Separating The Dirt From The Trash

Separating The Dirt From The Trash

Creemedia

Jim Feldman

by

THE LOVE YOU MAKE: AN INSIDERS STORY OF THE BEATLES by Peter Brown and Steven Gaines (McGraw-Hill)

Bless my cousin Judy. She worked at WABC Radio in New York in 1966, when the station was giving away some tickets TO SEE THE BEATLES at Shea Stadium in August. She got me a pair. I was 14. August 24th was the most exciting night of my life. My best friend Janie and I screamed and hollered along with everyone else; we didnt hear much music, maybe none. Who cared? We were seeing the Beatles—it was, well, too cool for words.

I still have my ticket stub. And so much great music, still perfect for any occasion. And plenty of memories of the Beatles, sharp and within easy reach. For me, the Beatles arent history, just lots of yesterdays ago. They changed me, you, music and gave the world a nudge, too— for the better, you know.

But time goes by, and while 1 still think the Beatles were, and are, It—and I still want to meet Paul McCartney—1 grab at every biography, reminiscence, analysis and so on as much to get some distanced, objective (I hope) viewpoint as to relive the good old days." But the latest volume, The Love You Make, by Peter Brown and Steven Gaines—what the hell, this book sucks. Its a smarmy tale that reduces a fascinating story to a pop version of the moronic intrigue on Dynasty or Dallas. Written by Peter Brown, who first worked for Brian Epstein, the Beatles manager, at the latters music store in Liverpool and eventually wound up as Director of Apple Corps (the Beatles financial organization) with journalist Steve Gaines, who has penned biographies of Marjoe and Alice Cooper, The Love You Make tells us little that hasnt been written about before in such books as Philip Normans incisive Shout! The Beatles In Their Generation, the picture-oriented The Beatles, with a text by Geoffrey Stokes, the musicminded, two-volume The Compleat Beatles, or even the sanitized, authorized biography, The Beatles, by Hunter Davies, published in 1968, well before the end.

By my count, there are nine new facts and stories in The Love You Make, which the authors take pains to point out with such phrases as revealed here for the first time." These include the news that George Harrison bedded down with Ringo Starrs first wife, Maureen; that the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi wasnt exactly a saint at his ashram in India; that Ringo, speeding his brains out, drove around the Indianapolis race track (site of the Indy 500) most of the night before a concert in 1964; and that the Beatles received cash under the table for concerts, to avoid some taxes. Oh yeah, on page 94, we find out that, yes indeed, Brian Epstein got it on with John Lennon on vacation in 1963, only the sex sounds like it was a drag. B.F.D., if you know what I mean.

The Beatles career and their music is merely a framework—a dry recitation of names, dates, places, people, chart and sales figures—on which the authors hang all the dirty linen: sex, drugs, infighting, corporate unpleasantness. Not that Brown and Gaines try to disguise the cheap, sensationalistic nature of the book—it begins with Cynthia Lennon walking into her home one day in 1969 and catching John with Yoko Ono. While the facts that Brian Epstein was gay and that he was smitten with John Lennon are certainly relevant to the story, the authors obsession with Epsteins private life negates their supposed empathy for his situation.

The few attampts at psychologizing and understanding peoples motivations are, at best, embarrassing, and at worst, stupid and meanspirited. Every time a gay person is introduced, a doting" mother isnt far behind. Queenie Epstein (Brians mother) saw symptoms of anti-Semitism everywhere," which makes sense, considering that she was living in mid-20th century Liverpool, but according to Brown and Gaines,

It was a common excuse when things did not go well with the outside world." Thirteen-year-old Paul McCartney was able to bury some of the pain of the loss" at his mothers death in the skiffle craze. Maureen Cox ensnared her man [Ringo] the northern way; by mid-January she was pregnant." (Question for the authors, since they dont back up their rude assumption: Dont you think Ringo had something to do with this, and isnt it just possible that the pregnancy was an accident? I dont really care, but you brought it up.) Brown and Gaines would also have us believe that Eric Clapton started to shoot heroin to dull the pain of his longing" for George Harrisons wife—now Claptons wife—Pattie. A little unrequited love and its The Needle And The Damage Done," huh? And so it goes—ad nauseam and ad absurdum. Best or worst, of all is the onesentence explanation of why Mark Davis Chapman killed John Lennon: There was no way of telling that one day he was to slip apart and become two people, himself and John Lennon, and then feel the compulsion to reduce the number to one again." Please.

We have long known that John, Paul, George, Ringo, and almost everyone involved with the Beatles often acted like complete jerks or worse. And the facts are dished up here as dirt, for its own sake. Besides which, the prose is totally flat, the dialogue is left over from last weeks episode of Dynasty (Paul screams at Ringo, Ill finish you all! Youll pay!"; Yokos ex, Tony Cox says, Ive got John by the balls this time"), the authors make like Architectural Digest with their exhaustive descriptions of furniture, and, to boot, there are a couple of factual contradictions: on page 23, we are told that Paul first went to hear the Quarrymen (Johns group) in both 1956 and 1957; on page 58, Clive Epstein is said to have been born 21 months after his brother, Brian, while on page 63, he is Brians older brother." In other words, The Love You Make is worthless. By the way, Mr. Brown and Mr. Gaines, And in the end/The love you take/Is equal to the love you make" is not the last lyric in the last song" on Abbey Road. The record ends with Her majestys a pretty nice girl/Someday Im gonna make her mine, oh yeah/Someday Im gonna make her mine."

More Proof God Is Vengeful

SEEDS OF CHANGE

By Kerry Livgren and Ken Boa (Crossway)

Kerry Livgren has been called the key creative force of Kansas." Is that like being the best iced-tea maker in Brighton, Michigan? Getting three sides on Rubiks Cube? Being the eighth Beatle?

Possibly. Kansas has been the most consistent slow-motion band in the world for a decade or so. Its almost fascinating to imagine anyone getting excited about anything theyve done. I dont mean just albums or tours; Id be hard-pressed to work up a sweat if they cured cancer. You listen to these guys long enough and youll start eyeing Iowa as a mecca of intrigue.

Of course, Kansas has scads of fans, having sold over 10 million records to date. Impressive, eh? On the other hand, over half of Americas adults believe in UFOs, 34% of our big people believe in the Devil as an anthropomorphic bad guy, and—the skeletal muscles of cockroaches are just like those in humans! So much for numbers, then.

Forgetting about Kansas for as long as we can, lets take a look at the story of Kerry Livgrens spiritual quest, Seeds Of Change. Copenned with Ken Boa (the author of God, I Dont Understand, which isnt The Best Of CREEMs Letters To The Editor), its the story of Kerrys life-long cosmic trek and eventual born again-ism. On the positive side, Kerrys tone is so sincere that you practically want to hand him a Milk Bone. What can you say about a guy who admits to the following in print: I remember many times coming home to my mother and saying, ËœMom, nobody likes me; Im not accepted. Or: Just as I was thinking of what a great day it was, along came a group of punks. They picked me up, threw me into the creek and continued walking to school." Or:

I would be the first to acknowledge that the majority of rock lyrics are ungodly and immoral. " Shoot, and here I had my heart set on being the first to acknowledge that. Well, you can see that Kerrys no slouch in owning up to some pretty darned embarrassing episodes. Thats always worth points in any book about spiritual quests.

On the other hand, though, this sort of thing can backfire if you overuse it. Which Kerry does with amazing regularity. Can you imagine a writer of any integrity serving up stuff like: Kansas has always sought to be a dynamic act on the concert tour." Really weird ambition there, Kerry. Or this tribute to moms home cooking: even now my appreciation for well-prepared foods knows few bounds." The old well-prepared food/bounds issue, eh? Or this wowser:Some of the most interesting lyrics that ever came out of me are in ËœThe Pinnacle. " Jeez, doesnt that just about go without saying?

All this yipping indicates the real problem with Seeds, namely: even if it was worth writing—which is remotely possible—it certainly wasnt worth writing so turgidly. 1 mean it, this is a better tar pit than a story. Whats worse, theres a tragic amount of rock commentary and Kansas history included, none of it worth the terrible cost of actually reading this thing. Abuses like minimalism and lurid lyrics have caused many people to flatly reject the validity of rock as a musical form." Say, thats man bites dog or Im in the wrong game. Buffalo Springfield was another group with a distinctive style." Eric Clapton of Cream was another fine guitarist." Like everyone else, I was affected by the Beatles." I tell you, its one shocker after another in this diatribe. The only vaguely interesting fact I could locate in Seeds is the irony-laden mention that Kansas opened for the Doors last live gig. Any cause-and-effect fans out there?

Forcing this smush into sellable pulp is quite a trick in itself, not to mention scarcely worth the trouble. The problem isnt Kerrys religious beliefs—which are pretty big on the Beliefs Top 40—but is, rather, his stunning clumsiness as a writer. Get this: My highly impressionable mind kept trying to make sense out of this heterogeneous input, and I actively looked for different levels of validity in otherwise opposing viewpoints." If you ask me, his highly impressionable mind was out to one helluva long lunch. Now I wish those creek-tossing punks would write a rebuttal.

J. Kordosh