ntrast="auto">By the end of 1970, ntrast="auto">the war in Vietnam had again claimed thousands of American lives and tens of thousands of Vietnamese lives, and if you were a ntrast="auto">19-year-oldntrast="auto"> guyntrast="auto"> in either plantrast="auto">centrast="auto">,ntrast="auto"> you were probably ntrast="auto">wondering how to make sure you’d still be around to see the end of 1971.
ntrast="auto">I know I was.
ntrast="auto">That summer, the Temptationsntrast="auto"> conjured a great little “psychedelic soul” record thatntrast="auto"> summarized the mood for young people like ntrast="auto">me ntrast="auto">pretty wellntrast="auto">:
“Segregation, determination, demonstration, integration
Aggravation, humiliation, obligation to our nation
Ball of confusion
Oh yeah, that’s what the world is today”
ntrast="none">Thntrast="none">entrast="none"> summer of love in 1967 had quickly soured into a summer of mayhem in 1968, with assassinations of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy, ping ntrast="none">ping, ntrast="none">one afntrast="none">ter another, in a few weeksntrast="none">. ntrast="none">Bntrast="none">y 1969ntrast="none">,ntrast="none"> we had the Summer of Manson, a year that wrapped with the Winter of Altamont quickly undontrast="none">ing the groovy ntrast="none">vibesntrast="none"> of Woodstock.
ntrast="none">Man, was I ready when John Lennon stepped up to the microphone and sang “The dream is over.”
ntrast="none">It was December 1970, and ntrast="none">“John Lennon/The Plastic Ono Bandntrast="none">,ntrast="none">” Lennntrast="none">on’s first solo album after a decade of pop music culture dominated by the Beatles, ntrast="none">was a major cultural event, but not a major hitntrast="none"> recordntrast="none">.
ntrast="none">The album never cracked the Top Five on the record charts, and the album’s first single, “Mother,” never made it into the Top Ten.
ntrast="none">The first night I listened to the record, with some pals and probably some pot, I seemed to be the only one in the room that heard something special.
ntrast="none">“That is the greatest rock ‘n’ roll album anyone has ever made,” I solemnly proclaimed.
ntrast="none">“Oh, come on” was the amused, bemused, stoned, unimpressed, semi-irritated response ofntrast="none"> the others gathered around the old ntrast="none">Magnavox.
ntrast="none">Which made me irritated enough to storm out of the listening party and out into crisply chilly Fontana, California’s ntrast="none">steel townntrast="none"> night.
ntrast="none">By the time I gathered my wits about me, I was standing on an overpass on the 10 Freeway, one thumb out and the other onentrast="none">, speaking metaphysically not anatomically, up my nether regions.
ntrast="none">It was a long night and a long day and then some and by the time I landed I was about ntrast="none">800ntrast="none"> miles from Fontana, ntrast="none">south of thentrast="none"> Oregon border, perhaps, ntrast="none">as Paul Simon sang a couple of years earlier, “gone to look for America.”
ntrast="none">Or my other thumb.
ntrast="none">But I digress.
ntrast="none">So,ntrast="none"> what was it that John Lennon did, said, thought, sang and/or banged on about on “Plastic” that stimulated my wanderlust and ntrast="none">ignited the combustible engine of my young brain?
ntrast="none">First of all, Lennon stripped rock ‘n’ roll music down to its essentials — bass, drums, guitars — and then he stripped his message down to simple declarative statements that ntrast="none">turned “I want to hold your hand” into, essentially, “I want you to get off your ass and deal with your reality and do something about it, you silly git.”
ntrast="none">“Working Class Hero” took Bob Dylan’s folk music and super-charged it with a kind of urgency and frank big brother advicntrast="none">e. “First you must learn how to smile when you kill if you want to be like the folks on the hill.”
ntrast="none">Does that accurately describe and/or predict the showbiz world of Scott Rudin and Harvey Weinstein or what?
ntrast="none">“I heard something about my ma and my pa, they didn’t want ntrast="none">mentrast="none"> so they made me a star.” I’ve been quoting that linentrast="none"> for decadesntrast="none"> to explain ntrast="none">Kurt Cobain,ntrast="none">Prince, Tom Petty, Whitney Houston, Elvis Presley, ntrast="none">Amy Winehouse and every entertainer ntrast="none">whose talent, fame, beauty, wealth and acclaim were no match for holes inside their souls.
ntrast="none">“God is a concept by which we measure our pain” helps explain what happens to talented people whose pain is immeasurable.
ntrast="none">A few weeks after the album’s release, Lennon expounded in Rolling Stone on his recent experiences with unorthodox therapist Arthur Janov and his “Primal Therapy.” ntrast="none">Lennon’s challenge to Beatles fans to drop the fairy tales and pick up the weapons of their own skills and talents soundentrast="none">d a clarion call that I heard. I wonder how many others thought, “Damn, John Lennon just said to stop fooling around and get serious about making art and making a ntrast="none">difference. I better get to work.”
ntrast="none">They say when the student is ready, the teacher arrives. John Lennon got me ready. A few months later, in the summer of 1971, a teacher named Monte Hellman arrived in a ’55 Chevy inside a movie called “Tntrast="none">wo Lane Blacktop.”
ntrast="none">Fifty years later,ntrast="none"> this weekntrast="none"> Intrast="none">’ve beenntrast="none"> eulogizing the loss of ntrast="none">Hellmanntrast="none">,ntrast="none"> who opened the ntrast="none">doors ntrast="none">forntrast="none"> mentrast="none">tontrast="none"> be a part ofntrast="none"> makntrast="none">ingntrast="none"> filmsntrast="none">about pirates, immortal princes, ntrast="none">chickenfightersntrast="none"> and crazy filmmakersntrast="none">, traveling the world, engaging with the greatest film artists on the planet, writingntrast="none"> andntrast="none"> editingntrast="none"> at PvNew in Hollywood, writingntrast="none"> and makingntrast="none"> songs in Nasntrast="none">hville, ntrast="none">instead of living inside a dream of the 1960s that Lennon made sure I knew was “over.”
ntrast="none">He got me ready to listen that other guru, Dylan, who years later pointed out, “You got some big dreams baby but in order to dream you ntrast="none">gottantrast="none"> still be asleep.”
ntrast="none">If you’re 19, I hope there’s someone inside this pop culture universe who slaps you across the face and sends you hitchhiking a thousand miles to find that special gift inside yourself ntrast="none">so you can hear the ticking clock Tennessee Williamsntrast="none"> spoke about when he said:
ntrast="none">“ntrast="none">Time is ntrast="none">short,ntrast="none"> and it doesn’t ntrast="none">return againntrast="none">. It is slipping away while I write this and while you read it, and the monosyllable of the clock is Loss, Loss, Loss, unless you devote your heart to its opposition.”
ntrast="none">Can you hear it? once Upon ntrast="none">antrast="none">Time in pop music, John Lennon made sure I did and it had a backbeatntrast="none">, I couldn’t lose it.
