By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
By Gina Tron
By Jon Solomon
By Drew Ailes
By Courtney Harrell
By Kyra Scrimgeour
No answering-machine messages are included on Anthology, a four-CD grab bag of recordings made by John Lennon between the demise of the Beatles, in 1970, and his own murder ten years later, but they would have fit right in. The collection boasts over ninety previously unreleased offerings but precious few revelations, and the all-inclusiveness of the presentation ultimately says more about the genius of music marketing than it does about the genius whose name is on the box.
Anthology is hardly the first compilation of its kind to get the balance between art and commerce so wrong. The modern boxed-set era was inaugurated by Elvis Aron Presley, an opus issued in 1980, three years after the King toppled off his porcelain throne, that stuffed eight (count 'em, eight) LPs with assorted flotsam so uninteresting that even fanatics desperate for any piece o' Presley tuned out in droves. Moreover, the past several years have seen plenty of big-ticket projects that attempted to disguise the unessential nature of the music at their core with lavish packaging, weighty essays and record-company puffery.
But whereas padded products such as 1997's The Doors Box Set draw from the act's entire oeuvre, thereby providing a certain historical perspective almost in spite of themselves, Anthology is hobbled by the limitations imposed by its time frame. To put it politely, Lennon's solo efforts were infinitely more erratic than his material with the Beatles. Following a decade (the Sixties) during which he seemingly could do no wrong, he managed to produce one indisputable masterpiece (1970's Plastic Ono Band), one fairly strong platter (1971's Imagine) and a handful of other records that simply can't compare to his finest inventions. As a result, Anthology emerges as a monument to a period of creative confusion filled with alternate renditions of tunes that often weren't that seminal in the first place.
In her liner notes, Yoko Ono doesn't come right out and admit as much, but she hints that the volume is more a biographical slice of life than a batch of ditties to which buffs will want to return again and again. "This is the John that I knew, not the John that you knew through the press, the records and the films," she writes. "I am saying to you, here's my John. I wish to share my knowledge of him with you." She also confronts the "professional widow" issue that's dogged her since Lennon's death. According to her, "I continue to distribute John's work for many reasons: first for John, who was a communicator/artist/musician, who would have liked for his work to go on; second, for the fans who want more, more and more; and third, for the family, including myself, who are proud of Father John's work and would like to see his work out there for a long time to come."
The fallacies inherent in this argument aren't tough to locate. Lennon's music will be cherished for generations to come whether Ono cleans out any more of her closets or not, and his admirers don't deserve to be exploited even if it's okay by them. In addition, a lot of what's on Anthology doesn't exactly fit the definition of "work." An inventory of the CDs turns up the following:
A coy nineteen-second snippet of dialogue between John and Yoko that revolves around the word "fortunately" (disc one)...
Jerry Lewis leading a "John/Yoko" chant during his 1972 telethon (disc two)...
Twelve seconds of John and Yoko goofing on "As Time Goes By" (disc two)...
Several examples of crazy studio badinage involving John and amped-up super-producer Phil Spector that was captured on tape in 1973 (disc three)...
Four different tracks in which Lennon comically imitates Bob Dylan (disc four)...
A pre-kindergarten Sean Lennon singing part of "With a Little Help From My Friends," happily declaring that he likes guitar-playing best when it's loud and asking when his parents rented their home (disc four)...
Some of this ephemera is mildly entertaining--particularly Spector's antics. (At one point he explodes, "What is that tweeting bird out there? For God's sake!") But most of it is suggestive of the music videos Ono assembled out of old home movies in order to promote Milk and Honey, a 1984 album dominated by some of Lennon's rough sketches. There's a certain creepiness about her continuing need to make her beloved's image conform to the model she's constructed. A more objective outside party would delve into the contradictions that made Lennon among the most fascinating public figures of the past half-century. Ono, by contrast, sands off the rough edges, turning Anthology into yet another variation on a tale she's been telling for nearly twenty years now. It's a fine story, certainly: Who wouldn't be cheered by a narrative about a searcher who ultimately discovers that love really is all you need? But anyone hoping for more insight than that is out of luck again.