Today, John Lennon would have been seventy-five.<\/p>\n
That seems almost impossible to credit. In our minds, an image burned in from pictures or movies or television or music, he’s always a young man, never quite reaching middle age. I’m older now than Lennon was when he was killed. We remember him young, because he never had to chance to grow old.<\/p>\n
Five years ago<\/a>, for Lennon’s 70th birthday, I was in a nostalgic mood. I listened to all of his solo music in the run-up to his birthday. I’m not feeling as nostalgic today. This year, I’ve been so overwhelmed with work (it’s a publication week) that I’ve barely kept my head above water and my musical companion this week has been, oddly, the Malcolm in the Middle<\/i> soundtrack album. I’ll probably queue up an album when I get home from work, or maybe I’ll put A Hard Day’s Night<\/i> in the DVD player (which I’ve not watched in a few years). I have nothing profound or witty or interesting to say.<\/p>\n Instead, then, let me share a few choice pieces I wrote on John Lennon over the years. \ud83d\ude42<\/p>\n Happy birthday, John.<\/p>\n\n