What A Bastard The World Is: In Praise Of Yoko Ono

For more than 50 years, Yoko Ono has been the acceptable figure of hate for all. Subject of sneering, ridicule, hatred and outright racist vitriol for the flimsiest reasons.  The acceptable hate figure for office bores to lazy to look beyond received opinion and locked-in thought patterns and discredited gossip mongering.  She’s talentless, she’s a homewrecker, she hooked John on drugs to control him and make his work sound like shit.  Have you heard her music? Call that 'music'?  From puff pieces in the press to the lowest form of communication that is the comments section on YouTube, it’s the easiest and most culturally acceptable opinion that is safe to opine freely.

Even now, you have to really stand your ground when defending her.  To actively defend Yoko’s work seems akin to threatening another person’s life.  I happen to think that she is a genuinely original artist.  Her work has value and she has been unfairly vilified.  Even at home, the wife winces when her name is uttered.  However, over the last few years, possibly even as far back as 1992 when Rykodisc launched a reissue campaign in the form of the 6CD Onobox, the voices of support are steadily growing.

It would require a greater mind to cover her career in depth, and we’re still waiting for a thorough biography, so I strictly want to cover her musical career.  However, it’s worth highlighting her ground-breaking work in the world of conceptual art – the book Grapefruit (1964) and the performance art of Cut Piece (1965) – because her foray into the world of music would be rendered all the more striking considering her background of confrontational and unconventional art.  From there, the world of experimental films beckoned and the burgeoning romance with a Beatle would have a monumental impact that is still being felt ever since.

Between 1968-1969, three full-length avant-garde LPs were created by John & Yoko.  Musically, I don’t like them: they are more valuable as documents of their personal lives, from burgeoning romance (Two Virgins), the pain of miscarriage (Life With The Lions) to their burgeoning political outlook (The Wedding Album).  As listening experiences, they are not recommended, being formless and acting more as self-consciously muddled and confused efforts by Beatle John to appear radical.  It may appear that he was intimidated by Yoko’s artistic prowess but compared to the more radical and pioneering free-form efforts by Ornette Coleman and Peter Brötzmann, they are quite immature in contrast.

Live Peace In Toronto was the first glimpse of Yoko’s vocal gymnastics that a majority of the world encountered.  Whereas Side 1 consisted of hurried workouts featuring Generic Clapton and Alan “Beige” White amongst the backing band, Side 2 is Yoko’s domain, wailing through a maze of guitar feedback and relentless rock backing that put everyone in their place.  No Eric, you can’t take centre stage with your rudimentary racist fretwork, it’s Mrs Lennon calling the shots now.

Cue the so-called 'hip' underground press forming a united front of negativity, with only the odd journo daring to toe the line and let a positive comment creep out here and there.

By late 1969, it was time for John and Yoko to put together individual albums under the Plastic Ono Band moniker.  Both Plastic Ono Band albums came as a direct response to Beatle John’s Janov sojourn, but Yoko’s album is a true work of art.  It is the work of someone going through indescribable pain: you’ve had to suffer through some of the venomous attacks from critics, reporters and your husband’s fans, suffered through miscarriage and your first husband vanishing into thin air with your child.  Nobody’s offering any respite.  Everyone and their dog are on a colonial and thoroughly bigoted and misogynst trip, pointing the finger at you for destroying ARE BRAVE BOYS!  No matter what you say or try to prove, those pale, bacon-sandwich eating, ruddy-faced fucks are choosing not to listen.  They have an agenda.  The studio sessions you’ve booked are scuppered because the engineers are turning off the tape decks when you start singing.  What are the results? No compromise.  A full-on sonic assault.  Rage.  Anger.  Grief.  If you don’t like this, well tough shit.  Stick to George whining about having to pay his taxes while you smugly mutter “Good job sticking to the man!”

Yoko could’ve started off with something relatively accessible and commercial along the lines of Approximately Infinite Universe, but the press would have been out for blood regardless, maybe with even more venom and spite, along the lines of “HA! HA! CALL THAT SINGING?!”, so more power to her for what she unleashed, and more respect to her and John for having the guts to ignore the cloth eared cats at Apple Corps who just couldn’t comprehend what was coming out of the speakers.  Yoko simply dug her heels in, throwing fingers and shouting “FUCK YOU!!!”

'Why' immediately starts rolling down the hill as the play button is pressed.  John’s frenetic slide work melts into the red as Klaus Voorman and Peace 'n' Loov Ringo bash out a solid proto-Krautrock rhythm.  After the introduction, an abrupt edit takes us straight into the maelstrom, with Yoko pouring out tons of genuine anger and frustration like a beacon of truth.  A lesser musician would dribble out incomprehensible diatribes aimed at particular people, real or imaginary.  “WHY?” sums up far more than a standard laundry list of complaints.  It has more of a direct impact than “I don’t believe in Beatles”.  Yoko is pouring her fucking heart out at an unjust world, a world of isolation, and never lets up.  The red mist that overcomes us all when prodded and poked like a cornered animal has never before sounded so direct.  All throughout, the oh-so-familiar echo slap back utilised on many a Mopfabs recording from the era has never sounded so effective, full of the eerie quality that pervaded Ozzy’s vocals on 'Behind The Wall Of Sleep'.

 

Elsewhere, one listen to 'Greenfield Morning I Pushed An Empty Baby Carriage All Over The City' and you can hear where Bardo Pond’s whole sound comes from.  Wordless moans whirr their way through a reverb-heavy, downtuned outpouring of grief.  Yet again, Yoko proves that sometimes words just cannot do justice to a broken heart.  Ornette and co. accompany on her on 'AOS' a 1968 recording before the John/Klaus/Ringo trio reconvene for another spiky punk stab with 'Touch Me' and an exercise in unsettling ambience with 'Paper Shoes'.

I’m not the biggest John fan, and a lot of his work comes from feeling self-conscious and feeling like he has something to prove, combined with an unearned arrogance despite the fact that nobody would ever say it to his face unless they didn’t mind a few teeth being kicked out of their face.  Regardless, the man fully supported Yoko throughout, or at least until he decided to knock back Brandy Alexanders with Harry Nilsson.  A glance at the Apple discography goes to prove this.  While the likes of Mary Hopkin and Radha Krsna Temple released inoffensive platters, and Badfinger and Billy Preston released records sandblasted into inoffensive mediocrity, John signed Yoko and David Peel (Peel’s sole effort for Apple, The Pope Smokes Dope, is highly enjoyable and well worth checking out for his singalong tributes to marijuana and the varied and wonderful powers of the word 'fuck').  An absolute world apart and the nearest Apple got to their slice of the ESP-Disk cake.

A year later, Fly was unleashed.  A larger and far more intimidating canvas, it is also more of a surprisingly diverse ball of confrontational energy, with the first half of the set lulling you into a false sense of security.  'Midsummer New York' and 'Mind Train' are surprisingly playful and upbeat, with Yoko no longer greeting you with a few snooker balls wrapped in a sock.  As we go on, highlights include the proto-punk hysterical majesty of 'Don’t Worry Kyoko' – grabbing you the collar of your shirt for another harrowing ride through Yoko’s personal anguish – and the acoustic wistfulness of 'Mrs Lennon', even beating Miles Davis to the punch with 'Hirake' - a proto-On The Corner jam incorporating heavy funk and world music percussives.

The second half of this collection is admittedly quite an endurance test, one that can be still be quite difficult to sit through, but who said that art had to be tasteful?  Not all music works as background jams, and it certainly doesn’t have to be pleasurable.  You have the admire the courage of the artist to get it out there.  Fly is in the same company as Topography Of The Lungs (Evan Parker/Derek Bailey/Han Bennink), Odyshape (The Raincoats), Thank Your Lucky Stars (Whitehouse), The Fucking Cunts Treat Us Like Pricks (A Flux Of Pink Indians) and The Olatunji Concert (John Coltrane). No compromise.  No prisoners.  Scorched Earth.

 

Yoko presumably felt like the only woman out there standing her ground in the face of an openly hostile man-heavy music industry.  Only contemporary female artists such as Nico (in particular, the timeless beauty of The Marble Index), the free jazz purity of Patty Waters, the Brechtian polemics of Dagmar Krause and the pure sexual aggression of Betty Davis were the only ones on a similarly unique and confident wavelength.  These singers proved you didn’t have wail the blues like Carol Grimes or Inga Rumpf, or be pretty and witchy like Sonja Kristina or Stevie Nicks.

Predating the likes of Lydia Lunch, Ari Up, Poly Styrene, The Raincoats, The Au Pairs, Delta 5 and Essential Logic, they proved that women didn’t have to be confined to any type of lyric or musical direction.  Be as direct or as abstract as you want.  The strummers high atop Laurel Canyon may have more of a profile and more power, but don’t back down.  You don’t have to resort to copying men to get your message across.  Be defiant, be yourself and your work will still hold up. 

The only act from the same time to attempt anything this radical in the rock world were The Stooges.  Listen to 'LA Blues' and you get the idea.  Radical disintegration and pure howling vitriol grabbing the listener by its neck and making sure the bruises show.  The originally unreleased majesty of Yoko's 'Open Your Box' is practically the mirror image of Fun House, Side 2.  Steve Mackay’s wonderfully taut sax playing and even the Asheton brothers' signature caveman stomp wouldn’t have been out of place on Plastic Ono Band or Fly.  Going back to ESP-Disk, I guess you could highlight the works of The Godz and The Fugs, but these acts had either ceased to exist or their earlier primitive no-shits-given majesty was way behind them once Yoko made her way onto vinyl.

By 1972, the Lennons were settling into their New York City digs and finding more sympathetic ears, ready to hip them to the more radical voices within the counterculture, ones that had lost hope in the carefree pacifist ideology of the 60s.  In the wake of government suppression and the wholesale watering down and destruction of hippy ideals, a more confrontational approach had surfaced, louder than ever.  Whilst John lapped it all up and released Sometime In New York City, a typically self-conscious and naïve effort to stay credible, Yoko took far more of a radical path: stripping back the harsh atonality and audience baiting of yesteryear, she recorded Approximately Infinite Universe, a surprisingly accessible and conventional double album.

Even Yoko herself knew that her voice was not capable of multiple octaves and operatic dives, but she knew what worked and has a really pleasing and effective singing voice.  Not only that, the radical feminist statemens of 'Yang Yang', the satirical boogie of 'I Felt Like Smashing My Face In A Clear Glass Window' and the brutal honesty of 'What A Bastard The World Is' settled quite nicely amongst each other.  It’s far more consistent than other double albums of the period.  Also, with John gradually receding into the background, Yoko takes centre stage and proves that she could deliver a diverse yet pleasurable listening experience, one that is deeply conversational and honest yet never feels forced or exaggerated.  The never-ending attacks in the press have made her stronger and Approximately Infinite Universe is the result of her ever-increasing confidence.

Whilst her follow-ups Feeling The Space (1973) and A Story (recorded 1974, released 1992) can be considered lesser works by many, they still have their moments.  She is finding her own voice, and although Elephant’s Memory weren’t anything like the likes of the Mahavishnu Orchestra, they made a credible and unique backing band for Yoko’s albums around this time.  If the quality starts to dip, then so what?  Most singers or bands have found it impossible to scale the heights of their first albums, maybe some failed to recapture the glory of their first single or their first John Peel session.

No matter the slightly more elevated reception she was given in the wake of Season Of Glass (1981) and her new found lease of life with recent works such as Blueprint For A Sunrise (2001) and Between My Head And The Sky (2009), as well as finally being recognised as one of the leading lights within the worlds of feminism and music, she still has detractors eager to spout the same old ill-informed shit.

Chief among their arguments is that she caused The Beatles to break up, but that is obviously a load of old toot.  Those Mopfabs did a good job of that by themselves, be it through egos unable to be contained within Abbey Road, the death of Brian Epstein or the coffer-draining arrivals of Allen Klein and Magic Alex.  From the shed where they have carefully nurtured their mansplaining chops, they only see women as being unable to create singular works of wonder (ie. “The Slits didn’t actually perform on Cut.  That was all Dennis Bovell’s work, obviously.”) or destructive forces (Yoko).

Another tedious argument is that she has no talent.  This is the woman who was already making waves within the art community while The Beatles had only just stopped tugging each other off in their mam’s house.  All the while, people quick to dismiss her have heaped praise on the likes of Ian Brown, for Christ’s sake.  She wasn’t at the mercy of songwriters, she knew what she was doing and she knew what to write.  Her husband may have put some pressure on the record label to put the records out, but artistically, she called the shots.

 

Fuck the xenophobic critics who couldn’t understand that their virginal British songsmiths were tearing themselves apart, and that a foreigner happened to be in the vicinity of the ensuing drama.  Fuck all those emotionally stunted rage-filled boomers over at the Steve Hoffman forum clutching their Beatles lunchboxes.  Fuck unfunny blowhard Bill Burr constantly calling her a cunt while ranting about her TV appearance alongside Chuck Berry and her hubby.  Fuck Frank Zappa and the legion of intellectual midgets that were his fans, bellowing for her to “shut up and sit down” because her hollering put an end to Frank & Flo & Eddie’s tedious sexist drivel about groupies and training bras.

Lesser beings would have been utterly destroyed from the outset and quietly walked away, but Yoko’s made of stronger stuff and has been through more than any human deserves.  She watched her husband get shot in front of her, all the while receiving very little sympathy in the aftermath.  This example as well as others outlined previously show how disgusting the pack mentality can be.

Yoko’s a fighter and she’s still here, creating in her own way and on her own terms.  As far as poetic justice, she has managed to outlive some of the loudest naysayers and doesn’t give the slightest toss about criticisms.  She should be an example for all to follow.  Her persistence and never ending levels of energy still shine through, but the main difference between now and then is that what often felt like the loneliest voice out there now has a few kindred spirits and like-minded souls out there to fight the good fight.

 

When punk rock and its post-1978 diverse roots and branches took shape, Yoko’s music suddenly had a lot of kindred spirits.  'Frankie Teardrop' by Suicide and 'Horizontal Hold' by This Heat all have elements seemingly influenced from Plastic Ono Band and Fly.  The directness, intensity and challenging nature of the material is plain for all to hear.

As challenging as it is, I think her work is unique, straight from the heart and has a lot to offer if you’re willing to go further.  Not all music is meant to be a comfortable experience.  Look at other vocalists such as Peter Hammill, Kat Bjelland, William Bennett, Linda Sharrock and Mark E Smith.  Look at the work of Scott Walker from Nite Flights onwards.  Look at An Electric Storm by White Noise: an awe-inspiring masterpiece co-written and performed by Delia Derbyshire, another woman whose work was neglected and brushed aside in her lifetime.

Personally, the worst crime in any medium is to be mediocre: whether your work is universally loved or loathed, it remains a talking point to be debated, examining the pros and cons and your reasoning behind your opinions.  Regardless of which side they sit in, the mind behind the work has done their job.  Take a side, listen to other’s contrary opinions and examine why you and they think and feel this way.  Yoko Ono’s work still has such a divisive impact that it will never go away.  Those who rant at great length against her music continue to make her work a talking point.  Works of mediocrity will quickly be forgotten and ultimately serve no purpose.

Open your mind (or open your box if you prefer), stand your ground and get stuck in. You may not find yourself changing your opinion, but hopefully you’ll respect what Yoko is trying to do. 

Yoko rules!