The choice bit is perhaps this comparison:
Hilburn writes of [John Lennon] reverently in this book, as if he were oracular, unattainable. As a result, Hilburn becomes smitten. By the time he has to write about Lennon on the day of his murder, he’s practically switched teams. “My first thought,” he says of seeing a co-worker in tears, “was ‘Why is she crying? John was my friend.’ ”
... In one essay, [Palmer] recalls admitting to Lennon and Yoko Ono during an interview that he was unfamiliar with much of their solo work: a little too laissez-faire, perhaps, but better that than too reverent.