“A Hard Day’s Goodbye: Why I’m Retiring From Music”
By John Lennon
Right then. Let’s get this out before it gets twisted into something it isn’t.
After decades of playing, writing, imagining, protesting, loving, shouting, and sometimes just sitting in the corner with a guitar and a cup of tea—I’ve decided to retire from music.
Not from life, not from love, not from being a pain in the neck to the people I care about—but from music. From performing. From being “John Lennon: the Beatle, the solo artist, the voice of a generation.” It’s time I laid that character to rest.
I’ve been blessed, truly. From the moment we stepped onto that stage in Hamburg, to the last time I walked into a studio and heard something magical come alive—I’ve lived a hundred lifetimes through this thing called music. But now, I want a little peace, a bit of quiet. Maybe even a garden.
Let me tell you why.
The Beatle Beginning
It all started with a guitar and a dream. We were just a bunch of scrappy lads from Liverpool who wanted to sound American and maybe kiss a girl or two. We didn’t know we’d change the bloody world.
The Beatles were never just a band. We were a movement, a mirror, a megaphone. We sang what people were feeling, even when we didn’t fully understand it ourselves. And somewhere between the screams and the sitars, we grew up. We broke up. And we each had to find out who we were without the Beatle boots and the bowl cuts.
I’m proud of everything we made together—every chord, every chorus, every fight in the studio. That band was a once-in-a-century kind of magic, and we were lucky to be part of it.
The Solo Journey
After the Beatles, I had to rediscover myself. I stripped things down. No more psychedelic circus—just raw words and rawer feelings. Plastic Ono Band was like pulling out my own guts for everyone to see. “Imagine” was a dream I dared to share, one that still gets sung today in places I’ve never even been.
Music became my journal, my protest sign, my lullaby. And for a while, that was enough. But then came something greater than any number one hit—my son, Sean. That little boy changed everything. He made me want to be a better man, a present father, a quiet observer instead of a loud symbol.
I disappeared for a bit. No interviews. No albums. Just fatherhood, baking bread, learning how to live without always being seen. And it was brilliant.
Back Again, But Different
Eventually, the muse came knocking again, and I let her in. I made music again—joyful, weird, simple. I saw the world change, evolve. And I changed too.
But the older I get, the more I realize that music no longer feels like a mission. It feels like something I did. Something I loved. Something I gave my soul to. And now, I want to keep the rest of that soul for myself.
In truth, there’s a strange kind of peace in knowing when to walk away. Too many people cling to the spotlight like it’s the sun. But the truth is, the sun doesn’t shine on the same face forever. And that’s alright.
The World Today
Look, the world is mad. It’s loud and fast and always online. Everyone’s shouting. Everyone’s selling something. Music today is different—some of it’s genius, some of it’s noise. But it’s no longer my playground. I’ve had my say. I’ve made my records, said my peace, marched my marches.
I’m not going to be the old guy chasing trends, trying to fit into a world I don’t understand. I’ve done enough of that. I don’t want to be a legacy act, wheeled out to sing Help! to a crowd holding up phones. I want to remember the music as it was—alive, real, dangerous, fun.
Let the next ones rise. Let them scream their truth. It’s their turn now.
What Comes After
So, what now? No farewell tour. No boxed set. No final concert live-streamed from a rooftop. Just me, slipping quietly into another chapter.
I’ll still write, maybe. Words have always been home. Maybe a book. Maybe just nonsense scribbles in a notebook. I’ll still love Yoko, still walk in Central Park, still chase pigeons with my grandson if he lets me.
But I won’t be recording. I won’t be playing gigs. I won’t be John Lennon: musician. I’ll just be John. And that’s more than enough.
Thank You
To the fans—those who’ve been with me since the Cavern Club, and those who discovered me on streaming apps last week—thank you. You gave my voice a place to live. You made me feel heard in ways I never imagined. Your love, your letters, your posters, your tattoos—all of it mattered.
To Paul, George, and Ringo—you were my brothers. You still are. What we made was beautiful, messy, brilliant. I wouldn’t change a thing.
To my family—you are my heart. You kept me grounded when the world tried to float me away.
And to the music—thank you for saving my life more times than I can count.
So that’s it. No encore. No comeback.
Just… thank you. And goodbye.
With love,
John
