Rethinking Yoko: David Sheff's biography challenges decades of misinformation
In 1980, at the relatively tender age of 24, David Sheff landed a journalistic coup in the form of a multipart interview with John Lennon and Yoko Ono. The famous couple had just ended a period of self-imposed retirement and were releasing their first new album of original material in five years. Sheff's interview proved to be a masterstroke. In one of its most significant aspects, the interview involved a lengthy analysis of Lennon's recorded output. Within a matter of weeks, Lennon would be murdered. Quite suddenly, Sheff's interview with the Lennons became the lasting word on the musician's illustrious career.
In the process—particularly in the weeks after her husband's harrowing death—Ono and Sheff became friends. When it came to telling Ono's story, Sheff found himself at loggerheads over the ethics of authoring her biography. 'Just as my friendship with Yoko allowed invaluable access and insights,' he wrote, 'it forced me to face a difficult and critical question: Can a journalist tell the truth about a friend? I wasn't interested in presenting a whitewashed version of Yoko's story—a friend's filtered idealization.'
With "Yoko," Sheff eschews 'filtered idealization' in favor of crafting Ono's biography with all of the artist's foibles and failures in candid relief. 'I did my best to strip the varnish away,' Sheff writes. 'I did my best to accurately reconstruct events and dialogue and report what actually happened.' In this unfiltered, unvarnished portrait of the artist, Sheff succeeds magnificently in bringing one of popular music's most divisive and misunderstood personae to life.
'I expose Yoko's missteps and failures,' Sheff writes. 'I reveal the depth and sources of her pain and fear. I also show her profound wisdom, wit, humor, inspiration, talent and joy; her resilience, compassion, her triumphs and genius.' Along the way, we learn about Ono's crucial life in pre-war Japan, a privileged upbringing that led to her early forays in artistry and philosophy. In some of the book's finest moments, Sheff explores her creative emergence, particularly her brash efforts to enmesh herself with Fluxus, the international art movement that celebrated the act of performance for performance's sake.Crucially, Sheff examines the evolution of Ono's association with Lennon in welcome, forensic detail. And what happened next, as the couple fell in love and paraded their relationship on the world stage, would involve elements of misogyny and racism that persist into the present day. 'The racism and misogyny behind Yoko's denigration over the years can't be overstated,' Sheff writes. 'When the two went out, fans yelled for Yoko to go back to her own country. John received racist letters, including ones warning him Yoko would slit his throat as he slept. They called her a 'Jap,' 'Dragon Lady' and other slurs.'
And in one of the cruelest turns, fans would forever blame Ono—would scapegoat her—for breaking up The Beatles. In this aspect, Sheff makes a convincing case that not only did Ono not cause the Fabs' disbandment, she in fact prolonged their working relationship over their last few albums. 'There's a version of The Beatles story in which there'd be no 'Let It Be' or 'Abbey Road' without Yoko,' Sheff argues. 'During the writing and recording of those albums, John had a foot out the door. If he hadn't had Yoko, the other foot might have followed sooner than it did. Instead of being blamed and pilloried for breaking up the group, maybe Yoko should be thanked for keeping the band together during that fertile period.'
"Yoko" is required reading for die-hard Beatles fans and music lovers, to be sure, but it's also a master class about assembling the evidence and rethinking the manner in which we think about our culture's most iconic figures. We might very well be surprised about what we find when the dust settles.
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Every now and then, my grandfather would pull my grandmother up from her chair and have a quick dance." "My grandmother teaching me how to shoot pool with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She was born in the 1800s. Gramps was killed in a liquor deal gone bad. She was a 'woman of the streets,' so to speak. She was deemed not fit to raise my dad, so he left to go live with her sister, his aunt, who had seven other boys; he was the youngest. He ended up enlisting at 15, served in three wars, and became an officer. He always sent her money and letters, which she kept. The money she spent. I was her fave." —TinCupJeepGuy "My mema would always say 'Give me some sugar' and kiss me and give me the most awesome hugs when we would go visit." "My grandma took me to the movies to see The Beatles' Hard Day's Night when it first came out. She was in her 60s and looked like the typical grandma. She was carded to get in. My grandma built Mardi-Gras floats in Mobile. She did the work by herself, and was in her 50s when she started that work. She built frames, did papier mache, applied gold leaf by hand, etc. All her grandkids loved hanging out in the warehouses she worked out of. We would get any candy leftover after Mardi-Gras. I could go on. She was the most amazing woman. She had nine kids and 59 grandchildren. I'm honored to have had her in my life." "Our Opa would stand in front of the curtained pantry, reach up and grab a candy bar from the top shelf (that us littles couldn't see) and tell us the cloud man came to visit." —KWAYkai "Once I was really sick in the winter, but it was sort of a nice day, so my grandma let me sit in her car with her in the sun while she taught me how to play Gin Rummy." "My maternal grandpa played the fiddle, and my siblings and I danced." "My paternal grandfather was my favorite grand. I'd sit on his knee and we'd talk and talk. He called me by the Scottish version of my name and never teased me about my red hair. I fell asleep many times while resting my head against his chest and listening to his heartbeat. He died when I was 8. I'm an old lady now, but I still miss him." —PeaceOut70 "My grandpa taking me fishing at dawn. Paddling ever so quietly away in the canoe while everyone was still sleeping on their houseboat. Him telling scary bedtime stories as I nestled in my sleeping bag outside under the bright, shiny stars up on top of said houseboat." "Standing in my grandpa's kitchen with him as he opened a popcorn maker. Kernels were still popping and going all over the kitchen. Their little Pomeranians were dashing around, eating popcorn off the floor. With every pop my grandpa was exclaiming 'dammit! dammit' while I just laughed. Standing in the same grandpa's kitchen 20-something years later, as he taught me to make salsa." "In 1st grade Sunday school, I was approached to play Joseph in the Christmas Pageant. I didn't want to do it…no how, no way. My grandmother made a special trip to come see me with her proposal. She would buy me a special toy right there and then if I agreed to be in the pageant. I loved all things space and astronaut-related. I shot for the moon — Major Matt Mason Space Station. We made the rounds of the stores in North Jersey and finally found one." "When it came time for the pageant, I hammed it up perfectly. I made like I was searching high and low for an empty inn, mimed an argument with the 'No Vacancy' innkeepers, and doted over my Wife Of The Night. People ate it up! My grandmother had tears in her eyes, she was so happy. It would be the biggest toy I ever received, and I played the hell out of it!"—stilloldbull2 "My Grandpa was missing three fingers from his left hand from a saw accident. He could still play the piano just as amazingly as before the accident." "Speaking Sicilian with my Nonno (grandfather). During my most awkward years (12-13), he was my best friend. Playing cards, sneaking into his room after the house was quiet, drinking Brown Derby beer (from the closet), and smoking Lark cigarettes." "Mine mostly passed when I was quite young or before I was born. I was always kind of jealous of kids who had good relationships with their grandparents. My one surviving grandmother was strange. I remember she had a cat journal where she documented her cat Totsy's daily activities, like almost a fanfiction. Totsy also lived for like 20 years. She didn't write anything about my mom in them, just cat." —NeiClaw "Some of my best memories were with my grandma. When I was younger, we'd bake pies and she'd take me to the mall for lunch and shopping. In her later years, the roles were reversed. She was one of the most genuine, positive, and beloved people I've ever known. She lived to be 100. I'll miss her dearly until the day I see her again." "My grandparents were the most wonderful people. I think my best memory of them, together, was at a wedding when I was 8. My grandmother was dancing the tarantella scarf dance, and my grandfather was laughing and clapping along. They were so happy. With my grandfather, my favorite memory was around the same time; my grandfather was a train engineer, and he would take me to work and let me 'drive the train.' He died when I was 10, but I lived with my grandmother until I joined the Army at 18. Probably my favorite memory of my grandmother was when I was I high school. I was in a band, and we would practice at her house. One day, the neighbors complained that they couldn't hear their TV, and my grandmother told them they should turn it up. I always felt supported by my grandmother, no matter what I did." "The smells at their house: the cypress trees that framed the front door, the clay of the garden in the back, the yeast rolls my grandmother made every day, and the clove gum my grandfather chewed. Just one of those smells takes me back, even 60 years later." —Baebarri "We went to my grandparents' house every Saturday when I was growing up. Everything just tasted better when my Gramma made it. We had egg salad, tuna fish, or cold cut sandwiches for lunch (cookies for dessert). 'Supper' (as they called it) was either London Broil or Chicken Parm (with one of my Gram's exquisite homemade pies for dessert). My Gramma played with me and my sister while Knight Rider was on TV (she would say, 'That Michael Knight is such a nice boy!'). Haha. My dad and grandfather watched sports in the other room. They're all gone now except for me and my sister. I still remember every inch of it." "The fish fries my grandparents would throw on Fridays or Saturdays. My grandpa was an avid sports fisherman and would always throw down fried bass with hushpuppies, cole slaw, and roasted parsley potatoes. We'd all stay outside in their rural, pastoral backyard catching fireflies until it got too dark, and then we'd all come inside and listen to someone bust out some amazing music. Then someone would say, 'Let's hit the highway, y'all.' This time has come and gone. It is a sweet memory. I am grateful for it." "My Grandma had an electric dryer that, when done, played the tune 'How Dry I Am.' She got me up very early one morning and insisted I sing for the milkman. I got a glass bottle of chocolate milk." —Sknowles12 "My paternal grandparents lived 8 hours away. We had a reel-to-reel with speakers and a microphone. We would record messages to them, mail them, and they would send one back. My favorite was my grandfather whistling for the dog, and he barked at the player." "I remember my grandma making delicious Dutch Olliebollen every Saturday morning and going for walks with her through Hoboken, New Jersey, where she would point out the houses and apartment buildings where people she knew died from the Spanish Flu. Then we'd stop at a pier and watch the tugboats push ocean liners into their berths." "My grandmother flew to see us, early in the mid-50s, 1955 or 1956. She smuggled a little kitten in her purse. She had the purse under the seat, and the kitten got out and wandered the plane. The flight attendant (stewardess, then) brought the kitten to my grandmother and said, 'I think you lost this.' Without a blink, she said, 'Thank you so much. It is a gift for my grandson.' We called the kitten Smudge because of the irregular dark mark on the forehead of the white kitten." —Off2xtremes "My grandparents were from rural Alabama. In 1978, we dug their last outhouse. We got them running water to the house four years later, but the memory of taking leave from the Army that summer and digging that hole while my grandma made us sweet tea was such a yin/yang moment. She made another ten years but at least had her own 'shitshed,' her words, not mine." And finally, "My grandfather had a tin with boiled sweets, but he was famous for not sharing. Us grandkids would never be allowed to have any... until he left the room. Then my grandma would call us in and have us quickly grab two each, 'One for the mouth, one for the hand.'" What's a special memory you have with your grandparents that shows how much times have changed? Share it with us in the comments or via the anonymous form below:
