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Preface
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John was the last to leave. In the studio, where his friend was sitting on the floor, among pillows, guitars and sheets of paper, with his back on him, hung a heavy smell of cheap tobacco, in which they vainly tried to drown out despair. It was June 1969.
"Dave," he called softly.
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“Listen, no one meant to offend you,” John walked across the room and sat by the window, opposite Dave. In the twilight that generously flooded the studio he noticed his friend's red eyes, but it was probably from tobacco. “Sorry, we smoked too much here.” Dave waved him off, and John continued:
“Everyone just wants to do something already, you know. We play what no one listens to. You live by your music, but over there," he waved his hand into the London twilight, illuminated by a lantern, "nobody has even heard of Woodstock or psychedelics. That's what the guys are saying: we need a song that the girls will listen to, like what the Beatles did. And then you can play whatever you want.”
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