In an effort to face down his demons, Lennon entered into an extended period of counseling with controversial psychologist Arthur Janov. Janov’s preferred method of treatment was called Primal Scream Therapy. During therapy, the patient recalled and reenacted particularly disturbing past experiences that typically occurred early in life and which later resulted in repressed anger or frustration. Janov’s solution was to let it all hang out through spontaneous and unrestrained screams, hysteria, or violence. Great Balls of Fire! It was the perfect match for a rock ‘n roller (listen to Lennon’s vocals on the 1963 Beatles cover of “Money” if you’d like to hear some early Primal Scream Therapy), and Lennon took full advantage of the opportunity and eventually turned it into music.
The result was his first official solo album, “John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band,” released in late 1970. Lennon launched into the proceedings with “Mother, you had me/But I never had you” and it descended into the maelstrom from there. Janov’s primal screams are heard to marvelous and sometimes hair-raising effect throughout the album.
That was 50 years ago. Lennon settled down to some approximation of domestic bliss, raised a family, baked bread, and was eventually felled by an assassin. Sometimes you need a bullet-proof vest as much as you need love. But I come back to him frequently. I loved the man; loved the conflicted bundle of contradictions that could take in fervent wishes for peace and love, finger-shaking denunciations, raging accusations. He sounded not like a rock star, but like a human being to me.
And he quieted down, even on that Janov-influenced first album. I come back to his song “Isolation” frequently these days, probably for obvious reasons. But also because it’s a quiet song, and because sometimes you can shout the loudest when you’re not shouting. My wife and I hang out together at home because that’s about all we can do. We take walks in the neighborhood, zig-zagging back and forth to avoid other human beings. To keep ourselves alive. To keep them alive. We visit with our neighbors across the street. I mean that quite literally. We yell out our conversations to one another across the street. It’s friendly yelling, but still. We maintain appropriate social distancing. We talk to our kids, all grown up and on their own in other cities. We talk to our friends. And we do it all via screens, just like everybody else. Then my wife and I talk quietly late at night, wondering how our puny efforts can possibly make a difference, hoping against hope for hope.
Just a boy and a little girl
Trying to change the whole wide world
Isolation
John Lennon was not a prophet, although he styled himself as one at various points during his all-too-short life. He couldn’t have seen 50 years into the future, couldn’t have envisioned a time when his isolation would become everyone’s isolation. And he couldn’t have conjured the surreal vision of “freedom fighters” putting themselves and everyone else at risk, defiantly proclaiming their rights to haircuts and salon treatments and giant bags of Cheetos at Costco. But I listen to him, and I watch the news, and it surely sounds like he knew 2020 quite well.
I don’t expect you to understand
After you caused so much pain
But then again, you’re not to blame
You’re just a human, a victim of the insane
It is shocking to me how quickly the world can turn. Two months ago, we were watching our retirement nest egg grow, planning to pull up stakes and move to a warm climate and start a new retirement life in early 2021. Then the world turned, my wife lost her job, we lost a boatload of our retirement money, and we started shouting to our neighbors across the street. And we are among the fortunate ones. I know this.
The sun will never disappear
But the world may not have many years
Isolation
I have nothing but questions. I have no answers. I am no prophet, and I don’t know what’s going to happen. I try to envision a better future, a future in which all of us are better connected, a future where “community” is not some lofty concept, but a tangible outworking of shared humanity. I try to envision a future where “shared humanity” is still a meaningful concept to shared humanity. I wonder if any of this can continue, if this isn’t, in fact, the great societal unraveling. I wonder if the forces of narcissism and consumerism and almighty amoral capitalism are simply too much to overcome during a time when the concept of love of neighbor sounds both altogether necessary and nostalgically quaint. I lose sleep over this. My wife loses sleep over this, at least partly because I keep her up at night talking about it. But for now, and perhaps for a long time to come, we talk in isolation.
