the final days of December 1980, the air outside the Dakota building in New York still carried a heavy silence. On a cold morning, Paul McCartney arrived without fanfare, stepping onto West 72nd Street with his collar up, sunglasses on, and head lowered. It was not a public gesture, nor one designed for headlines. A few passersby recognized him, but he offered no comments, only a quiet nod. He had come not for publicity, but for closure. Just three weeks earlier, his friend and former bandmate John Lennon had been shot to death at the entrance of the very building now standing before him.
Paul did not walk up to the gates immediately. He lingered across the street, watching. A small crowd had gathered, as it had every day since the tragedy. Flowers, candles, handwritten notes, and Beatles memorabilia filled the sidewalk. For a moment, Paul seemed frozen, then slowly approached the spot where John had fallen. A man near him whispered, “That’s McCartney.” Paul did not look up.
In a later conversation with photographer Bob Gruen, Paul confided, “It was like standing in a dream. I looked at that archway and kept thinking, ‘He walked through there the last time.’ I was not ready for how real it would feel.” He placed a single red rose near the gate and stood in silence for several minutes before turning away.
That visit was not planned. Paul had flown to New York primarily to meet with Yoko Ono in private. The meeting happened the following day in her apartment at the Dakota. She welcomed him warmly but with a tired sadness. Paul later recalled that she looked “utterly drained, but strong.” They spoke for nearly two hours behind closed doors. Paul never revealed the full details of the conversation, but sources close to him said he cried quietly afterward in the car.
Ringo Starr had already visited days earlier, flying in from the Bahamas to support Yoko and Sean. George Harrison sent a message through mutual friends. But Paul’s visit was different. He had not been in regular contact with John during the late 70s, and their last phone call had been short and focused on family, not music. That fact haunted him. Speaking to journalist Ray Connolly in a 1981 interview that was never published, Paul said, “We were always going to talk properly again. I thought we had time. That’s what hurts. You always think there’s time.”
Linda McCartney later shared in a private interview that Paul could not sleep for days after Lennon’s death. “He kept walking around the house, picking up old photos. He went into the studio one night alone and played piano for hours. Not rehearsing. Not recording. Playing, like talking to John without words.”
What struck those closest to Paul was how the grief manifested not in statements, but in silence. When the press asked him how he felt hours after Lennon’s death, he replied, “It’s a drag,” a comment often misinterpreted as cold. In truth, he had been overwhelmed and had not known what to say. Decades later, he admitted, “That was the worst moment. I was trying not to cry in front of a camera.”
In 1982, Paul recorded “Here Today,” a deeply personal tribute to Lennon, for his album “Tug of War.” The lyrics “What about the night we cried, because there wasn’t any reason left to keep it all inside” were taken from a real moment. In 1965, during a night of drinking in Key West, Florida, John and Paul had broken down and shared unspoken fears and mutual admiration. That night had never been public knowledge until Paul immortalized it in song.
Even in later years, whenever he performed “Here Today” live, Paul would close his eyes during the final verse. During one performance at the Hollywood Bowl in 2009, a fan close to the stage reported seeing tears roll down his cheeks.
That quiet walk to the Dakota, that silent placement of a rose, was McCartney’s way of standing beside his oldest friend one last time. No cameras, no press release, no grand farewell, only presence, memory, and grief. Even after decades, McCartney would later say, “When I pass by the Dakota, I do not see the building. I still see John.”?
