#eric burdon

That night, as John and I stood at the bar of the Scotch with drinks in our hands, the senior Lennon came through the doors with two press scumbags. John immediately tensed up. He swallowed his drink in one gulp but held onto his glass. When the trio reached us, there was an awful silence. The man in the middle put out his hand. John fixed his eyes on the stranger, and an uncomfortable smile came upon his face—always the mark of his nasty, defensive side kicking in. Then, in his nasal accent, John said to his long-lost father so the whole bar could hear: “Well, I guess you found yerself a gig at last, you old cunt.” He made a show of putting down his glass and walked out. Like a brother, I followed.