THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED: SHOCKING TRUTH ABOUT THE LAST TIME RINGO SAW LENNON ALIVE

How a chance meeting at New York's Plaza Hotel became the final chapter in a friendship that changed music forever

• Ringo Starr's emotional revelation about his final joyous encounter with John Lennon at New York's Plaza Hotel just weeks before the tragedy

• The untold stories of Paul McCartney and George Harrison's last moments with their former bandmate and the unfinished conversations that would haunt them

• Famous friends and collaborators share their own haunting final encounters with the musical revolutionary

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It was meant to be just another day, the sort where nothing much happens, and certainly nothing that would etch itself into the fabric of rock and roll history with the permanence of an epitaph. But then again, nothing about the Beatles was ever 'just another' anything, was it?

In the dismal winter of 1981, barely recovered from the shock waves that had rippled across the globe just months earlier, a visibly shattered Ringo Starr sat before television cameras. The once-jovial drummer, whose comedic timing had so often provided light relief in the madcap world of Beatlemania, could barely contain his emotions as he attempted to discuss the unthinkable – the last time he'd seen John Lennon alive.

One imagines it wasn't supposed to go like this. The Fab Four were destined for reunion tours in their twilight years, nostalgic appearances on chat shows where they'd chuckle about the madness of it all, perhaps even a royal variety performance where they'd stand, grey-haired but dignified, as Her Maj tapped her feet to 'Love Me Do'. They were meant to grow old together, these lads from Liverpool, not end up as three-quarters of a revolution.

But life, as Lennon himself might have wryly observed, is what happens while you're busy making other plans.

"We had such a great time," Ringo recalled of their final meeting at New York's Plaza Hotel, his voice cracking with the weight of words that suddenly carried the burden of finality. "It was particularly great."

The Plaza – that grand old dame of New York hospitality where the Beatles had once caused mayhem during their first American tour in 1964. How fitting that it should play host to this unwitting farewell between two old friends. One can almost picture them there, these two working-class heroes who'd conquered the world, sitting amidst the plush surroundings, perhaps sharing a cuppa (or something stronger) and reminiscing about the days when they'd huddled together in the Cavern Club, shivering between sets and dreaming of bigger things.

Did they know it was goodbye? Of course not. That's the cruellest irony of last meetings – they're only 'last' in retrospect, a designation that comes after the fact, when it's too late to savour them properly or say the things that matter most.

The interview itself is a harrowing watch. As the journalist presses on with ghoulish determination, asking for details about how Ringo discovered the news of Lennon's murder, the normally unflappable drummer visibly crumbles.

"Do you want to stop that now?" he pleads, with the desperation of a man who's being forced to relive his worst nightmare on cue. "It doesn't help and it always gets me upset."

But the cameras kept rolling, as they always do. After all, grief sells papers, doesn't it? Just ask the headline writers who've been dining out on 'Paul is Dead' since 1969. One can almost hear the ghost of Private Eye's Glenda Slagg cackling, "I cried buckets for lovely John! Didn't we all, dahlings? But wasn't he just a bit PRETENTIOUS with all that bed-in nonsense?"

The truth, as always with the Beatles, was far more nuanced and human than any tabloid headline could capture.

For Paul McCartney, the wound was particularly complex. His last meeting with Lennon had come after years of legal battles and public sniping that had followed the band's acrimonious split. The two songwriting giants, once so creatively entwined that they'd finish each other's musical sentences, had drifted into the choppy waters of rivalry and resentment.

McCartney would later reveal that their final meeting took place in 1976, when he had made an impromptu visit to Lennon's New York apartment at the Dakota. It was, by all accounts, a cordial encounter – a brief respite in their often stormy post-Beatles relationship.

"It was good. It was like we'd never stopped," Paul would recall with the wistfulness of a man who knows the value of reconciliation, however brief. They had apparently sat and watched 'Saturday Night Live' together, laughing at producer Lorne Michaels' offer of $3,000 for a Beatles reunion. For a tantalising moment, they'd even considered taking a taxi to the NBC studios to claim the money as a lark – imagine that alternate universe where John and Paul had turned up unannounced, sending the world into paroxysms of joy.

But they didn't, of course. Perhaps they were too tired, too comfortable in their positions of domestic tranquillity. Or perhaps they knew, on some level, that magic once bottled can never truly be recaptured. The moment passed, and with it, their last chance to appear together.

For George Harrison, the 'quiet Beatle' whose spiritual journey had taken him far from the madding crowd of celebrity, the last meeting with Lennon had reportedly occurred in 1976 at a gathering in Los Angeles. It was brief, cordial, but not especially profound – just two old colleagues crossing paths on their separate journeys.

Harrison, who had perhaps the most complicated relationship with fame among the four, had found his own path through Eastern philosophy and meditation. One can imagine him and Lennon, both seekers in their own ways, sharing a knowing glance across the room – a silent acknowledgement of the strange trip they'd shared.

"John was still John," Harrison would later reflect with characteristic understatement. The man who had written 'Within You Without You' understood better than most the impermanence of all things, but even he couldn't have foreseen how suddenly his old bandmate's physical journey would end.

It's worth noting that in the immediate aftermath of Lennon's death, Harrison's response was characteristically forthright: "It's a drag, isn't it?" he said, a quintessentially British understatement that masked the depth of his shock and grief. Later, he would expand on these feelings, revealing the depth of his loss in more measured terms, but that initial reaction – so jarring to American ears – spoke volumes about the British way of processing unthinkable tragedy.

Ringo's relationship with John had always been one of mutual respect and genuine affection. As the band's steady heartbeat, Starr had often been the peacemaker, the one who could navigate the increasingly troubled waters between the three songwriters. It's perhaps why his recollection of their final meeting at the Plaza carries such poignancy.

"I still miss John a great deal, I'll always miss him you know. But it's still brand new," he said in that 1981 interview, the rawness of his grief palpable. One imagines him sitting at his drum kit in the years that followed, looking up during rehearsals and expecting to see that familiar figure with the granny glasses and razor-sharp wit, only to be confronted with absence.

The tragedy of Lennon's death rippled far beyond his immediate circle, of course. For other musical luminaries who had crossed paths with him, the shock was equally profound.

Elton John, who had shared both stage and studio with Lennon during the mid-70s, had seen him at Madison Square Garden in 1974, where they performed 'Whatever Gets You Thru the Night' together. It was to be Lennon's last major concert appearance.

"It was just like wonderland for me," Elton would later recall of their friendship. "When I used to go to John's apartment in the Dakota, I'd wear my most sort of crazy, outlandish clothes because it was a competition between me and Yoko." One wonders what the doorman at the Dakota made of this parade of peacockery.

Mick Jagger, whose own band had followed in the Beatles' slipstream and then carved their own path to rock immortality, had encountered Lennon socially in New York in the late 70s. The two had a complex relationship – part rivalry, part mutual respect – that epitomised the creative tension between their respective bands.

"I liked John a lot," Jagger would say with uncharacteristic simplicity after Lennon's death. From the man who had once sneered his way through 'Satisfaction', it was as heartfelt a tribute as one could expect.

David Bowie, whose chameleon-like career had been inspired in part by the Beatles' own constant reinvention, had collaborated with Lennon on 'Fame' in 1975. Their last meeting, reportedly at a Hong Kong tailor where both were having suits made (one imagines a scene of sartorial splendour with two of rock's most fashion-forward icons comparing lapels), had been brief but cordial.

"He was a great, great spirit," Bowie would later say, perhaps recognising in Lennon a kindred artistic soul. One wonders what musical magic might have emerged had they had more time to explore their creative kinship.

For Yoko Ono, of course, the last moments with John were the most precious and the most painful. They had been returning to the Dakota after a recording session on that fateful December evening. John had been carrying a tape – new music that the world would never hear in its intended form.

The cruel irony is that Lennon had recently emerged from his five-year 'househusband' hiatus, releasing 'Double Fantasy' and brimming with creative energy and new ideas. He had been, by all accounts, in a good place – content with his family life, excited about making music again, and even beginning to heal some of the old wounds with his former bandmates.

In that final Plaza Hotel meeting with Ringo, by all accounts, John had been upbeat and positive. They had laughed, reminisced, and perhaps even dared to imagine future collaborations. Who knows what might have happened had fate not intervened so brutally? Might we have seen that elusive Beatles reunion after all?

The 'what ifs' are the most painful part of any premature loss. What if John and Paul had taken that taxi to SNL in 1976? What if George's last conversation with John had been longer, more meaningful? What if Ringo had stayed another day at the Plaza?

But perhaps we're missing the point with such speculation. The Beatles were never about the 'what ifs' – they were about what was. Four lads from Liverpool who changed the world through the power of their music, their imagination, and their humanity.

"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans," Lennon wrote in 'Beautiful Boy', one of his last compositions. It's a line that has gained almost unbearable poignancy in the years since his death.

For Ringo, Paul, and George (until his own untimely passing in 2001), life indeed went on. They continued to make music, to evolve as artists, to navigate the complex legacy of their shared history. But one suspects that each of them carried the weight of those final encounters, those last shared moments with their bandmate and friend.

"You know it's so new to me that it sort of clogs you up a bit," Ringo said in that painful interview. "I used to say 'ask the other three' but now we can only ask two which is a drag but I'm sure he's ok."

There's something quintessentially Ringo about that statement – the simplicity, the humanity, the quiet dignity. In just a few words, he captured the disorientation that follows such a loss, the way it forces a recalibration of one's entire worldview.

Paul McCartney, in the immediate aftermath of Lennon's death, famously told reporters, "It's a drag, isn't it?" – echoing Harrison's equally understated reaction. To American ears, it seemed almost callous, but to British sensibilities, it was simply the language of shock – the inadequacy of words in the face of the unthinkable.

Later, of course, McCartney would articulate his grief more fully. "I'll never forget when I heard the news," he would say. "I was at home, and I got a phone call. It was early in the morning... I was just so shocked."

The shock waves rippled outward, touching millions who had never met Lennon but who felt they knew him through his music. From Liverpool to Tokyo, from New York to London, fans gathered in spontaneous vigils, singing his songs, lighting candles, trying to make sense of a world suddenly bereft of one of its most vital voices.

In the years that followed, the three remaining Beatles would come together occasionally – for the Anthology project in the mid-90s, for various charity events, for Harrison's memorial after his death in 2001. But they were always, inescapably, three-quarters of a whole. The absence of Lennon was palpable, a negative space that defined the shape of what remained.

There's a moment in that 1981 interview with Ringo that particularly stands out. As he struggles to articulate his feelings, to put into words the enormity of what has been lost, he simply says, "I'm really sad." In its understated simplicity, it speaks volumes about the man and the depth of his grief.

One imagines that in the years that followed, as Ringo continued his own musical journey, as he navigated the complex legacy of being a Beatle in a post-Beatles world, he often thought back to that final meeting at the Plaza. The laughter shared, the stories exchanged, the comfortable camaraderie of two old friends who had seen and done it all together.

Did they part with 'See you later' or 'Catch you soon'? Did they hug, shake hands, or simply nod goodbye? These details, so insignificant at the time, take on monumental importance when a meeting becomes, in retrospect, a farewell.

For Paul, too, the memory of that last encounter at the Dakota must have been both precious and painful. Did they talk about old times or focus on the future? Did they play any music together, these two men whose creative partnership had changed the face of popular culture? We know they laughed at the absurdity of that SNL offer – a moment of shared humour that bridged the gap created by years of legal battles and public disagreements.

And for George, whose own spiritual journey had taught him about the impermanence of all things, did that last brief meeting with John in Los Angeles carry any premonition? Did the man who had written 'All Things Must Pass' sense that their time together in this life was drawing to a close?

We'll never know, of course. These private moments remain private, preserved in the memories of those who were there, gradually transforming over time as all memories do.

What we do know is that the music remains. From 'Love Me Do' to 'Let It Be', from 'Please Please Me' to 'Abbey Road', the Beatles created a body of work that continues to resonate with each new generation. And within that catalogue, Lennon's voice – literally and figuratively – rings out with undiminished power and passion.

"I'm not claiming divinity," Lennon once said. "I've never claimed purity of soul. I've never claimed to have the answers to life. I only put out songs and answer questions as honestly as I can... But I still believe in peace, love and understanding."

In the four decades since his death, those values – peace, love, understanding – have often seemed in short supply in our troubled world. One wonders what Lennon would make of it all, this sharp-tongued, sharp-witted observer of human folly and human potential.

Would he be tweeting acerbic comments about political absurdities? Would he and Yoko be staging virtual bed-ins for peace? Would he have embraced the digital revolution or decried its dehumanising aspects? Would he and Paul have buried the hatchet completely, perhaps even writing together again?

Again, the 'what ifs' are tantalising but ultimately futile. What matters is what was – the music, the message, the memories.

For Ringo, Paul, and George (until his passing), those memories included those final meetings – those unknowing farewells to a friend and bandmate. Each of them carried forward, in their own way, the legacy they had built together as the most influential musical group of the 20th century.

"I used to say 'ask the other three' but now we can only ask two which is a drag," as Ringo put it so poignantly. Now, of course, we can only ask one – Sir Paul, the last Beatle standing, the keeper of the flame, the living link to that magical, musical revolution that began in Liverpool and conquered the world.

One imagines that for him, the memories of that last meeting with John in 1976 have taken on an almost mythic quality – a moment frozen in time, precious beyond measure because it cannot be repeated or replaced.

The story of the Beatles is, in many ways, the story of the second half of the 20th century – from post-war austerity to psychedelic experimentation, from youthful optimism to disillusioned maturity. And the story of their endings – of those final meetings between John and his bandmates – is a reminder of the fragility of life and the permanence of art.

"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." Indeed. But what a life it was, and what plans they made, these four lads from Liverpool who came together and changed everything.

For Ringo, sitting in that interview chair in 1981, visibly struggling with his grief, the loss was still raw, the wound still open. "I still miss John a great deal, I'll always miss him you know. But it's still brand new."

Four decades on, the music isn't brand new anymore. But it's still vital, still relevant, still speaking to new generations about love, peace, revolution, and the complex business of being human in a complicated world.

And somewhere in the collective memory, four young men are still laughing together in a recording studio, still creating magic, still changing the world one song at a time. In that sense, perhaps, there are no last meetings – only pauses in a conversation that continues through the music they left behind.

As John himself might have said, with that characteristic mixture of idealism and pragmatism: "Reality leaves a lot to the imagination." And perhaps that's where he still lives most vividly – in the imagination of those who loved him, who miss him, who continue to find meaning and solace in the extraordinary body of work he helped to create.

For Ringo, for Paul, for George in his lifetime, and for millions around the world, that imagination is a powerful thing indeed – powerful enough to keep the conversation going, to keep the music playing, to ensure that even as life goes on, nothing is ever truly forgotten.

After all, in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.