WE ALL SHINE ON – John, Yoko & Me by Elliot Mintz

“They were paradoxes, John and Yoko, filled to the brim with internal contradictions. On the one hand they could be incredibly sensitive, honest, provocative, caring, creative, generous and wise. On the other they could be self-centred, desperate, vain, petty and annoying. In John’s case, also shockingly cruel, even to Yoko.”

        So writes Elliot Mintz, spokesman for the Lennons both before and after John’s brutal murder, who certainly has a tale to tell and it is to his great credit that he has waited so long to tell it. A radio broadcaster by trade, his introduction to the Lennon’s came in 1971 after he interviewed Yoko about her LP Fly. Sympathetic attitudes towards Yoko being thin on the ground in those days, she was charmed by Mintz’s support and they stayed in touch, or at least she continued to phone him to chat, often late at night, for reasons he at first found difficult to understand. 

        Several months went by before she put John on the phone, ostensibly to interview him on air too, and much the same thing happened. Indeed, he and John spoke so regularly that Mintz had a second phone installed in his LA home for calls from the Lennons, with a blinking red light to warn him one of them was on the line. When they finally met in person a friendship developed and Mintz became privy to their bizarre lifestyle, not as a paid employee but as a reliable, discreet ally, a sounding board with whom they might discuss anything under the sun, a resource upon whom they could occasionally rely in emergencies and someone who would turn a blind eye to indiscretions. He filled this role with tact and distinction and the tone of his book suggests it remains the most fulfilling relationship of his life.

        Mintz’s services were definitely required. “John was functionally a child when it came to taking care of himself,” he writes. “He never learned to do his own grocery shopping, never paid a utility bill or mailed a package or involved himself in any of the myriad mundane tasks the rest of us spend so much of our daily lives mired in. He was clueless about the most basic elements of human commerce, like money and how to buy stuff with it.”

        The book spans the 1970s, the final decade of John’s life, and for the most part describes encounters between Mintz and the Lennons, most of which shed light on their occasionally perplexing beliefs and lifestyle. These reminiscences are clearly selective, chosen for their weirdness, which enlivens the book no end, but we are led to believe that many more encounters took place about which Mintz does not write, possibly because they were not as interesting, or possibly because he’s saving them for a sequel. Moreover, it’s a shame his tape machine wasn’t hooked up to the Lennon hot line, as we also learn that “hundreds” of phone calls occurred between him and the Lennons, just as they exchanged “hundreds” of letter and postcards*, a handful of which are included as illustrations in the book. Dialogue is therefore assumed, but it rings true, Mintz having learned to translate John’s idiosyncratic speak patterns, part funny, part Scouse, part endearingly Lennonesque. He always referred to Yoko as Mother. 

        Much of what Mintz writes about John chimes with my own beliefs or what I have read elsewhere. He was a klutz when it came to practical matters, and a terrible driver. He spent lengthy periods of time alone, often watching TV, mostly in their expansive apartments in the Dakota on New York’s Westside. He was fiercely protective of The Beatles’ legacy and disliked any comparisons that suggested they were influenced by others, especially Bob Dylan. He was a fan of numerology, as practised by Yoko, and food fads designed to reduce weight or otherwise enhance his health. Also, like the other three, he was not above playing the Beatle card to ease his passage through life. 

        Surprisingly, Mintz wasn’t at the judicial hearing in 1975 when John was awarded his green card, which enabled him to travel freely, but he did accompany the Lennons to Japan in 1977, a delightful trip for everyone involved, and became a sort of temporary third parent to John’s sons Julian and Sean when child minding was required. He was also present when, one Christmas (the year is unstated), Paul McCartney turned up at the Dakota where conversation between him and John was strangely stilted. It goes without saying that he was devastated by the events of December 8, 1980, and flew immediately to New York to offer himself as a pillar for Yoko to lean on. Aside from a few swipes at certain individuals who sought to capitalise on John’s death, the book contains very little about the years that followed. 

        We All Shine On is not a long book – I read it in two four hour sittings – its 300 pages are typeset sparsely with generous leading and there are plenty of unused pages throughout. It is illustrated with photos at the start of each of its four parts, has 16-page plate section and a useful index. 

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*Hunter Davies’ book The Lennon Letters, published in 2012, is an illustrated, annotated collection of over 200 letters that John wrote to all and sundry, authorised by Yoko, but it contains not a single one to Elliot Mintz, nor is Mintz mentioned in its index. In the light of the “hundreds” of letters Mintz claims to have received from John, I thought this was curious but Hunter enlightened me. “I never saw any letter [Mintz] says he received,” he informs me. “Yoko provided none alas, just her blessing and an intro and [she] allowed me to use her copyright on all John’s writings. For which she got 50 percent of all proceeds, without providing any letters. She said she was keeping what she had.”

CROWDED HOUSE – Brighton Centre, October 12, 2024

The evolving satellite that is Crowded House beamed down into Brighton on Saturday night, parking two luxury coaches and a pair of giant trucks at the rear of the town’s big seafront venue and entertaining a packed, mostly standing, audience to two hours and, by my count, 26 songs, two of which seemed like impromptu jams. The bulk of the setlist, however, was a deftly chosen selection of five tracks from their new album Gravity Stairs, the remainder a delightful excursion through their past, a deep well of wonder wherein lie heaps of crowd favourites going all the way back to Split Enz. 

        There is something gorgeously uplifting about a Crowded House show: how their songs of yearning are delivered with the utmost sincerity yet, at the same time, how they banter amongst themselves, occasionally bickering or taking the mickey; how they encourage crowd participation of a higher standard that at most gigs, at least last night; and, perhaps most of all, how they react with one another, looking like they’re having so much fun while playing and singing flawlessly. It’s infectious. They’re a great pop band, always have been, and no mistake.

        This latest edition of CH numbers eight, with Neil Finn front and centre, the principal singer and writer, without whom CH would not exist. He’s looking a tad older these days, his head of bushy hair now grey, his sports jacket an antidote to fashion, and he’s content nowadays to leave the lion’s share of the tricky guitar work, the solos and fills, to his son Liam who stands on his right and rises reliably to the role. For most of the set Neil plays acoustic, 6- and 12-strings, and permits himself only the odd solo on electric, and his singing voice, that yearning tenor, shows no signs of deterioration through age. 

        On the other side of the stage there’s bass player Nick Seymour, white Fender Precision worn low, lurking around in baggy check trousers and playing deft lines high and low of his four strings. Nick is also showing signs of age but, as bass players go, he has a higher profile than most, as befitting his long service alongside Neil, and he likes to go walkabout on stage, striding purposefully behind Neil to the other side of Liam and back, letting us all know that he enjoys his job and is as crucial to the CH ambience as all the Finns, now numbering three with Neil’s younger son, Elroy, on drums behind his dad. 

        On keyboards at the back is Mitchell Froom, distinguished producer of records by CH and many others. Determinedly anti-fashion, with a receding hairline and wearing what looks like discount-store spectacles, his appearance suggests a harried state-school geography teacher, and he maintains the lowest profile of anyone while offering the organ wash and piano flourishes that underpin so many of CH’s best songs. To his left, after Elroy, we have another percussionist, Paul Taylor, who takes over the main kit when Elroy plays occasional guitar, and, perhaps surprisingly, two Greek musicians, Tryfon Baitsis on acoustic guitar and Elias Dendias playing a frequently prominent bouzouki which sounds a bit like a mandolin. Most, if not all, of these musicians sing, offering up a choir of unusual depth and scope. 

        Crowded House, all eight of them, arrived in the dark carrying lanterns, puzzling everyone, and when the lights came up we beheld a stage decorated with frond-like tentacles, some arcing over the musicians, all of which made the stage look a bit like an undersea painting. They hit the right note immediately: ‘Weather With You’, one of their best-known songs and one most bands might choose to save for their encore. It set the tone for the evening. They were here to please and for the first half hour there were no introductions, no messing about, as they slid through ‘Teenage Summer’, from the new album, ‘World Where You Live’, ‘Something So Strong, ‘Fall At Your Feet’ and another new one, ‘Oh Hi’. The old favourites were greeted like friends arriving at a house party. 

        There was characteristic CH banter before ‘To The Island’, from their 2021 album Dreamers Are Waiting, with Nick claiming for no particular reason that his bass lines were what most fans came to CH shows to hear, with Neil disagreeing, and it continued after ‘Black And White Boys’ when a roadie brought on a small piano for Neil to play and sing another new song, ‘Black Water, White Circle’. This involved a warm-hearted appreciation for his crew, which, if I remember rightly, contrasted sharply with the last CH show I saw when he and a roadie got into a furious – but probably staged – argument about his guitar being out of tune. Neil continued to play the small piano for ‘Whispers And Moans’, ‘Either Side Of The World, from Intriguer, and a lovely, warm-hearted ‘Message To My Girl’, the starry-eyed late-period Split Enz song. 

        By now CH’s professionalism, fluency and easy-on-the-ears songs had won over an already sympathetic crowd and they followed up with two more gilt-edged winners: ‘Fingers Of Love’ and ‘Private Universe’, the latter offering Elroy a chance to excel on his kit and the whole band to stretch out on an extended coda. In concert, CH are a meatier proposition than on record, and though no one grandstands in the manner of instrumentalists who solo endlessly, the depth of their individual skills was as evident as it was understated. 

        When the ovation died down, Neil introduced the two Greek musicians who entertained us with some traditional dance music, the kind of thing that often accompanies the smashing of plates in restaurants that serve taramasalata and souvlaki, washed down with Retsina. This served as a prelude to ‘When You Come’ which, pardon the pun, reached a shattering climax, and brought to mind CH’s fondness for songs with loosely erotic undertones, three of which – ‘Whispers And Moans’, ‘Fingers Of Love’ and this one – they chose to play tonight. I wouldn’t have minded hearing the fourth in this sub-genre, ‘Into Temptation’, which is suggestive of adultery, but it was not to be.

Finn brothers Liam (left) and Elroy, with Mitchell Froom in the background. 

        ‘Thirsty’, another new one, featured the three Finns, father and sons, in a line on guitars at the front, Neil and Elroy on acoustic and Liam on Telecaster, whereupon Elroy reassumed the kit and CH delighted everyone with ‘Four Seasons In One Day’, a mass singalong, then moved into the closing stretch with ‘Pineapple Head’, ‘The Howl’, from Gravity Stairs, a fast and furious ‘Locked Out’, the superb ‘Don’t Dream It’s Over’, their first hit, which I mistakenly assumed was the show closer, and the equally splendid ‘Distant Sun’. 

        There was a break before the encores: ‘It’s Only Natural’ – preceded by an impromptu groove, ‘Saturday Night In Brighton’, made up on the spot by Liam – followed by ‘Some Greater Plan (For Claire)’, the loveliest song on the new album, and a concluding ‘Better Be Home Soon’, inspiring yet more singing from the appreciative audience. Neil was the last to leave the stage, gracefully acknowledging the applause and had the lights not come up I’m pretty sure the crowd would have welcomed plenty more from his private musical universe. 

KRIS KRISTOFFERSON – The Wild American

It is as a great songwriter that Kris Kristofferson will be best remembered but for me his death recalled the time his lawyers attempted to stop a biography of him that I had commissioned for Omnibus Press. 

        It was 2008. Stephen Miller had already written a very good Johnny Cash book for Omnibus which I commissioned about a year before Cash died in 2003. The book came out shortly afterwards, which led to accusations that it was written hurriedly to capitalise on this. The accusers clearly had no grasp of the realities of the time it takes to write and publish a 150,000+ word book. Stephen, a retired solicitor, would also write a well-received biography of Dolly Parton and a book about the Million Dollar Quartet – Elvis, Jerry Lee, Cash and Carl Perkins. 

        But back to Kris Kristofferson. Stephen Miller approached me with the proposal and I went for it. When he delivered his book, our sales department announced its publication date on Amazon, standard practice these days, where it was seen by Kristofferson’s lawyers who lost no time in writing to us demanding that we abandon the book for fear of reprisals. Their letter included a harsh warning about the perils of libelling their client. We decided to ignore them but at the same time I was advised by our legal department that our book should be read for libel and any breaches of copyright.

        It’s no secret that Kris Kristofferson did not live a saintly life. Like many in his line of work he was promiscuous, took drugs and liked a drink. This sort of behaviour was detailed in the book that Stephen Miller delivered but our libel lawyers, who always erred on the side of caution, advised us to remove all references to Kristofferson’s wayward tendencies. I argued that they were well known, that Kristofferson had spoken candidly about these aspects of his life in interviews and that to ignore them was to misrepresent the man. I even found a TV interview on YouTube in which Kristofferson spoke freely about his bad habits. In the end we came to some sort of compromise and the references to his womanising, drug use and boozing were watered down.

        The book, titled The Wild American, came out. We heard nothing from Kristofferson’s lawyers. About six months later it was announced that Kristofferson was writing his own book about his life and would not shy away from writing about personal issues that he later came to regret, the inference being his torrid love life, drugs and the bottle. “Ho hum,” I thought. “Looks like another ‘My Drug Hell’.” The real reason why his lawyers threatened me, of course, was because our book would compete with Kristofferson’s own, and they wanted a clear field, or – at the very least – his own book to be published before ours. 

        I don’t even know now whether or not Kristofferson’s own book was ever published. I can’t find it on Amazon, which suggests it never happened or has gone out of print. But not long after we learned about it I recall asking our lawyer a hypothetical question: “If we had published our book as it stood, without watering down the material about his womanising, drugs and alcohol, and Kristofferson’s lawyers had sued us for libel and won – and then he’d published his own book including all the same sordid details, what would have happened?”

        Our lawyer told me that if he – Kristofferson – had been awarded damages he’d have had to give whatever the sum was back to us, plus costs. 

        Of course, I have no way of knowing whether or not Kris Kristofferson even knew about what was going on behind the scenes with regard to our book. I suspect he didn’t and that his lawyers were operating on behalf of Kristofferson’s advisors without his knowledge. Still, it was interesting to learn that celebrities who try to stop publishers from putting out ‘unauthorised’ books by threatening libel proceedings over hedonistic behaviour can come a cropper when they write their own memoirs that sensationally admit their own debauched tendencies.

        None of which takes away from the fact that Kris Kristofferson, the composer of ‘Me And Bobby McGee’, ‘For The Good Times’, ‘Help Me Make It Through The Night’ and many more, was a great songwriter.