The son who inherited John Lennon’s idealism but rejected his utopianism created the environmental anthem that proved more prophetic than “Imagine” ever was
By Jan Vranken
You may say he’s a dreamer. But Julian Lennon isn’t the only one.
When John Lennon recorded “Imagine” in 1971, he sang of a world with “nothing to kill or die for” and “no possessions.” It was beautiful, intoxicating, and—as history would prove—wildly optimistic. Twenty years later, his eldest son Julian sat in his home studio watching footage from the 1991 Gulf War: oil fields ablaze, blackened beaches, seabirds drowning in crude. The dream his father had sung about hadn’t materialized. Instead, the world had accelerated its march toward environmental catastrophe.
What Julian Lennon did next was create something his father never quite managed: an anthem that didn’t just dream of a better world, but mourned the one we were actively destroying.
“Saltwater,” released in August 1991, is the answer record nobody knew “Imagine” needed. Where John dreamed, Julian warned. Where John offered utopia, Julian documented apocalypse. And where John’s activism lived in abstraction, Julian’s crystallized around a single, devastating metaphor: saltwater—the tears we cry and the oceans we’re killing are the same.
The fact that this masterpiece has been largely overshadowed by John’s catalog isn’t just unfair. It’s a musical injustice that reveals how we value comfortable dreams over uncomfortable truths.
THE CONTEXT: 1991, THE YEAR THE WORLD BURNED
To understand “Saltwater,” you need to understand 1991.
Kuwait’s oil fields were on fire. Saddam Hussein’s retreating forces had ignited over 700 wells, creating an environmental disaster of biblical proportions. CNN broadcast images of black smoke so thick it blocked out the sun. The Persian Gulf itself became a massive oil slick—an estimated 8 million barrels of crude dumped into its waters, killing marine life on a scale previously unimaginable.
This wasn’t theoretical environmentalism. This was ecocide broadcast in real-time.
Julian Lennon, watching this horror unfold on television, did what Lennons do when confronted with the world’s darkness: he picked up a guitar. But unlike his father’s response to Vietnam—which produced the pacific, almost naive “Give Peace a Chance”—Julian’s reaction was more complex. “Saltwater” doesn’t plead. It doesn’t preach. It simply observes, with devastating clarity, what we’ve done.
Co-written with Mark and Leslie Spiro in 1990 (before the Gulf War gave it additional urgency), the song was Julian’s first explicit statement on environmental conservation and the plight of indigenous peoples. It would become his biggest hit—reaching #6 in the UK and spending four weeks atop the Australian charts—but more importantly, it would establish him as something his father never quite was: an activist whose art looked forward, not backward.
THE BEATLES’ SHADOW AND A FRIEND’S TRAGEDY
The recording of “Saltwater” for the album Help Yourself carries its own poignant subtext, one that connects three generations of rock royalty through tragedy, compassion, and the collaborative spirit that defines the best of popular music.
Julian originally wrote a guitar solo for the song. At the suggestion of his producer Bob Ezrin—the legendary Canadian who had helmed Pink Floyd’s The Wall—he reached out to George Harrison to play it instead. The symbolism was almost too perfect: the man who had played “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” for the Beatles, now lending his distinctive slide guitar touch to John Lennon’s son.
But Harrison was unavailable. Not because of scheduling conflicts or creative differences. He was with Eric Clapton, helping his friend through the most devastating moment of his life: the death of Clapton’s four-year-old son Conor, who had fallen from a 53rd-floor window in New York on March 20, 1991.
Harrison did what he could. He recorded a couple of riffs and sent them back to Julian. But the actual solo on “Saltwater”—that soaring, Harrison-inflected line that carries the song’s emotional climax—was ultimately played by session legend Steve Hunter, who wove together elements of both Julian’s and George’s ideas.
It’s a detail that could be dismissed as mere session minutiae. But it’s not. It’s everything. Here was George Harrison, the quiet Beatle who had found John Lennon insufferable at times, who had carried his own complicated relationship with the Beatles’ legacy, taking time during his friend’s darkest hour to contribute to John’s son’s record. And when he couldn’t be there physically, he made sure his musical DNA was in the recording anyway.
Harrison received a special thanks in the liner notes of Help Yourself. It’s a small gesture that carries immense weight. Because “Saltwater” isn’t just about environmental activism—it’s about compassion, connection, and the ways grief and beauty intertwine in the creation of art.
Clapton would process his own tragedy by writing “Tears in Heaven.” Julian processed the world’s tragedy with “Saltwater.” And Harrison, standing between them, offered what he could to both.
THE PRODUCTION: WHEN PINK FLOYD’S TEAM BUILT JULIAN’S WALL OF SOUND
If “Saltwater” sounds epic, there’s a reason. Julian Lennon didn’t just hire any producer for Help Yourself. He hired Bob Ezrin, the man who had co-produced Pink Floyd’s The Wall—arguably the most ambitious, emotionally devastating concept album in rock history.
And Ezrin brought his Wall collaborator James Guthrie to mix the track.
This wasn’t accidental. This was Julian Lennon making a statement: he was building something monumental.
Recorded at Amigo Studios and The Enterprise, “Saltwater” employed cutting-edge QSound technology—a revolutionary 3D audio system that created maximum depth and clarity from conventional stereo systems. In 1991, this was as innovative as Phil Spector’s “Wall of Sound” had been in the 1960s. The difference? Where Spector layered instruments to create a dense, almost oppressive sonic landscape, QSound created space—allowing every element to breathe while maintaining emotional weight.
The comparison to Spector is instructive, because it highlights the parallel between John and Julian’s approaches to production. John Lennon had worked extensively with Phil Spector on albums like Imagine and the Plastic Ono Bandrecord, where Spector’s trademark dense orchestration was either embraced or deliberately reined in depending on the song’s emotional needs. On “God” from Plastic Ono Band, for instance, Spector achieved monumentality with just bass, drums, and two pianos—proof that his genius wasn’t just about excess, but about knowing when subtlety served the song.
Ezrin employed a similar philosophy. On “Saltwater,” the arrangement builds gradually: Julian’s vulnerable vocal over gentle acoustic guitar, gradually adding layers—strings, percussion, subtle synthesizers—until the song reaches its crescendo without ever tipping into bombast. It’s the work of a producer who learned from Pink Floyd’s Roger Waters that the most powerful moments in music come from dynamic contrast, not constant volume.
The credits read like a masterclass in 1991 rock production:
- Julian on vocals, guitars, keyboards, mandolin, percussion, bass, and drum programming
- Steve Hunter on the iconic guitar solo
- Louis Moline on drums
- Matt Bissonette on bass
- Scott Humphrey on synthesizer programming
- Bob Ezrin contributing keyboards, percussion, and overall sonic architecture
Mastered by Doug Sax—another legend who had worked on everyone from The Who to Ray Charles—”Saltwater” was built to last. And it has.
THE SONG: A MUSICAL AND LYRICAL BREAKDOWN
“Saltwater” opens with a vulnerability that immediately distinguishes it from John Lennon’s more declarative anthems. Where “Imagine” begins with the iconic piano figure—confident, almost hypnotic—”Saltwater” starts with Julian’s voice and a hypnotic organ. It’s intimate. Confessional. Personal.
The verse melody is deceptively simple, allowing the lyrics to carry maximum weight:
“We are a rock revolving / Around a golden sun / We are a billion children rolled into one”
This is the cosmic perspective, the Carl Sagan view of Earth as a pale blue dot. But unlike “Imagine,” which uses this perspective to argue for unity (“imagine no countries”), “Saltwater” uses it to emphasize our collective responsibility—and our collective failure.
The pre-chorus builds tension:
“So when I hear about the hole in the sky / Saltwater wells in my eyes”
Here’s the song’s central metaphor, stated with devastating simplicity. The saltwater of tears and the saltwater of the ocean become interchangeable—both evidence of a planet in crisis. It’s more sophisticated than anything John attempted in his political songs, because it doesn’t tell you what to think. It just shows you what is.
The chorus hits like a tidal wave:
‘ I have lived for love
But now that’s not enough
For the world I love is dying (And now I’m crying)
And time is not a friend (No friend of mine)
As friends we’re out of time
And it’s slowly passing by
Right before our eyes’
This is where Julian surpasses his father. John’s lyrics often relied on imperative statements (“Imagine all the people”) or rhetorical questions (“Give peace a chance”). Julian’s lyrics work through implication. The “friend” in the chorus could be a lover, a child, the Earth itself. The shift from the romantic opening line to the apocalyptic conclusion—”friends we’re out of time”—is a gut-punch precisely because it sounds like a love song gone wrong.
Because that’s what it is. A love song to a planet we’re killing.
Musically, the song builds with each chorus. The first is relatively sparse. The second adds strings. By the third, we have a full orchestral arrangement—not quite Spector’s Wall of Sound, but Ezrin’s wall of space—and Steve Hunter’s guitar solo, playing what George Harrison would have played: a melodic, singing line that doesn’t show off, but rather enhances the song’s emotional arc.
The song concludes not with resolution but with repetition of the chorus, gradually fading out as if acknowledging that this crisis doesn’t end when the music stops. It’s still happening. We’re still out of time.
THE LENNON DIALECTIC: UTOPIA VS. REALITY
In dialectical terms, “Imagine” is the thesis. “Saltwater” is the antithesis. The synthesis—if it exists—hasn’t been written yet.
John Lennon’s greatest weakness as an activist was his tendency toward abstraction. “Imagine no possessions,” he sang from his mansion. “Imagine no countries,” he urged, while enjoying the privileges of British-American celebrity. This isn’t to diminish “Imagine”—it remains a powerful piece of pop utopianism. But it’s telling that the song’s most memorable images are all negative: no heaven, no hell, no countries, no religion, no possessions.
What does John imagine in their place? “People living for today.” “A brotherhood of man.” Beautiful sentiments. Vague ones too.
Julian learned from his father’s mistakes. “Saltwater” is grounded in specificity: the hole in the ozone layer, the pollution of oceans, the destruction of indigenous cultures. It names problems. It mourns specific losses. And crucially, it doesn’t pretend to have solutions.
There’s a line in “Imagine” that has always troubled thoughtful listeners: “Nothing to kill or die for.” It sounds peaceful until you realize it’s also nihilistic. If there’s nothing worth dying for, is there anything worth living for?
“Saltwater” provides an answer: yes. The Earth itself. Its beauty. Its ecosystems. Its future. Julian found something concrete to care about, something his father’s abstraction couldn’t quite grasp.
The irony is that Julian’s more specific, more activist-oriented approach might have actually moved people to action in ways “Imagine” never could. “Imagine” became an anthem for feeling hopeful. “Saltwater” became an anthem for doing something.
THE AFTERMATH AND THE LEGACY
“Saltwater” should have been the beginning of Julian Lennon as environmental troubadour. Instead, Atlantic Records barely promoted it in the United States. While it topped charts in Australia and hit #6 in the UK, it never charted on the Billboard Hot 100. American audiences, apparently, weren’t ready for a Lennon who dealt in reality rather than dreams.
Julian would continue his environmental activism outside of music, founding The White Feather Foundation and re-recording “Saltwater” in 2016 as “Saltwater 25” with updated production by longtime collaborator Justin Clayton. In his statement about the re-recording, Julian’s frustration was palpable:
“I felt that after 25 Years of watching what’s been happening to Our Mother & All of Her Children, that I owed it not only to Myself, but to everyone, in many respects, to rerecord this song of sympathy/empathy, this Philanthropic Anthem, for future generations that hadn’t heard it before… the World is 25 times worse than it was 25 years ago, on a Humanitarian & Environmental level.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. In 1991, atmospheric CO2 levels stood at 354 parts per million. By 2016, they had reached 404 ppm. Plastic pollution had increased exponentially. Ocean acidification had accelerated. Species extinction rates had multiplied.
Everything “Saltwater” warned about had come true. And worse.
In 2023, The White Feather Foundation released a new cover version featuring young artists Sereena, Jenna Marie, Tausha, and Hadron Sounds—an acknowledgment that the fight continues, that new generations need to hear the warning.
WHY “SALTWATER” MATTERS MORE THAN “IMAGINE”
This is the part where I make the argument that will anger Beatles purists: “Saltwater” is a more important song than “Imagine.”
Not more beautiful. Not more iconic. Not more perfect as a piece of pop craftsmanship. But more important.
“Imagine” gave us permission to dream. That was valuable in 1971, coming out of the chaos of the 1960s. But dreams without action are just escapism. “Saltwater” did something harder: it forced us to look at what we’d done. It turned the utopian impulse of the 1960s generation—John’s generation—into a reckoning.
The difference between John and Julian isn’t talent. It’s not even vision. It’s honesty.
John Lennon could imagine a world with no possessions while living in the Dakota. Julian Lennon sang about environmental destruction while actively founding charities to address it. John wrote “Happy Xmas (War Is Over)” and war continued. Julian wrote “Saltwater” and then spent decades working with organizations addressing the crises he’d sung about.
This matters. Because rock and roll has always had an uneasy relationship with activism. Too often, it’s performative. It’s Live Aid concerts where millionaires ask working people to donate. It’s awareness-raising that doesn’t lead to actual change.
“Saltwater” succeeded where “Imagine” failed because it didn’t just change how people felt. It changed what they knew. And knowledge, unlike sentiment, is transferable. You can’t un-know that we’re running out of time. You can’t un-hear the urgency in Julian’s voice when he sings “friends we’re out of time.”
THE MUSICAL VERDICT
Strip away the Lennon name, the Beatles legacy, the father-son dynamic. Judge “Saltwater” purely as a piece of music. How does it hold up?
Magnificently.
The production—courtesy of Bob Ezrin and James Guthrie—is ageless. The QSound technology, which could have dated the track, instead gives it a clarity and spatial depth that most contemporary recordings lack. Play “Saltwater” on quality headphones and you’ll hear what 1991 engineering at its peak sounded like.
The arrangement is perfect. Not a note is wasted. Every string line, every percussion hit, every guitar overdub serves the song. This is the work of professionals who knew that the message was more important than showing off.
And Julian’s vocal—often dismissed by critics who couldn’t hear past his resemblance to his father—is revelatory. He doesn’t have John’s raw power or McCartney’s range, but he has something just as valuable: sincerity. When he sings “saltwater wells in my eyes,” you believe him. Because it’s true.
Steve Hunter’s guitar solo deserves special mention. It’s not a solo that makes you think about the guitarist. It makes you think about the song. In an era (1991) when guitar solos were still expected to be technical showcases (this was barely post-hair metal), Hunter played something melodic, tasteful, and emotionally resonant. The fact that he was incorporating ideas from both Julian and George Harrison makes it even more remarkable—a collaborative solo that bridges generations of rock guitar.
THE CONCLUSION: DREAMS AND WARNINGS
In the end, the story of “Saltwater” is the story of what happens when the next generation inherits both the idealism and the disillusionment of the previous one. Julian Lennon didn’t reject his father’s activism. He matured it. He took John’s dreaming and added Julian’s doing.
George Harrison’s role in this story—attempting to help despite personal tragedy—serves as a reminder that the Beatles’ legacy isn’t just their music. It’s their humanity, their willingness to show up for each other and for causes larger than themselves, even when they disagreed or grew apart.
“Imagine” asks us to dream of a better world. “Saltwater” shows us the world we actually live in and demands we face it. Both are necessary. Both are valuable.
But if I’m being honest? In 2025, as we face environmental collapse, rising authoritarianism, and species extinction, we need “Saltwater” more than we need “Imagine.”
We need fewer dreams and more warnings. We need less abstraction and more action. We need to stop imagining and start seeing.
Julian Lennon saw. And he made us look.
That’s not just good songwriting. That’s art with a purpose.
You may say he’s a dreamer. But he’s the dreamer who woke up. And in waking, created something his father, for all his genius, never quite managed: a song that doesn’t just reflect its time, but predicts ours.
“Saltwater” isn’t just one of the best songs ever written. It’s the song we needed then, the song we still need now, and the song future generations will need when they ask: “Why didn’t they do something when they knew?”
The answer is: some did. Some sang. Some warned.
And some, like Julian Lennon, did all three.
RATING: ★★★★★ (5/5)
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