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I was a precocious five year old, and already a gigantic fan of music.
We didn’t have much money when I was young, we never went to the movies, and couldn’t afford to spend anything on “entertainment.” But my parents had a large collection of 33-RPM albums and singles on 45.*
The most expensive thing in our house, besides perhaps the gigantic wooden consoled television, was my dad’s hi-fi and turntable. Every weekend would be spent with the three of us on the floor in front of the speakers while my dad would play disc jockey.
Nearly every song had a story to go along with it. My mom and dad laughing and reminiscing about driving around in a 1966 gold Ford Mustang Fastback, listening to Frankie Vallie and the Four Seasons or The Beach Boys, or Jan and Dean. I’d hear the story about the night my dad went to a surprise party at my mom’s church. When the lights were lowered and everyone in the room was quiet, waiting for the guest of honor, my dad let out a very loud obnoxious and realistic “MOOOOOO.”
And interspersed with all these stories were the songs of The Beatles. I knew all the words to almost every song. I had listened to every album. Even today when I hear “In My Life” or “Hey Jude” I can still picture the 45 with the bright green apple logo spinning on the turntable.
That Monday evening the news reports broke into prime time television with the announcement that John Lennon had been shot and killed outside of his New York Apartment. My mother cried, my dad gritted his teeth. I don’t remember crying, I probably did, as I was an extremely sensitive child** and could cry at the drop of a hat.***
It wasn’t until the next day or two afterwards that it struck me that other people in the world liked The Beatles, that other families knew the words to “Imagine” and “Happy Christmas (War is Over).”
News reports showed the candle light vigils across the world. People gathered in Central Park when officials moved the crowd away from the Dakota. The world was grieving. I have only the vaguest impressions of memories surrounding Elvis’ death and funeral, so this was really the first time in my life that a celebrity death really impacted the people around me. It’s funny how when you’re a kid, you have no real concept of the world outside of your own family and friends.
It was also the first time that I got a glimpse of fame and admiration for a musician and I was hooked.
Many years later, my high school show choir went to New York City to perform at Ellis Island. It was my senior year, and I was on a bus loaded with my 50 closest friends,**** and some chaperoning parents, including my own.
As part of the tour, we walked through Central Park and ended up in Strawberry Fields and the memorial mosaic that sits across the street from the Dakota. The choir had been performing “Imagine” all year long, and we gathered around the memorial and sang it.
As we finished the song, a voice called out from across the street, “Thank you! John would love that!” Yoko Ono was standing on the stoop of her building waving at us. She grabbed the hand of the child next to her, turned and entered the building.
* Ok, for the young ones out there… there used to be these things called albums. They came on pressed sheets of vinyl with sounds cut into special grooves, that when a needle was applied, and the album spun at 33 revolutions per minute, music would come out. You only see these in thrift stores now, unless you DJ dance music, then you ruin the records by scratching over them with the needle.
** Are you surprised?
*** I still do. Damn that fucking holiday Folgers commercial. And ER. And the trailer for Pursuit of Happyness. And…
**** I barely interacted with anyone outside of the Harmonaires. I didn’t have time, with all the rehearsals and concerts. I didn’t know many people in my graduating class of 300, however for some reason everyone knew me.
