In the grand, mythologized saga of The Beatles, the roles have always seemed perfectly cast. Paul McCartney was the master melodist, the charming architect of pop perfection. George Harrison was the quiet mystic, the soulful lead guitarist whose fingers spun intricate, beautiful tapestries of sound. Ringo Starr was the unshakeable heartbeat. And John Lennon? He was the poet, the rebel, the rhythm guitarist who penned the anthems of a generation. It’s a clean, digestible narrative that has sold millions of records and defined rock history for over half a century. But it contains a staggering omission, a truth hidden in plain sight: John Lennon was a phenomenal, revolutionary, and criminally underrated lead guitarist.

To suggest Lennon was a lead player on par with Harrison often feels like sacrilege. Harrison’s legacy is built on the elegance of solos like “Something” and the soaring spirituality of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.” He was, by all accounts, the more technically proficient musician, the one who studied scales and revered the craft. Lennon, by contrast, seemed to attack his instrument. His playing wasn’t about precision; it was about punctuation. It wasn’t about intricate scales; it was about raw, visceral emotion. Where Harrison’s guitar sang, Lennon’s screamed. And in those screams, a different kind of genius is revealed—one that was years, even decades, ahead of its time.

Our collective memory often defaults to images of Lennon with his Rickenbacker 325, chunking out the iconic chords to “A Hard Day’s Night” or “I Should Have Known Better.” He was the anchor, the rhythmic foundation upon which Harrison’s more ornate lead lines could dance. Yet, even in the early days, flashes of Lennon’s aggressive, lead-playing instincts broke through. Take a listen to “You Can’t Do That,” released in 1964. While Harrison handles the song’s opening riff, it’s Lennon who rips into the solo. It’s a jagged, frantic burst of notes, steeped in the American R&B he so idolized. It’s not clean or polished; it’s short, sharp, and full of snarling attitude. It’s a statement of intent, a glimpse of the untamed musical spirit lurking beneath the pop-star veneer.

Perhaps the most glaring piece of evidence in the case for Lennon the lead guitarist is one of the band’s most famous singles: “Get Back.” The slick, melodic, and perfectly structured solo that drives the song is widely assumed to be the work of George Harrison. It’s a reasonable assumption, given the established roles within the band. But it’s wrong. The lead guitar on the iconic single version of “Get Back” was played by John Lennon. Harrison took the solo on the “Let It Be” album version, but Lennon claimed the spotlight for the hit. His playing is clean, fluid, and surprisingly conventional, proving that he could absolutely deliver a traditional, melodic solo when the song called for it. The fact that this contribution is so frequently misattributed speaks volumes about how deeply the “John as rhythm player” narrative is ingrained in our consciousness.

However, to truly understand Lennon’s guitar genius, one must venture into the darker, more experimental corners of The Beatles’ later work. As the band shed its mop-top image and embraced the avant-garde, Lennon’s guitar playing became a direct conduit for his increasingly complex and often tormented psyche. The “White Album” (1968) is a showcase for this evolution. On “Yer Blues,” a track born from his feelings of depression and insecurity while on retreat in India, Lennon unleashes a torrent of raw, distorted blues. His two solos on the track are chaotic, desperate, and utterly electrifying. They are the sonic equivalent of a man on the edge, teetering between despair and defiance. This isn’t the work of a rhythm guitarist filling in; it’s the sound of an artist using his instrument as a primal form of therapy.

This raw, emotional approach reached its menacing zenith on “Abbey Road” with the track “I Want You (She’s So Heavy).” The song’s legendary outro is not a solo in the traditional sense; it’s a monolithic, three-minute slab of obsessive, repetitive guitar work. Over a descending arpeggio, Lennon layers guitar upon guitar, drenched in fuzz and reverb, creating a crushing wall of sound that builds an almost unbearable sense of dread and hypnotic tension. It’s minimalist, it’s brutalist, and it’s terrifyingly effective. When the song abruptly cuts to silence, the effect is shocking, leaving the listener breathless. This was Lennon using the studio itself as an instrument, crafting a soundscape of pure obsession that was unlike anything else in popular music at the time.

Yet, the ultimate testament to John Lennon’s power as a guitarist lies just outside The Beatles’ official discography, in the harrowing screams of his first proper solo single, “Cold Turkey” (1969). The song is a stark, unflinching account of his and Yoko Ono’s experience of quitting heroin. The music is stripped bare, but the emotional core is conveyed through Lennon’s guitar. The solos are not musical in any conventional sense. They are shrieks of pure agony. Lennon tortures his guitar, wrenching out shards of feedback, dissonant squalls, and atonal noise that perfectly captures the physical and psychological torment of withdrawal.

It is a difficult, abrasive listen, but it is also a work of staggering artistic courage. This was a sound that had no place on the pop charts. It was raw, confrontational, and deeply unsettling. It was the sound of what would later be called punk rock and noise rock, long before those genres had names. It was the sound of an artist who refused to pretty up his pain, instead choosing to channel it directly through his amplifier for the entire world to hear.

So why has this aspect of his talent been so consistently overlooked? Part of the reason is the sheer brilliance of his songwriting. His lyrical genius and his gift for melody were so immense that they naturally overshadowed his other musical skills. Another reason is the quiet confidence and immense talent of George Harrison, who rightfully earned his place as one of rock’s most revered guitarists. But perhaps the biggest reason is that Lennon’s guitar playing defied easy categorization. He wasn’t a virtuoso in the mold of an Eric Clapton or a Jimi Hendrix. His genius wasn’t in his speed or his technical mastery. It was in his honesty, his raw emotional power, and his fearless innovation. He played the guitar not to impress, but to express. He used it as a weapon, a paintbrush, and a confessional.

It’s time to rewrite the narrative. John Lennon was more than a poet with a guitar; he was a guitar revolutionary whose influence can be heard in the feedback-drenched anthems of Nirvana, the raw energy of The Stooges, and the art-rock experiments of Sonic Youth. To truly appreciate the full scope of his genius, we must listen past the unforgettable words and melodies and tune into the fury, the pain, and the untamed brilliance of his six-string confessions. He wasn’t just the rhythm guitarist of The Beatles; he was their secret weapon.