Inside the John Lennon and Frank Zappa Feud — and the Divide It Revealed

When news spread that John Lennon and Frank Zappa would share a stage in 1971, it felt like a natural collision of two artists who had spent their careers questioning the status quo. Lennon had finally stepped out of the shadow of The Beatles and was testing the limits of his voice, both politically and artistically. Zappa, meanwhile, had been charting his own course for years, building a reputation as one of rock’s most fearless experimenters. A collaboration between the two seemed less like a surprise and more like an overdue meeting of kindred spirits.

Their admiration wasn’t one-sided. Lennon openly praised Zappa’s blunt honesty, once saying he wished he could abandon diplomacy the way Zappa did. To Lennon, Zappa represented total artistic independence—someone who didn’t trim his edges to please an audience or protect an image. It was a revealing comparison, especially coming from someone who spent years in a band scrutinized by millions at every turn. Lennon’s comments suggested he was looking not only at Zappa’s music but at Zappa’s posture toward the world.

But admiration and compatibility aren’t the same thing, especially when two uncompromising artists share space. What happened after their single night of collaboration at the Fillmore East didn’t just spark a personal rift—it exposed two very different philosophies about credit, ownership, and what it means to protect one’s work in an industry built on blurred lines.

The Fillmore Jam and a Disputed Song

Zappa was caught off guard when a Village Voice reporter showed up at his hotel room asking if he wanted to meet Lennon. It was June 6, 1971, and Zappa, still half-asleep, agreed without thinking too deeply about what the encounter might lead to. Before long, Lennon and Yoko Ono were invited to sit in on Zappa’s Fillmore East show, joining the Mothers of Invention for an improvised jam. What started as a casual, good-natured meeting quickly became part of a recorded moment that neither artist could have predicted would cause friction.

The performance was being taped for Zappa’s own purposes, something Lennon and Ono were told from the start. Most of the material was free-form jamming, the kind of music that doesn’t raise questions about authorship later. But mixed into the set was a performance of “King Kong,” a composition Zappa had written years earlier and one he intended to release on a Mothers of Invention album. Improvisation is one thing; performing an existing, copyrighted piece is another.

When Lennon and Ono released the recording of that night on Some Time in New York City, the problem became clear. “King Kong” appeared under a new title—“Jamrag”—and the songwriting credit was changed to Lennon/Ono. Zappa was stunned. A song with a clear melody, structure, and history had been re-labeled as something new, authored by people who hadn’t written it. In later interviews, he didn’t hold back, describing the experience as a betrayal wrapped in administrative sloppiness.

A Clash of Intentions and Missteps

Clearing rights for live recordings is notoriously complicated, and the process becomes even messier when the music comes from an unplanned collaboration. Lennon and Ono’s release of the Fillmore material appears to have been rushed, likely motivated by the urgency of their politically charged album cycle at the time. Whether the miscrediting was an oversight or a misunderstanding, the record landed with Zappa as a dismissive act—especially because he had granted Lennon a copy of the master tapes in good faith.

Zappa’s frustration was tied to more than just authorship. He had given Lennon and Ono access to a performance he took pride in, one that captured the Mothers at a creative peak. By altering titles and taking credit, the release undermined the sense of mutual respect that Zappa assumed existed between them. Even if Lennon had no malicious intent, the result left Zappa feeling steamrolled, the kind of reaction any artist might have when a part of their catalog is mishandled.

The public didn’t immediately read this as a major feud, but the musicians involved certainly felt the sting. Lennon never publicly defended the decision or clarified what happened behind the scenes, leaving the story through Zappa’s eyes as the dominant record. Over time, the Fillmore dispute became a shorthand example of how even well-meaning collaborations can go sideways when business moves faster than communication.

Commercial Priorities vs. Creative Integrity

What makes the Lennon-Zappa disagreement linger in music history is not just the mistaken credit but what it revealed about their underlying differences. Lennon knew the machinery of commercial music better than almost anyone. Decades of working under the world’s brightest spotlight gave him instincts about timing, momentum, and output that few artists ever develop. When he wanted to put something into the world, he didn’t hesitate—he pushed forward.

Zappa lived by an entirely different code. He had built a career resisting commercial expectations, often at financial or promotional cost. Protecting the shape, meaning, and authorship of his music mattered more to him than release schedules or sales figures. “King Kong” wasn’t just another track—it was a statement piece within the Mothers of Invention’s evolving language of rock, jazz, and satire. Seeing it rebranded and redistributed clashed with every artistic principle he held.

In that sense, the quarrel was bigger than a mislabeled track. It marked the collision of two worldviews: one shaped by the most famous band on Earth, the other forged in an environment where artistic autonomy was priceless. The Fillmore incident may have started as a mishandled jam session, but it ended as a snapshot of a deeper divide—one that reflected the broader tension between expressionism and commercialism in early ’70s rock.