Yoko marooned
Kate Chisholm yoko Ono's appearance on that Radio Four staple, Desert Island Discs (Sunday), was too good to miss. What revelations would emerge from that prickly avatar of the Sixties avant-garde under the genteel probing of the typical DID interview? Would we find out how she coped with being the most reviled woman in the world? Understand her better? The Radio Times obviously thought so, promising us revelations of Ono's 'vulnerable side'.
I could never understand what all the fuss was about when Yoko ensnared a Beatle, being one of those unfortunate teenagers who never really cared for the Fab Four (who, incidentally, were never in their heyday thought to be significant enough to be invited on to DID; only Paul has ever appeared on it, and that was much later in 1982). Nor did it ever make sense to me that banging a nail into a piece of white wood could be described as 'art'. It was hammering the nail that did for John. He bartered for the privilege (the charge was five shillings a go) on his first encounter with Yoko's art in 1966, which encouraged her to think that they 'were playing the same game'.
But you have to admire her guts, her refusal to be intimidated. When Kirsty Young described her on DID as 'an avantgarde artist in New York' in the 1950s, she butted in, 'It's sort of unfair to say that. My background comes from Asian culture.' Yoko grew up in Tokyo, witnessing the firebombing of the city in 1945 as a child. 'It influenced my thinking,' she said, cryptically.
Young, whose research for these programmes is always impeccable (probably too thorough for genuinely spontaneous conversation), kept on probing. 'Were you happy when you found out you were pregnant?' (This was with her second child, Sean Lennon; her first child, a daughter born in 1963 to a previous husband, was never mentioned.) 'Not really,' says Yoko.
An audible drawing in of breath. Here's the sensational weakness that Young's scalpel had been seeking. 'I thought I should let John decide whether I keep it or not.'
Young, ever scrupulous, persisted, 'Just to be clear. You did actually have that conversation with him' The trouble is there's nothing left that Yoko can say or do to shock us. Now 73, she's always made it clear that she's her own woman, and cares nothing for the bourgeois aspirations of us ordinary mortals. Except when it comes to making money, that is. I was far more shocked by her admission that when challenged by John to make $25 million in two years (to match Paul's millions), she had asked for five years — and accomplished it. Doing what? I was hoping Young would ask.
I was also surprised by Yoko's choice of music. What, no Patti Smith? John Cage? Can we really believe that the outré Ms Ono spends her evenings curled up on the sofa listening to Gracie Fields and 'Beautiful Boy'?
Last weekend witnessed great celebrations on the Southbank in London as the Royal Festival Hall reopened its doors to the people after its £111 million makeover. Harry Enfield narrated a special The Archive Hour (Radio Four, Saturday) telling its story since its first days at the heart of the Festival of Britain in 1951. He reminded us that the Hall was soon nicknamed 'The People's Place', and that there was nothing coincidental about Tony Blair's New Labour party choosing to celebrate their election victory there in May 1997, emerging from that roseate dawn as the People's Party.
From the beginning the RFH was designed not just as a concert hall, but as a venue for Londoners, to give, as Clement Attlee memorably said when he laid the foundation stone, 'pleasure and refreshment of the soul'. A sentiment which takes you straight back to that postwar optimism. On one night an audience of musiclovers were given Otto Klemperer conducting Beethoven's Ninth, and on the next the Hall might rock to Jimi Hendrix or groove with Frank Sinatra. It holds memories for so many people that it has its own fansite, lovethefestivalhall.org.uk.
Since the GLC decreed in the 1980s that its foyers should be open for free access all day and every day (hurrah for the old GLC), it's become a family place, a great space for children, and a haven for their parents on wet Sunday afternoons. So began that slow transformation of London's riverbank into a Promenade.
Concerts no longer begin with a drumroll warning everyone to stand up to sing the National Anthem, but enthusiasts of Fifties design will be relieved to hear that the foyer and stair carpets have been replaced — with specially made replicas of the cream-andgreen originals.
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