perhaps not so attractive to the other 3/4 of the world's most famous music group. Like posing naked for an album cover. On a shitty album of gibberish, no less. Or bringing a bed into a Beatles recording session when she was under the weather - AND, requesting a microphone, should she have any input to the recording process... Excellent ideas, all - anyone for a break-up???

 

Still, I suppose you can't blame Paul McCartney for mending whatever imaginary fences there are left to mend on this front, given that he and Yoko are both well into their seventh decade and Lennon has been dead for over thirty years. After all, one would like a clean Beatle slate when one shuffles off to Beatle Heaven. But I can't help but think...

 

Maybe he is going to make the ultimate power move to secure the Beatles' songwriting catalog, which has been in the hands of either Michael Jackson or SONY Music Entertainment/Michael Jackson since the 80's when Jackson swooped in and bought the rights out from under McCartney and Ono's noses while the two hemmed and hawed, waiting for a better deal. This has always been a sore spot for Macca, who wrote many of the songs that are still paying for Jackson's legal expenses.

 

Or, perhaps he will play the more subtle move, now that Yoko is softened up, pliable and old enough to get medication delivered to her penthouse for free through any number of infomercials on the Hallmark Channel. My prediction is that he will go into enemy territory and successfully negotiate the songwriting credits on all the Beatles songs that currently bear the "Lennon-McCartney" standard. From this day forward and forever more, the songs shall  read "Written by McCartney-Lennon".

 

That's just my hunch, but I think that's how rich Beatles with nothing else to worry about clean their basement. I could be wrong, time will tell. Either way, I blame Yoko.

 

 

"And here they are - The WEETLES!"

I read in the news last night that Paul McCartney's son James - a 34-year old fledgling musician (albeit, probably one of the richest fledgling musicians ever) - would be hip to the idea of getting together with other Beatle Kids to form "The Beatles - The Next Generation". A fun idea, I thought, but a lousy moniker. And this is where I come in.

The WEETLES! - a colorful portmanteau of "wee" and "Beatles" - just imagine Ed Sullivan announcing, with the big Ed Sullivanian sweep of the Sullivanian arm: "And here they are... THE WEETLES!" It works. The kids could even edit old footage of Ed introducing their dads from the 1964 appearance into own their cute, high-energy debut music video, and just have me dub in "WEETLES" for "BEATLES" in Ed Sullivan-voice, which is an impeccable facsimile of the original.

Anyhow, the ginger-haired James, who resembles a light, pasty, soft version of the elder Macca, has hinted that he has spoken with the other Beatle offspring and that, surprisingly, they are open to the idea as well. Mostly. Apparently, they have not seen James perform. Nothing against the lad, but I saw him perform on the David Letterman Show and he had nowhere near the charisma, charm or buoyancy of his Beatle-Dad. I imagine that there might have been some nerves involved and what with being McCartney's kid and having to live up to all that buoyancy might be a bit unnerving, but I don't believe I ever saw him crack a devilish McCartney grin the entire time. He didn't even tap his foot and nod his head like his papa while he sang, which led me to believe he must have gotten his stage charisma from his mom's side of the family, which consisted of mostly a long line of lawyers. Enough said. His voice is very high and lovely.

McCartney Father and Son, both reacting to excellent news.

“I’d be up for it,” the 34-year-old McCartney told the BBC. “Sean seemed to be into it, Dhani seemed to be into it.” Sean being Sean Lennon, the surly, pampered son of John Lennon and Dhani the diminutive offspring of George Harrison. Apparently the only holdout in this Plan Of Plans is Zak Starkey (you guessed it - Ringo's kid) - a renowned drummer in his own right, having beat the tubs for The Who and Oasis, among others. He could probably tell, with that uncanny sixth sense that really good drummers seem to possess, that this could be an embarrassing cluster-fuck and he wanted no part of it. McCartney then added that perhaps Jason Starkey (Ringo's other kid - presumably not as astute as his older brother) might be able to fill in. To hell with that, I say - just ask Ringo to do it. Ringo will play with anyone - I heard back in the 80's that Ringo was such a publicity-hungry media whore that he would attend the opening of an envelope. This is probably an exaggeration. Of course, I may be biased since the day Ringo announced haughtily that he would no longer be giving out autographs, thank you. In my opinion, it is safer to simply stop giving them out altogether, without the announcement. That way, you only seem to be an asshole to one person at a time, or perhaps a small group of people clamoring for your autograph, Beatlemania style, rather than appearing to be an asshole to everyone on the planet with one click of the "send" button.

But I digress - I'm certain Ringo is actually a swell chap. And he is  oneheckofa drummer.

Ringo addressing an autograph seeker and Zak showing his excitement over the Weetles.

Dhani Harrison, from all I can gather, is a pretty cool kid. He has a fine mix of his father's acerbic wit, an intelligent outlook and a certain calm inner-peace that comes from the delightful combination of being raised by a man who was spiritually in tune and never having to have worked at a Burger King. Why he would want to subject himself to the scrutiny, judgement and inevitable comparison to the greatest band on earth, I have no idea. Even if the music was decent, it would be compared to "Hey Jude", "Penny Lane" and "Strawberry Fields Forever". And Paul McCartney in the audience will always get a bigger ovation than the sprats onstage. Just sayin'. They might be better served to hire a bunch of crackerjack musicians and an orchestra and put on costumes and be one of those Beatles tribute bands that play the casinos. Except the program would read: "James McCartney as Paul McCartney, Dhani Harrison as George Harrison, Sean (or Julian) Lennon as John Lennon and Zak (or Jason) as Ringo!" You just went from casinos to stadia - you're welcome.

The Harrisons and their glee at playing stadiums over casinos.

The Lennon situation is a quandary. Though Li'l Macca says Sean is willing, I have a difficult time believing his buy-in. He won't even play with his brother, right? He's a broody little fella, too, from what I can tell - he seems pretty self-important and I can't imagine him listening to Dhani's suggestion that his idea for a bassoon solo is absurd without serving up a shit-storm. Just my take on it - I imagine Sean Lennon is another swell cat. He was probably raised by a very nice nanny who taught him manners and respect.

The Lennons, each wondering how in the hell they put up with Yoko full-time.

That said, it might be easier to talk Julian into taking the gig - he seems easy going like the other guys and would probably appreciate the paycheck, since Sean's caterwauling harpy of a mother gypped him out of his share of Papa Lennon's estate. He could inject little, subtle Yoko jibes into the performances, like singing "Hey Shrew" in the background when J-Mac sings "Hey Jude" - that would show her.

Julian - "I'm in."

Speaking of Yoko - regardless of my personal feelings about her, I think she would probably be a great manager for the act. Let's face it, the manipulating harridan has always had her finger on the pulse of the entertainment world, certainly as no other since, say... Brian Epstein. Only Yoko had the foresight to suggest a popular musical icon and voice of a generation take a full-frontal, unflattering nude picture of himself and his full-frontal, unflattering mistress to use as an album cover (picture not shown here - keep moving). Genius - the man lost a legion of fans and the Beatles lost much of their credibility immediately. That's moving the needle kids - if that kind of power could be harnessed and used for good, who knows, The Weetles could bigger than, dare I say it? The Beatles.





Welcome Back - An Excerpt from "The Inevitable Downhill Slope"

Passersby wouldn’t have even recognized John Sebastian as the thin, bespectacled lead singer of the Lovin’ Spoonful. The bloated, filthy character slumped in the cold corner between the wall and the dumpster, with a crusted, colorful trail of dried vomit adorning his tattered shirtfront could have hardly been mistaken for the zitherplaying songwriter from the 60’s.

He began to stir and squinted at the sunlight streaming into the alleyway where he had passed out. He had long ago broken the last pair of glasses he had—around the time he had sold his last zither, and now saw most of the world in kind of a beautiful haze. Sebastian stumbled to his feet and brushed absently at the crusted puke on his chest. It flaked off and dissolved in a puddle of urine at his feet. “Good Lord,” he moaned, suddenly dizzy and nauseous. The last thing he remembered was partying with Evel Kneivel at a seedy dive, where Kneivel let him squeeze his colostomy bag and guess what he had eaten for lunch. The thought made Sebastian spew a little more vomit down his shirt. Kneivel had made an early exit after attempting to jump the pool table in the motorized cart that took him from place to place. He had bellowed something about George Hamilton being a talentless hack as the ambulance driver loaded the gurney and the bartender pushed Kneivel’s damaged cart into the alley.

Evel and his legendary scooter

A different alley, Sebastian thought, putting his legs into drive and beginning the short walk to the street. Sebastian suddenly thought of his friend Rick Danko, and the time the two of them had crashed at Ringo’s pad during a weeklong cocaine/methanphetamine binge that had left Danko with a permanent stammer. Danko had implored Ringo to lend them ten thousand dollars, claiming “Robbie’s good for it.” Ringo, drunk and stoned out of his mind wrote a check with knuckles bloodied from beating his wife, Barbara Bach to an unconscious lump.

Robbie and Rick - "Robbie's good for it..."

“Here you go,” Ringo had said, handing over the draft. He held up a bloody, swollen fist. “If Robbie doesn’t make this good, he’s in for some of this…”

Sebastian laughed and made his way up the boulevard. Pedestrians gave him wide berth, as much due to the ugly squinting as to the smell that emanated from his clothing. “Fucking Ringo,” he said, his voice soft and remindful of the golden pipes that had sold millions of records. Suddenly, Sebastian remembered: He was trying to find Gabe Kaplan, the star of “Welcome Back, Kotter,” the 70’s TV show for which he had penned the theme song. He figured Kaplan would be a soft touch for a couple thousand dollars. Enough to keep him in crack and malt liquor for a couple of weeks anyhow. And Kneivel had told him that Kaplan lived in Vegas now, made his living as a professional gambler.

“Try partying with Micky Dolenz,” Sebastian had slurred. “That’s a professional gamble…” Kneivel had laughed heartily, shortly thereafter hurtling the motorized cart toward its bleak and painful demise. Las Vegas, Sebastian lamented. It might as well be fucking Australia… Just then, a speeding Bonneville hurtled around the corner, its top half up, like a sail in the wind, reminding Sebastian of the song “Sloop John B” by the Beach Boys. The driver was wrestling with the top, cursing at the top of his lungs, his hands nowhere near the steering wheel when the car careened into the curb and smashed into Sebastian, who even with his poor vision, had realized that this was going to be big fucking trouble.

Charles Martin Smith, unaware that he had just pulverized John Sebastian like a Salisbury Steak, heard the unmistakable voice of the Lovin’ Spoonful as it lingered in the air. “And he ate up all o’ my corn…”

“What the heck,” Charles Martin Smith said, briefly pausing in his struggle with the convertible top. “That was the Beach Boys, wasn’t it?”

And the car continued to rocket toward Topanga canyon.