The Rolling Stone interviews - Jann Wenner [18]
Why did you choose or refer to Zimmerman, not Dylan.
Because Dylan is bullshit. Zimmerman is his name. You see, I don’t believe in Dylan, and I don’t believe in Tom Jones, either, in that way. Zimmerman is his name. My name isn’t John Beatle. It’s John Lennon. Just like that.
Always the Beatles were talked about—and the Beatles talked about themselves—as being four parts of the same person. What’s happened to those four parts?
They remembered that they were four individuals. You see, we believed the Beatles myth, too. I don’t know whether the others still believe it. We were four guys . . . I met Paul, and said, “You want to join me band?” Then George joined and then Ringo joined. We were just a band that made it very, very big, that’s all. Our best work was never recorded.
Why?
Because we were performers—in spite of what Mick says about us—in Liverpool, Hamburg and other dance halls. What we generated was fantastic, when we played straight rock, and there was nobody to touch us in Britain. As soon as we made it, we made it, but the edges were knocked off.
You know, Brian [Epstein, the Beatles’ manager] put us in suits and all that, and we made it very, very big. But we sold out, you know. The music was dead before we even went on the theater tour of Britain. We were feeling shit already, because we had to reduce an hour or two hours’ playing, which we were glad about in one way, to twenty minutes, and we would go on and repeat the same twenty minutes every night.
The Beatles’ music died then, as musicians. That’s why we never improved as musicians; we killed ourselves then to make it. And that was the end of it. George and I are more inclined to say that; we always missed the club dates because that’s when we were playing music, and then later on we became technically efficient recording artists—which was another thing—because we were competent people, and whatever media you put us in we can produce something worthwhile.
How did you choose the musicians you use on this record?
I’m a very nervous person, really, I’m not as bigheaded as this tape sounds; this is me projecting through the fear, so I choose people that I know, rather than strangers.
Why do you get along with Ringo?
Because in spite of all the things, the Beatles could really play music together when they weren’t uptight, and if I get a thing going, Ringo knows where to go, just like that, and he does well. We’ve played together so long that it fits. That’s the only thing I sometimes miss—just being able to sort of blink or make a certain noise and I know they’ll all know where we are going on an ad lib thing. But I don’t miss it that much.
How do you rate yourself as a guitarist?
Well, it depends on what kind of guitarist. I’m okay, I’m not technically good, but I can make it fucking howl and move. I was rhythm guitarist. It’s an important job. I can make a band drive.
How do you rate George?
He’s pretty good. [Laughs] I prefer myself. I have to be honest, you know. I’m really very embarrassed about my guitar playing, in one way, because it’s very poor. I can never move, but I can make a guitar speak.
You say you can make the guitar speak; what songs have you done that on?
Listen to “Why” on Yoko’s album [or] “I Found Out.” I think it’s nice. It drives along. Ask Eric Clapton, he thinks I can play, ask him. You see, a lot of you people want technical things; it’s like wanting technical films. Most critics of rock & roll, and guitarists, are in the stage of the Fifties when they wanted a technically perfect film finished for them, and then they would feel happy.
I’m a cinema verité guitarist; I’m a musician, and you have