Give Me a Chance Read online

  Derek had shown the letter to the Beatle, who had only laughed – which I didn’t understand. Derek explained that John, like a lot of stars, sometimes got vile letters from people. The Beatles had actually received death threats in the past. I was horrified, but Derek promised that he always showed any serious ones to the police. After that, he shrugged, all you could do was be careful and get on with your life.

  I didn’t think I could ever do that. I would be too upset and would be looking over my shoulder all the time. I didn’t fancy living like that. I was seeing a lot of the downside of being a star. Derek reminded me that there were millions more great people in the world than nasty ones, which more than evened things out. But I thought even one menace was too many.

  It was that day that Kyoko came to us and complained that she felt ill; her throat hurt and she had trouble swallowing. When I touched her forehead, I could feel she was hot and feverish. We told Yoko, who immediately called the hotel doctor. He diagnosed a bad case of tonsillitis; Kyoko needed some medicine and rest. Kyoko herself wasn’t happy, and I thought it was hard enough being sick without being so far away from home too.

  Bad things are supposed to come in threes, and it so happened that our next visitor was Al Capp, the famous cartoonist who created the popular comic strip “Li’l Abner”. He was a humorist, known to be in favour of the Vietnam War, but I didn’t find him in the least bit funny. How could anyone want war? Mr Capp, a conservative-looking man of about sixty, walked in declaring, “I’m that dreadful Neanderthal fascist!”

  John, who could hold his own with anyone, smiled, “That’s a nice introduction … we’re those famous freaks!”

  Mr Capp warned the Lennons that up till now they’d been surrounded by admirers, adding, “And I may wind up to be one… You never can tell.” But he wasn’t there to sing John and Yoko’s praises. He noted that all they seemed to be doing was lying in bed.

  John answered, “We talk ten hours a day and it’s functional for us to be lying down.” He explained that by trying to stop war, they were doing their bit for the human race.

  Al Capp didn’t buy that either. He laughed, “Whatever race you’re a representative of, I ain’t a part of it!” and asked exactly what they thought they were doing for peace.

  John reported proudly that he and Yoko had just spoken on the phone to some university students, and had successfully stopped a violent demonstration before it got out of hand. “We don’t agree with violence in any form… We’re telling them to protest in some other way.”

  I thought that was reasonable, but next Mr Capp accused John of only doing the Bed-In for money!

  I could see that John was getting angry. So was I. I was ready to jump in and defend my hero – but I realized he could more than take care of himself. John told his guest in all honesty, “I could write a song in an hour and earn more money!”

  The cartoonist chose not to believe that. “It won’t do you any real harm,” he persisted.

  John shrugged, “I prefer singing to doing this, but I’m doing this for a reason.”

  Just to keep things even, Al Capp turned his attention to Yoko, referring to her as “Madame Nhu”, who was the ruthless wife of the corrupt South Vietnamese dictator. Although this was far from a compliment, Yoko, calm as ever, didn’t rise to the bait. But I was flabbergasted. What made this man think he could be offensive just because John and Yoko were famous?

  Derek had also had enough. He sprang to his feet, stood between Al Capp and the Lennons and told the cartoonist furiously, “Get out … I’m not having these people insulted!”

  Capp was delighted to have hit a nerve, but John softly asked his friend to calm down. “Please leave him. We asked him here.”

  Derek, a gentle man who hated being rude, no matter what the cause, apologized. “Forgive me.”

  But Al Capp wasn’t as gracious as Derek. “It’s not for me to forgive you, but your psychiatrist!” With that, he just walked out, laughing.

  John called after him, “You just did a great deal for peace, Mr Capp. You don’t know how much!”

  I wanted to know what Capp was doing to make the world a better place. But John didn’t seem bothered; he immediately started singing funny songs to lighten the atmosphere.

  Then he had a better idea. Among the many gifts John had been showered with, he’d been given a big monster’s head. He hadn’t known what to do with it before – but he did now. Putting the monster on a podium, he scribbled a sign underneath: “Al Crapp”. Not the greatest line John had ever written, but it certainly helped to lift our mood.

  But the unpleasant incidents didn’t leave a bad taste for long; everyone was having too much fun. The quiet times were the most precious, when the press and crowds were kept away, and John and Yoko would just relax with a few of us. We all got to know one another a bit better.

  I didn’t know it then, but at the time the Beatles were in the process of breaking up – an unthinkable thought. It would shock the world and cause tidal waves of emotion for many years; I, like millions of others, would be devastated. But during this peaceful time with John I would never have guessed what was to come.

  He was a joyful man, and didn’t seem to have any worries. He had just married Yoko, whom he loved deeply, and they were enjoying being together. I wasn’t surprised that John was such an expert at writing love songs.

  In fact, John and Yoko had recently recorded a new song, “The Ballad of John and Yoko”, which had been released that week. Telling the story of how they married, it soared instantly to the top of the charts. Really, it seemed life couldn’t get any better for the Lennons.

  John always spoke warmly about the other Beatles, both as a band and as individuals. He was proud of everything they’d accomplished together; they were the most popular band in history, with more Number One hits than anyone. John was fulfilled both personally and professionally – and the Bed-In for Peace also seemed to be working. At that moment John was the happiest man I knew, and he liked to spread that happiness around.

  John was always singing and playing his guitar; it was as if they were a part of him. He expressed himself through music, and everything was a cue for a song. All Derek had to do was mention he’d booked flights on Air Canada, and John started improvising on the spot: a song called “Good Old Air Canada” was born before my eyes.

  Once when I was alone with John, he asked me what I wanted to do when I finished school. Up till then, I’d never dared admit that I wanted to be a writer. It wasn’t the sort of work you could apply for down at the job centre, nor the sort of thing that most parents are glad to hear you want to do. They’d usually rather you aspire to be a doctor, a nuclear physicist or a rocket scientist.

  How could I say that I’d known I wanted to be a comedy writer since I was eleven and heard my first comedy album? And that I wanted it so much that it actually hurt? I was afraid people would laugh at me – and not for the right reasons. I just couldn’t imagine doing anything else. My greatest fear was that I’d have to teach, or work in an office, or heaven knows what else, for the rest of my life. I knew those were good jobs, but I would be miserable because all I wanted to do was write. I hesitated for a moment. Should I tell John? Would he understand?

  I should have known better. John didn’t laugh or throw cold water on my dreams. That’s not what heroes do. He made my ambition seem like the most natural thing in the world. He just asked, “Have you sold anything yet?”

  Excuse me? Did I hear right? The theory that someone would actually pay for my writing didn’t compute. I’d never thought that was a possibility. Living in Montreal, I didn’t even know where to begin. I explained that I’d done lots of articles for my school newspaper, and I wrote comedy sketches all the time for my friends, but I never imagined I’d be paid in real money. I didn’t know that my work had a value.

  John looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked if I’d heard of the Beatles Monthly magazine. Of course I had! The clue was in the title. It was
the group’s own magazine, based in Britain, and it came out once a month. It was jam-packed with the latest Beatles news, stories and photos, and I counted the days till each issue. I had them all.

  John took that as a yes. He went to the phone, dialled the magazine and asked to speak to the editor. He then told him about the Bed-In, and who I was and what I was doing there. And then he added, “She’s going to send you an article about me. Buy it!” After listening for a moment, he said thank you and hung up. He turned back to me and grinned. “You’ve just sold your first article. You’re now a writer. So write!”

  I asked, “Do you want to take commission?”

  He laughed. How do you thank someone who’s given you the greatest gift? But John didn’t want to be thanked. He just wanted to give me my chance.

  The Bed-In got busy again, and more famous faces kept arriving. It still seemed so unreal, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse had shown up. They didn’t – but instead we were joined by the notorious psychologist Timothy Leary. He was very alternative and believed in “exploring the mind”, whatever that meant. Dr Leary was popular with hippies; it was he who coined the phrase “Turn on, tune in, drop out.”

  The variety of people who were drawn to the Lennons and the peace movement was incredible. I couldn’t resist the chance to ask Dr Leary for his autograph; I was building up quite a collection that week. He was gracious and wrote on my piece of paper, “You can do whatever you like in the future. You are divine!”

  That sounded lovely, but I didn’t really know what it meant. Dr Leary explained to me that we all have the power within us to do what we want to do; we just need the courage and confidence to find that power. He thought that you could make your own future – rather as John had told me that we could have peace if we all wanted it and worked for it. Our lives were up to us. I think I was beginning to get the message.

  John and Yoko were trying to change people’s thinking and make them more aware so there wouldn’t be any more wars. And there was one thing John particularly wanted to do while they were in Montreal: a great ambition of his had always been to record a peace anthem. He wanted to write a song that would stand the test of time and be sung all over the world for decades to come. He decided that, with so many of his famous friends about, this was the ideal time for him to do it. I couldn’t believe it. Now I might be able to watch a song actually being recorded.

  As ever, once the Beatle made a decision, there was no time like the present. He sprang into action and asked me to help. John sat on the floor of the bedroom, and I perched alongside him. He explained that, with so many stars and musicians about, he wanted everyone to sing the song along with him and Yoko. He’d have to write out the lyrics. I held my breath; I had no idea what the song would be – and nor did anyone else in the world. I was getting my own sneak preview.

  Judy Steinberg and Tommy Smothers; Rosemary Woodruff Leary and Timothy Leary; and John, all taking a break from the Bed-In.

  John was very organized and when working he concentrated deeply – the sign of a true professional, I was learning. No detail was too small. He took some of the left-over large pieces of white cardboard and the black pen he had used to draw the signs on first arriving, which now seemed like a lifetime ago. He wanted to write a cue card big enough for everyone to be able to see when they were singing. I watched as his magic words flowed out of his magic marker: “Give Peace a Chance”.

  John must have composed “Give Peace a Chance” sometime earlier, because he already knew the lyrics and just had to jot them down. I sat and watched as the brand-new song unfolded before my eyes; it was one of the most exciting times of my life. I’d be one of the first people ever to hear it, and I couldn’t wait. This was so much cooler than racing down to the shops with my girlfriends to buy the latest Beatles album. This time, the song had come to me.

  John wrote the first line across the top of the cue card. Then he started to write the verses, four of them in all, in neat columns underneath.

  My favourite verse was the last, in which John listed a lot of the people who were with us in Montreal, including Tommy Smothers, Timothy Leary and Derek Taylor. As I’d got to know Derek and watched him work, I felt he was one of the hitherto unsung stars of the Bed-In. I knew that none of this could have taken place without him. Derek managed to turn chaos into order, and did it calmly and kindly too. He was definitely one in a million and I was glad he was being acknowledged.

  I was also thrilled to see Tommy Cooper mentioned; he was one of my favourite English comedians and could make me ache with laughter every time he performed. I knew by now that John and I shared a similar sense of humour, which may have been what drew me to him in the first place. I was positive that all these people would get a kick out of being immortalized in a Lennon song.

  As I struggled to see over his shoulder, John wrote the chorus line of his new song across the bottom of the cue card, and I knew I was looking at a hit.

  He finished writing the cue card, then studied it for a moment. Yet he still wasn’t satisfied with the actual card. He’d written on only one half of it, and now felt that it wouldn’t be big enough for everyone to see. So he gave me a second piece of cardboard, handed me his magic marker and asked me to write the song out again, only this time making it twice as large.

  In the meantime, John turned his thoughts to recording the music. Of course he himself would be playing guitar, and he asked Tommy Smothers to play on the song as well. Tommy was eager to join him – who wouldn’t have been? – but he didn’t have his guitar with him. He said he could only play a Gibson, so John lent him one, then performed the song for him, showing him and saying, “It’s in the key of C.”

  Tommy wanted to put in some of his own bits, but John – who was, after all, used to being the leader of the world’s most successful band – said no. They didn’t have time to try new things out anyway. He made Tommy go back to the beginning of the song and play it over and over again, till he was happy with every last detail. John had obviously got to be a rock star not only thanks to talent but also through hard work and perseverance. Since there were only two guitars, John decided it would sound best if he and Tommy doubled up on the parts, and they played together in unison till he was satisfied.

  As I copied the lyrics, and listened to them play, I no longer envied the girls in the studio audience of The Ed Sullivan Show. Unlike those other fans, I was getting my own personal concert. I hung on every note.

  I finished the cue card and cringed as I saw how in places my writing had sloped off a bit to the left or right. But luckily, John approved it. I felt proud that my card was going to be used for his recording. I asked John what he wanted me to do with the one he had written – and he said, “You can have it!”

  This had to be the souvenir of the century! I was overwhelmed and asked John if he was sure.

  As ever, he knew his own mind. “Keep it,” he insisted. “It’ll be worth something one day.”

  I wasn’t going to argue. I told him it would take pride of place in my bedroom. I couldn’t wait to show it to my friends. “This is the best swap in the history of swaps. My cue card for yours – what a deal!”

  Then it was time to concentrate on the actual recording. John decided that he wanted some tambourines in the background. But it was nine-thirty in the evening and all the music shops would be shut. Wherever would we find a tambourine? I had learned this week never to say never; where there’s a will, there’s a tambourine. I had a brainwave and remembered our Hare Krishna friends, with their drums, flutes and tambourines. They’d be perfect. It took only one call. As ever, they were very obliging – they headed straight over. John was beginning to get his band together.

  While all this was going on, Derek was arranging the technical side. John had asked for some eight-track recording equipment. Derek rang Andre Perry, a young record producer, who had a studio not too far away in a suburb of Montreal. He came as fast as he could, eager to help record
the song.

  Andre and Derek supervised as the bulky equipment was brought into the room. Microphones and tape recorders were put into place, and Andre ran sound checks. Since this wasn’t a proper studio, he needed to put screens around the room, which was quite large, to contain the music so the recording would sound professional.

  John and Yoko also wanted to capture this historic session on film, so movie cameras were brought in too. A film director set up lights and tried to find the best angles for his camera. I watched in awe as everything happened around me.

  When it was all ready, John called his guests back in and organized his band. Everyone was excited beyond belief to be there. No one had expected to be making a record with John and Yoko – least of all me.

  As well as Tommy Smothers, Petula Clark, Dick Gregory and Timothy Leary, more people arrived: the beat poet Alan Ginsberg, Murray the K – a New York DJ – and many others. Derek joined in, as did George Urquhart, the bodyguard. John decided to christen this unique group the Plastic Ono Band. Everyone was ready to rock. The excitement grew as John started rehearsing the song. People quickly picked it up – it was a catchy number! At about midnight, John was satisfied and gave the order for the song to be recorded, right there and then. This was it.

  As I heard the music start, I felt a tingle run through me. It was incredible hearing John play his guitar, singing and throwing his soul into it. I grabbed a tambourine and started bashing away; it was my finest hour. George clapped his hands and Derek Taylor sang along loudly too. The greatest jam session of all time had begun.

  Everyone started singing from the cue card I had written – and I was pleased to see that no one stumbled over my handwriting. The sound the Plastic Ono Band produced together was electrifying. It seemed there was happiness and magic all around; the music made us float on air. I was momentarily overwhelmed by all the emotion. For that moment, in room 1742 of the Queen Elizabeth Hotel in Montreal, I believed it was possible for us to change the world. Everyone should have that feeling all the time.