The 30th anniversary of John Lennon's shooting

How the Beatle is being remembered.

Today marks the 30th anniversary of John Lennon's murder. The former Beatles singer-songwriter was shot five times by a fan, Mark Chapman, in front of his New York home on the corner of 72nd Street and Central Park West. Bewildered paramedics rushed him to Roosevelt Hospital, where he was pronounced dead on arrival. In September this year, the now 55-year-old Chapman was denied parole for the sixth time.

In contrast to the jubilation that greeted the 70th anniversary of Lennon's birth (which also took place this year), much of this week's coverage has been characterised by a more respectful and reflective tone. Over at the BBC, the journalist John Shone recalls the reaction of Lennon's first wife, Cynthia, and their son, Julian, upon hearing the news of John's death: "Julian . . . was a pupil at Ruthin School. He was asleep in the house, not knowing his father was dead . . . Cynthia turned up in a big limo with dark glasses on. She had a couple of minders with her and was hurried into the house without saying anything. She was in total shock, like everyone was."

This weeks' NME, meanwhile, features an interview with Yoko Ono, who still occupies the apartment where she was living with Lennon when he died: "It is the home John and I created together. Every wall witnessed John."

And on Sunday, I interviewed Keith Elliot Greenberg, author of December 8, 1980: The Day John Lennon Died (Backbeat Books), on Resonance 104.4FM's Hello Goodbye Show. I asked him whether writing a book about Lennon's death risked monumentalising Chapman's act, thereby affirming his perverse quest for fame. We also talked about Lennon's significance to New Yorkers, who view him as part of the local heritage.

In Liverpool, his childhood home, fans will be gathering at a candlelit vigil around Chavasse Park's European peace monument (which was dedicated to Lennon on 9 October); others will be paying homage at the original Strawberry Field. Tomorrow evening, members of John's first band, the Quarrymen, will be appearing at the Echo Arena, bringing to a close the city's two-month-long Lennon season. The banjo player Rod Davis said: "We're playing not to mark his death, but to celebrate his life."

On a related note, here are extracts of an interview that Maurice Hindle conducted with Lennon in 1968, which appeared in last year's Christmas issue of the New Statesman.

Yo Zushi is a contributing writer for the New Statesman. His work as a musician is released by Eidola Records.

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Only Drake could wow the O2 by pointing out random audience members' clothing

It takes charisma to pull off abandoning hits halfway through.

On the last London night of his Boy Meets World tour (20 March), Drake doesn’t come on stage until 10pm, which is enough to kill off most gigs at the O2 Arena (hello, Bieber), as people are worried about getting the Tube home. The amount of rum and Coke in the room – a steaming, unrecognisable space with a false ceiling of globular lights and a stampeding crowd split in half by a fence – certainly helps keep the buzz. But who’d have thought that a man standing onstage diligently pointing at audience members and saying what they’re wearing (“You in the blue dress shirt with the ­lager!”) would constitute one of the most exciting nights the O2 has seen in a while?

“Tonight is not a show, not a concert, not about me,” says Drake, who runs an annual “Drake Night” in Toronto and once visited Drake University in Iowa.

So far, the world’s favourite rapper – his latest album, More Life, recently got 90 million streams on its first day of release on Apple Music alone – has had a shifting identity. His songs capture a new strain of emotionally literate but solipsistic hip-hop, which can feel intense or whiny depending on how you look at it. His offstage behaviour is Type-A rapper – he has been accused of throwing beer bottles at Chris Brown, he has been punched by Diddy and he has had altercations with Jay Z, Kendrick Lamar, Pusha T and Ludacris.

But Aubrey Drake Graham, the son of a white, Jewish mother and an African-American father who once played drums alongside Jerry Lee Lewis, does skits about his petulance on Saturday Night Live (see “Drake’s Beef”). Emotionally demonstrative, openly dysfunctional, a bit of a bruiser, with an ability to flit between a dozen styles of music while expressing a desire for crowd participation that borders on the needy . . . Could this man be the ­Michael Bublé of hip-hop?

Drake’s sprawling two-hour roadshow is held back from chaos by the force of his physical presence. Blunt-headed with muscular, sloping shoulders and mesmerising, nimble feet, he prowls the edge of the stage. He has had so many hits (and has so many guest stars tonight) that he is not interested in playing them all the way through. Instead, recalling Prince in the same venue ten years ago, the show becomes a series of medleys. With just a drummer and a synth player at the back of the stage, he demonstrates an invisible, physical control over the music, operating it like a string puppet, stopping or starting songs with the drop of a foot or the shrug of a shoulder, so they collapse in the middle and are gone.

It takes charisma to pull off abandoning hits halfway through. Pointing at people in the audience, real or imaginary, is a music hall thing. Bruce Dickinson and Metallica’s James Hetfield do it too. Amid a hokey message to follow your dreams, he recalls his time spent singing for $200 a night as a John Legend tribute act. Cue a perfect demonstration of Legend-style singing – before he suddenly sloughs off “all this bathrobe-and-candle-sexy acoustic Ed Sheeran shit”, while huge columns of flame engulf the stage.

Drake is still at his best with blue, slinky songs of alienation – “9”, “Over”, “Feel No Ways” and “Hotline Bling”, which doubles up as make-out music for the couples in the crowd. One pair of lovers, Drake establishes during one of his crowd surveys, have been together for ten years. “I can’t even make a relationship last ten days,” he laments. In 2012, he told the Guardian, “I’ve had too many girls to ever feel uncomfortable about the man that I am.” An old-school boast from a modern man.

The guest stars serve to highlight Drake’s variety, rather than shine on their own. Their songs, too, are started, suspended, chopped and screwed. Drake is more macho when there’s another guy onstage with him – doing “Successful”, with the literally named Trey Songz, or dueling with thefrenetic Skepta, who sounds so much tougher (maybe because he’s a Londoner). The two whirl around the stage like helicopter seeds.

Nicki Minaj, apparently Drake’s one-time lover, rises fembotishly from a hole in the stage and says in a London accent, “I want some fucking crumpets and tea.”

She adds, of her host, “This nigga single-handedly changed the game.” Minaj sings her song “Moment 4 Life”: “I call the shots, I am the umpire . . .” But she doesn’t really. Even her presence flares up quickly and is gone.

Kate Mossman is the New Statesman's arts editor and pop critic.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution