There is a famous piece of film — well, famous to those of us who know more about the Beatles than is possibly good for our health — where John Lennon encounters a fan who has broken into the star’s Berkshire estate. Clearly a lost soul, the fan is searching for meaning, signficance, some sort of connection with his idol. Lennon replies, very calmly and kindly: ‘I’m just a guy, man, who writes songs.’
Sadly, this book proves him right.
The good stuff first. It looks beautiful: the cover is ‘Imagine’-white, the pages carefully designed to weave Hunter Davies’s commentary around both the letters themselves and their transcripts. There are sweet moments, as when Lennon explains to a neighbour’s son that he and Yoko understand the boy not wanting them at his 12th birthday party: ‘We felt as bad as you! Please don’t worry about it — I might find an old amplifier for you.’
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