January 13, 1972. The David Frost Show. National television. And I'm in the building.

Me, Lennon, Yoko, Jerry Rubin. That's the lineup. A Beatle, his wife, a Yippie, and a street musician from the Lower East Side. On a talk show hosted by a man in a suit who would later interview Richard Nixon. You couldn't write a better joke if you tried.

Here's how it works. They send a car. A car, for David Peel. I'd been taking the subway to Washington Square Park for years, playing for whoever showed up, passing the hat. Now there's a car. Because I'm with Lennon. That's what Lennon did — he walked into a room and everybody in the room became important. I walked in with a one-string bass. One string. That's what I brought to national television. Every other musician in America would have brought their best instrument, tuned it, polished it. I brought a bass with one string because that's what I had and that's what I played.

This was Lennon's first live appearance on American television as a solo artist. Not as a Beatle. As John. And he didn't go on alone. He brought Yoko. He brought Jerry Rubin. He brought me. A street musician. Because that's who John was. He didn't just walk through doors — he held them open.

Now picture the set. David Frost, British, elegant, three-piece suit, the kind of guy who asks questions and nods thoughtfully. And across from him is John Lennon talking about peace and politics. Yoko talking about art. Jerry Rubin talking about revolution. And me. The guy from the park. With one string.

They didn't know what to do with me. And that was fine. I didn't go there to be interviewed. I went there because John asked me to come. When Lennon calls, you go. You don't ask what the plan is. You don't ask what you're supposed to say. You show up and you play. That's what I'd been doing in the park for years and that's what I did on national television. Same guy. Different room.

The FBI watched the tape. I know because I read the file. An agent went to the production office and watched a recording of the broadcast. His report says — and this is a direct quote from my FBI file — "PEEL did not speak at all during the program." Didn't speak. Just sang. An FBI agent watched a talk show and wrote a report about a man who didn't talk. That's your tax dollars at work. That's what they were doing instead of catching actual criminals. Watching television and taking notes about musicians who played one-string basses and didn't say anything.

Here's the thing. David Frost interviewed Nixon on television. The most famous interview in the history of television. "When the President does it, that's means that it is not illegal." Frost got Nixon to say that. And five years before that interview, the FBI was watching a tape of the same show because a street musician played a song. The same host. The same set. On one night, David Peel with a one-string bass. On another night, Richard Nixon confessing to a crime. Frost's couch saw more history than most courtrooms.

They were watching me for seditious conspiracy. On a talk show. I was being investigated for overthrowing the government — on a program that also hosted comedians and movie stars and people promoting cookbooks. That's the FBI in 1972. They couldn't tell the difference between a threat and a musician because they'd forgotten there's a difference.

John went on television that night because he had something to say. I went on television because John asked me to come. Jerry went because Jerry went everywhere. Yoko went because Yoko and John were one person. And the FBI watched because the FBI watched everything.

You know what I remember most? The lights. In the park, the light comes from the sky. On television, it comes from everywhere. Forty lights pointing at you from every angle. No shadows. In the park, you see people's faces. Under those lights, you can't see anything. Just white. You're playing for voices in the dark. Same as the park at midnight, when you think about it. You can't see the audience. You just play.

I never went back on television. Didn't need to. One night on the Frost Show was plenty. The park was waiting.

See also: Forty Pages — the full FBI file. The Pope Smokes Dope — the album Lennon produced that same year. The Apple — the day Lennon walked into the park and changed everything. The New Yorker, 1972 — two weeks later, Hertzberg opened with Peel's lyrics. December 8th — the day the frequency went silent on West 72nd Street.

David Peel

← All David Peel