"Who On Earth Do You Think You Are? A Superstar? Well, Right, You Are!"

It was 25 years ago today . . .
Mark David Chapman murdered John Lennon outside Lennon's apartment building, the Dakota, in New York City. Having just turned three a little more than a month earlier, my recollection of the day's events is fuzzy at best. All I can take from it are the stories I've heard or read and the images I've seen in the years since:
-The sullen, cracking, grief-stricken voice of New York DJ Vin Scelsa, telling people for the first time that John Lennon had been shot and killed ("For the first time in my life I'm speechless. I have the sad task to inform you that John Lennon is dead.").
-Howard Cosell breaking the news nationally on Monday Night Football.
-Within an hour of his death, scores of people standing outside the Dakota just bawling.
-100,000 people -- most with tears in their eyes -- gathering in Central Park on December 14, 1980 for a ten-minute moment of silence, then singing "All You Need Is Love" together.
-My History of Rock & Roll professor, Dr. Glenn Gass, who might be the biggest Beatles fan I've ever met (and actually teaches a class on the Beatles), explaining how he didn't cry for a while after it happened, not until he was sitting alone having a meal at Bear's Place in Bloomington when the Beatles' version of "Please Mr. Postman," sung by John, came on the jukebox and he broke down, put his hands over his face, and started sobbing right there in the restaurant.

For those of us in Gen X and Gen Y, it's difficult to appreciate just how enormous the Beatles were and just how important John Lennon was. We don't have a frame of reference that allows us to comprehend the pervasive nature of the Beatles' (and Lennon's) impact on music, culture, and the world in general. Not only was John a member of the greatest band in rock & roll history, but he was also eloquent, brilliant, passionate, and genuine. His influence went far beyond music because, unlike most other rock stars and celebrities, John was so convincingly human. He was one of the first rock stars who, on a nearly global scale, really spoke to the people and who the people really listened to. Since pop music has become so fragmented, it's essentially impossible for there to be another group like the Beatles or another John Lennon.

I know that there are a lot of Gen X'ers and Gen Y'ers (including me) who feel cheated because we don't have anyone like John Lennon in our generation. There is no great voice, conscience, or inspiration for us; no one whose death will still make us cry 25 years later. It would have been nice to see someone with such transcendental influence become a role model for new generations. Who knows what great things he could have done in the past 25 years, in music, charity, activism, or even politics (who wouldn't vote for John Lennon for Senator?). All we can do is wonder what might have been, leaving our imaginations to his songs, the Beatles' four films, the Anthology, random TV clips, and the fond stories those in our parents' generation tell us about him.

On the day he died, Lennon was celebrating a new beginning. His Double Fantasy album (his first in 5 years) had gone gold. He had just given an interview in which he talked about the possibilities that lied ahead in the '80s. He was starting to emerge from the cocoon he had been in for the previous 5 years while his main focus was being a father to his young son Sean. His haitus from public life was ending, and he was becoming a man of the people once again. Eerily, several hours before his death, he even autographed a copy of Double Fantasy for the man who would callously and without remorse put four bullets into his back and chest. The bitter irony, of course, is that Lennon -- the man who sang "All You Need Is Love," "Give Peace a Chance," and the irreverent "Happiness is a Warm Gun," and once predicted that he would "probably be popped off by some loony" -- died such a horribly violent and senseless death, at the hands of a man who he had treated with nothing but kindness, no less.

At that point, the dream was over. Any of the hope or promise that may have been lingering from the '60s was forever numbed. For Julian and Sean, Mark David Chapman killed a father. For Yoko, Chapman killed a soul mate. For Paul, George, and Ringo, Chapman killed a brother. For millions of young people, Chapman killed the brilliant uncle that they never got a chance to know. And for millions of others, Chapman killed the voice of hope, the voice of peace, the voice of love, the voice of promise, and the voice of their generation.

Honor him today, whether that means petitioning the parole board at Attica to ensure that Mark David Chapman never again sees the outside world, protesting the war, going out of your way to do something nice for someone, or just listening to his music throughout the day.