John Lennon shot dead

Former Beatle John Lennon has been shot dead by an un­known gunman who opened fire outside the musician's New York apartment.

The 40-year-old was shot several times as he entered the Da­kota, his luxury apartment building on Manhattan's Upper West Side, opposite Central Park, at 23:00 local time.

He was rushed in a police car to St Luke's Roosevelt Hospi­tal Centre, where he died.

b) What do you think happened after this announcement in New York, in Liverpool, in the world?

3. a) Read the story written by Corey Levitan, a Los Angels jour­nalist and writer. Describe what is happening in the pictures.

Well it was 20 years ago today.

Passing notes behind the teacher's back at school, going for pizza at the mall, blowing off homework to watch TV - Dec. 8, 1980 started out as just another unmemorable day for this 15-year-old.

"SPECIAL REPORT," two words flashed across the screen, followed by a two-second silence, some flipping of papers, and finally a male voice.

"John Lennon, former singer for the rock group the Beat­les..."

I knew this couldn't be good. They don't interrupt "The To­night Show" to announce concert tours or sales milestones. But nothing could prepare me for the completion of that sentence, which unfolded in such slow motion it feels like it continues to this day.

"...is dead."

The next morning, my father slowly opened the door to my Beatles-postered bedroom on Long Island, thinking he had a grave task to perform. But he could see I already knew. I was lying in bed, red-eyed listening to WNEW-FM through head­phones.

The disc jockeys were openly crying on the air as thev tried to repeat the news in between round-the-clock Lennon and Beatles songs. Though I had been a fan since fifth grade, this was how I heard Lennon's "Love" for the first time.

My mom was actually upset that I was so upset. Two months earlier my 80-year-old great grandfather had died and I didn't sulk, much less cry. She couldn't understand how I could feel so deeply the loss of a person I never knew.

But I did know John Lennon - better, in a sense, than I knew my mom. I connected intimately to the pain he expressed in songs such as "Yer Blues," "Mother" and even the superficially joyful "Help." Very much like myself, Lennon was an outcast and a loser in childhood. And he was an open wound during in­terviews, sharing fears, dreams and insecurities my own best friends wouldn't dare. And there was nothing else for my friend Gary Haviv and I to do but travel to Lennon's apartment after school. According to the news, crowds had been gathering at the Dakota since two hours after the murder.

Hardcore Beatles fans, who proudly pinned Lennon buttons up and down the denim jackets they never washed, had always made me feel sick. And now I had every reason to hate them more: one of them had killed my idol.

But the people gathered this night did not fit the profile. They were men in business suits and construction uniforms, women in dresses and jogging suits. Ordinary folk.

"All we are saying," Gary and I sang along with the crowd, "is give peace a chance." Someone kept rewinding the song on a boombox. After a while, no one could hear the recorded version.

There was no reason for any of us to be there. All the wish­ing in the world could not change what happened. But there was nothing else to do.

Every hour the owner of the restaurant across the street (we were told it was Lennon's favourite) brought over trays of steaming coffee, which he handed out for free. It was extreme­ly cold, about 20 degrees outside - and absolute zero in our hearts. Even the reporters and policemen, who had come to do their jobs, appeared lost and shaken.

The agonizing irony is that Lennon had finally gotten his life back on track and was indeed "starting over." He had just lost 10 pounds, released a new hit album and looked happier than he'd been since his Beatles days.

"Life begins at 40 - so they promise," he told in an inter­view a month before his murder. "And I believe it, too. I feel fine and I'm very excited. It's like, you know, hitting 21, like, 'Wow, what's going to happen next?"

"Are you OK?" a stranger asked, putting his arm around my shoulder.

I was not OK. In a way, I never would be again.

Corey Levitan

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 1499