George Harrison: George Harrison

GEORGE HARRISON: GEORGE HARRISON (1979)

1) Love Comes To Everyone; 2) Not Guilty; 3) Here Comes The Moon; 4) Soft-Hearted Hana; 5) Blow Away; 6) Faster; 7) Dark Sweet Lady; 8) Your Love Is Forever; 9) Soft Touch; 10) If You Believe.

General verdict: An album about finding inner and outer peace — turns out all you need is a good woman, a nice sports car, a holiday in Waikiki, and, uh, the Lord by your side, of course.

This is the story of a man named George. He had married a beautiful woman once, but she left him for his best friend, and his world broke down. The only thing that could comfort him is that it was a rotten, stinking, disgustingly material world in the first place, and he kept going around telling this to everybody until people really got tired of it and began avoiding him in the streets, saying "there goes the anti-material George again, save yourself who can!" He even lost his voice over it, and when they brought him to court to defend himself over a song he stole from a girl group, he couldnʼt articulate properly, so he lost the lawsuit.

But then one day this poor man named George met another beautiful woman, and suddenly, life was not so gloomy and depressing any more. She bore him a son. They got married. The awful, repulsive material world began to look like Godʼs marvelous creation rather than just a bunch of illusive temptations to lead one astray. Holidays in Hawaii, travels with Formula 1, peaceful domestic bliss... everything was right again, and so this is where our story winds up with a happy ending. As a postscriptum, the man named George went into the studio and recorded an album about it all, which he appropriately called George, because it symbolized the beginning of a whole new life. His salvation IN the material world, not FROM it.

The result is almost too sweet: not even 33 & 1/3, Georgeʼs most relaxed record so far, was that openly bursting with happiness and cuddliness. Fortunately, with total sincerity being Georgeʼs main weapon at all times, there is never any feeling that this cuddliness is being somehow forced on you; and even more fortunately, Georgeʼs songwriting instincts were still functioning quite well at the time, so that at least half of these songs have unique catchy bits that will help store that cuddliness in your brain cells until you become fully at peace with it.

Take ʽLove Comes To Everyoneʼ, the opening manifesto whose message is already perfectly expressed in the title. Its verse-a-chorus is really just one long, winding, twisted, and smoothly resolved musical phrase that pushes you, the grumpy depressed listener, inside a musical glass retort and pops you out at the other end in a purified and redeemed state of mind. "Go do it / got to go through that door / thereʼs no easy way out at all" indeed, but "still it only takes time / ʼtil love comes to everyone". Cheesy, but admirably so. Even Steve Winwoodʼs Polymoog solo seems to send up psychedelic rainbows in the air. But what really clinches the deal is the overall production: somehow, despite all the overdubs, the song sounds as if it was recorded in Georgeʼs backyard garden, very cozy and homely.

Ditto for ʽBlow Awayʼ, the lead single from the album; a little more conventionally divided into strict verses and choruses — the former slowly floating, the latter picking up the tempo to an almost ʽOb-La-Di Ob-La-Daʼ-ish effect — it pretty much makes the same point. I remember first hearing this song on a best-of compilation, back when most of my solo George experience was restricted to All Things Must Pass and Living In The Material World, and thinking, «wow, somebody has really gone all soft and cuddly on this one» — yet even despite all my natural teenage alergy to saccharine, there was something about the vibe and the pacing that made it perfectly acceptable for the rebel heart. The only thing that still irritates me is the exaggerated simplicity and the intentional repetitiveness of the chorus — thereʼs only so many "all I gotta do is to love you"ʼs that one can deliver before overstating the point. (Word from the wise: if you want to repeat the same chorus twice in a row, at least take the trouble to write different words for each bar. Itʼs not like you have to be a Bob Dylan to succeed or anything).

Both of these songs essentially count as universalist messages, which very much warranted their release as singles; however, Georgeʼs gratitude to the one who saved his life should have also been expressed in a more personal manner — the bulk of Side B consists of three love serenades in a row whose exhibitionist nature cannot be denied. They hardly count among Georgeʼs best ballads — the vocal twists of ʽDark Sweet Ladyʼ make it sound too much like a variation on ʽLearning How To Love Youʼ from the previous album; ʽYour Love Is Foreverʼ is too slow, takes too much time to develop, and is never properly resolved; and ʽSoft Touchʼ, true to its name, has a much too relaxed Hawaiian vibe to be seriously viewed as much more than a good soundtrack to a frozen daiquiri. But all three songs still present you with additional occasions to enjoy Georgeʼs guitar tricks, the honest beauty of his (now cured) singing voice, and a slick, but natural production style, unspoilt by any trends of the era: since the overriding goal here is intimacy and sincerity, any toying with contemporary fashions would have ended in a disaster.

This «happy diary» approach is only interrupted thrice. ʽFasterʼ is a somewhat unexpected ode to Formula 1 — perhaps it was bound to come sooner or later, given Georgeʼs preoccupation with the subject, but in any case it does not properly hold up, looking more like a belated realization of a personal fetish than an actual musical success. ʽSoft-Hearted Hanaʼ, another reflection of the trip to Hawaii, is more of a comical vaudeville interlude in the spirit of Georgeʼs beloved Monty Python — fun, and well in line with the overall light-hearted tone of the album, but nothing to keep around in your back pocket on cold and lonely winter nights, so to speak. Still, both songs do their best to vary the flow of the album in general, and anything that reminds us about Georgeʼs interests other than «love of God» and «love of my wife» is at least theoretically welcome on any album of his — some day, I guess, they will just have to release a George Harrison Sings About Secular Matters compilation to battle the stereotypes.

The really odd number in the sack is ʽNot Guiltyʼ, a long-forgotten (though not by loyal fans and trusty bootleggers) outtake from The White Album whose reasons for resurrection at this particular point in time kind of evade me. A decent tune that suffers from a somewhat clumsy construction of the vocal melody (probably the reason why it was rejected in 1968), it shares the desperate, world-weary attitude of ʽWhile My Guitar Gently Weepsʼ and would have fit in much better on something like Extra Texture, perhaps even scoring a whole extra (texture) point for that album. Most likely, this was simply done on a whim (George was going through some old tapes while writing his autobiography); be it as it may, the song curiously disrupts the albumʼs flow much the same way as ʽIʼm Losing Youʼ disrupts the mood of Double Fantasy, on which see more below — fortunately, since both songs are strong in their own right, the disruption causes no permanent damage, but rather helps offer a window into another part of life that is generally excluded from our listening pleasure.

Last, but not least, is the somewhat infamous ʽHere Comes The Moonʼ, a song whose title really does all the talking and this is a bit sad — it is very evocative in its own right, with George trying as hard as possible to paint a musical picture of the starry skies, but in the end it really "looks like a little brother to the sun", that is, to ʽHere Comes The Sunʼ, merely an honest reflection of one person peacefully contemplating heavenly beauty, rather than a veritable anthem to resurrection and rejuvenation. Ironically enough, the message of ʽHere Comes The Sunʼ, a song written in 1969 at a time when the smiles were actually doing anything but returning to the faces, was at no other time more relevant to George than in 1979 — and yet in 1979 he was no longer capable of writing a song with that particular kind of power, no offense intended to the likes of ʽLove Comes To Everyoneʼ or ʽBlow Awayʼ.

One last curious observation is that George happened to reach that state of domestic musical bliss almost at the same time as John — just a wee bit earlier, which almost makes one wonder if listening to George Harrison could not have become one of the incentives for John to go back into the musical world (and get killed, so here is a great way to spin the thread all the way back and blame Johnʼs death on George, if you have a knack for exploring conspiracies and/or causalities). Indeed, this is Georgeʼs own equivalent of Double (well, single, in his case — George, of all people, had the good taste to never let his wives get involved in his music) Fantasy, and comparing his reflection of peaceful domestic bliss with Johnʼs is an interesting topic in its own right. One observation that can be made is that Johnʼs approach is far more egocentric and introspective — Double Fantasy is really all about himself (even Yoko is primarily regarded in her John-altering function), whereas George Harrison, curiously, is all about describing the beauties of the world around the describer. Indeed, the «quiet Beatle», despite his reputation for shyness and reclusiveness, has always preferred to cast his gaze around and observe, whereas the «rowdy Beatle» was far more prone to cast those looks inside his own soul.

But neither of these approaches has a monopoly on greatness, and if the songs on George Harrison ultimately lose out to Lennonʼs material on Double Fantasy (in my opinion), it mainly has to do with the amazing fact that John had somehow managed to retain his sharpness and strength, while George is acting totally relaxed here — the entire record sounds as if the artist never got out of his hammock while recording it. Which does work relatively fine this time around, admittedly, but would soon backfire when George would try the exact same trick for Gone Troppo.

George Harrison: Thirty-Three & 1/3

THIRTY-THREE & 1/3 (1976)

1) Woman Donʼt You Cry For Me; 2) Dear One; 3) Beautiful Girl; 4) This Song; 5) See Yourself; 6) Itʼs What You Value; 7) True Love; 8) Pure Smokey; 9) Crackerbox Palace; 10) Learning How To Love You.

General verdict: This is where George Harrison finally sells out to funky grooves, catchy choruses, and British humor — and I think Iʼm loving it.

Supposedly we have to thank Olivia Trinidad Arias, the secretary for Dark Horse Records and, as of 1976, not-quite-yet-Mrs-Olivia-Harrison-but-getting-there, for reigniting the spark of life in dear old George. Even though his health problems, financial issues, legal troubles, and critical reputation were all far from being restored by the end of 1976, Thirty Three & 1/3 (the title actually refers to his age-of-Christ rather than simply the LP-playing speed) is a much brighter and livelier record than both of its predecessors — in fact, it could be the brightest and liveliest record so far in Georgeʼs entire solo career. Where John Lennon preferred to mark his coming to terms with the world around him by retiring from the music industry altogether, George had no such radical leanings — yet he, too, seems to have taken a turn for calm and peaceful at about the same time as John. Family life — where would we be without it?

Curiously, the album succeeds in spite of the fact (or, perhaps, as is often the case, because of the fact) that it features relatively few new material. Many of these songs are actually outtakes from older sessions, some going back to ideas as old as 1967 (ʽSee Yourselfʼ), and one is a cover (albeit drastically reworked) of an old Cole Porter standard. Then again, this was hardly the first time that George found himself diving into the old archives; what is really important is that the old ideas are presented with lighter, poppier undertones — occasionally bordering on dance-pop, as bass player Willie Weeks is sometimes surreptitiously found sneaking in a disco bassline or two... and the master, so it seems, almost ends up encouraging him.

You can see the difference immediately on the opening number; an early acoustic take from the All Things Must Pass sessions shows how ʽWoman Donʼt You Cry For Meʼ began life as quite a stereotypical piece of acoustic country-blues. But the finished take opens with a tight rhythm section groove instead — so bloody tight, in fact, that the interplay between Alvin Taylorʼs drums, Weeksʼ bass, David Fosterʼs clavinet, and Georgeʼs slide lead has forever become ingrained in my head as one of the catchiest funk grooves ever recorded (in all honesty, my mind has placed it on just about the same shelf as Stevie Wonderʼs ʽSuperstitionʼ). On no record prior to this one has the George Harrison ensemble played so fast, so tight, and so groove-oriented — to the extent where lyrics cease to matter completely, and we simply see George Harrison delighting in making pure music with his backing band, with no preachiness and no capital-S Spirituality in sight. You can only imagine the deep sighs of relief that so many fans and critics alike must have heaved ten seconds after placing the needle on the turntable.

It might not be a coincidence that the song, which had started life in 1969, was finally chosen as the lead-in track in 1976 — it is easy to take the opening lines ("Iʼm gonna leave you here / Iʼm gonna leave you at the station") as one final goodbye to Patti, as George finally accepts that it did not work out and moves on in life. But even if you know nothing about Georgeʼs personal circumstances at the time, it does not take a genius to recognize, upon listening to Extra Texture and Thirty-Three back to back, that ʽWoman Donʼt You Cry For Meʼ announces a decisive reboot of the George Harrison franchise. The slow, dense, preachy, tragical ballad is not going anywhere, but it no longer has a complete monopoly on this manʼs creative process, and this is good to know — even if it might drop the reputation of the artist among the crowds of stone-faced, sacred-book-thumpinʼ fanatics who get appalled at the mere idea of a spiritual man like George Harrison going out and having fun. (Not sure if «crowds» is the right word, though, because I have no idea what the average Christian rock fan thinks of George Harrison and his suspiciously pan-religious worship of Krishna-Jesus).

Another song here where the musical groove is more important (or at least more in your face) than the message is ʽItʼs What You Valueʼ. The pretext for writing this song was apparently Georgeʼs gift of a Mercedes 450 SL to drummer Jim Keltner, and the message is about the highly relative values of material possessions, but the point is to simply let the band groove along to this cool mid-tempo stop-and-start RʼnʼB groove for five minutes — the last of which features no vocals whatsoever and just has Tom Scott maniacally blowing his sax over the rising-and-falling piano pattern of the groove. It ainʼt genius, but I can never resist tapping my foot to Alvin Taylorʼs swaggy drum beat on this one.

For the most part, however, the album is remembered through its two first singles, both of which were accompanied by promotional videos made with the assistance of Georgeʼs friends from Monty Python. ʽThis Songʼ is Georgeʼs final word on the ʽMy Sweet Lordʼ / ʽHeʼs So Fineʼ controversy: to his being found guilty of plagiarism the man responded with bitter humor, not only filming himself being dragged in handcuffs to the courtroom, but also coming up with a great set of lyrics set to a fast, flashy, ultra-catchy pop melody. What makes it such a winner is how effortlessly he combines misery and sarcasm in his vocal delivery, how aptly Tom Scott mimics it in his playful-and-desperate sax solo, and how the final lyrical twist ("this song could well be / a reason to see / that without you thereʼs no point to this song") suddenly makes you, the listener, such a vital part of the show. (Although, to tell you the truth, I am a little bit happy about The Chiffons, too, because without this ordeal I would never have known of their existence).

The second single was ʽCrackerbox Palaceʼ, another tune where you really do not need to know all the trivia (about how it was inspired by Georgeʼs meeting with the manager of the late comedian Lord Buckley and his visit to Lord Buckleyʼs residence) to take it as a general allegory on life and death, or even ignore the lyrics completely and just admire the fabulous slide riff that makes the song — the one that sounds like somebody running up the stairs that lead up to the ʽCrackerbox Palaceʼ in question and then taking an amazed look around. But if you do take in the lyrics, it is another striking realization that George is now writing philosophical songs that are almost danceable, and goad you with subtle irony rather than weigh you down with preachiness and heavy moralization.

There are still elements of preachiness on the album, of course: ʽSee Yourselfʼ goes heavy on Biblical clichés and sounds like a slightly sped-up outtake from the Extra Texture sessions (though in reality, as I already said, the song dates back to 1967), and ʽLearning How To Love Youʼ, originally written for Herb Alpert, teaches us exactly how to do that in the same old terms, while also sounding like the single most clearly Bacharach-inspired piece in Georgeʼs arsenal (which is why I could never remember how it goes, probably). But they are now elegantly out­balanced by the funny and / or the energetic parts, as well as pretty rhythmic love ballads (ʽBeautiful Girlʼ — another oldie, brought to new life by the Olivia romance; the fast-paced reinvention of Cole Porterʼs ʽTrue Loveʼ) and even a heartfelt soul tribute to Smokey Robinson (ʽPure Smokeyʼ).

All of this makes Thirty-Three & 1/3, despite its shortness (though, with severe indignation, I must complain that the album does run for 39 minutes instead of the expected 33 minutes and 20 seconds!), easily the single most diverse George Harrison album to date, and fully justifies calling it a «comeback»; temporary, perhaps, since George would not make another release with that level of consistency until at least Cloud 9 (and that one only works if you are as much of a Jeff Lynne fan as you are of Georgeʼs), but a deeply enjoyable one, showing us how it is possible to produce really good music in a period of spiritual convalescence, and that one does not always need to be in a state of deep crisis to free oneʼs artistic genius. Much too often, we forget that «the quiet Beatle» actually loved this life (in the oh-so material world) no less than most of us do; Thirty-Three & 1/3 does a good job of refreshing that bit of information in our memory. 

George Harrison: Extra Texture (Read All About It)

GEORGE HARRISON: EXTRA TEXTURE (READ ALL ABOUT IT) (1975)

1) You; 2) The Answerʼs At The End; 3) This Guitar (Canʼt Keep From Crying); 4) Ooh Baby (You Know That I Love You); 5) World Of Stone; 6) A Bit More Of You; 7) Canʼt Stop Thinking About You; 8) Tired Of Midnight Blue; 9) Grey Cloudy Lies; 10) His Name Is Legs (Ladies & Gentlemen).

General verdict: Bland, monotonously self-pitying, not particularly memorable, but still vaguely moving — this record will test your feelings for George for all theyʼre worth.

It is a bit tough to defend an album whose most memorable song (and pretty much the only one still featured on compilations and fondly remembered by critics) is an outtake from five years back: ʽYouʼ is a number that George originally donated to Ronnie Spector, and he did not even bother properly remaking it, utilising the original tape and simply throwing in a few more over­dubs. This is why you may be startled as the record begins playing, thinking that George has managed to rekindle the All Things Must Pass vibe — ʽYouʼ rushes along furiously with the same power as ʽWhat Is Lifeʼ and ʽAwaiting On You Allʼ, though its melodic structure is com­parably simpler (which is probably why it did not withstand competition in the first place).

You will also be misled into thinking that Extra Texture, Georgeʼs first album after the many disasters of 1974, will be a positive, life-asserting statement, an optimistic spiritual cry of defiance in the face of overwhelming, but bravely surmountable odds: that he is finding plenty of strength to go on as long as he has ʽyouʼ — be that a new human love or the old love for God, as it so frequently remains incomprehensible from the lyrics alone, like in classical Persian poetry or something. At the very least, somebody must have been misled back in 1975, when some people in the world still gave a damn about the next George Harrison record.

Alas, once the song is over, it becomes quite clear that not only was it the reddest of herrings, but that, in fact, Extra Texture is Georgeʼs grimmest, glummest, gloomiest, most self-pitying artistic statement to date — even beating out Dark Horse, which was hardly a walk in the park itself. No doubt shaken and stirred by the hostile reaction to his American tour, George pours it all out like never before. Just take a look at some of the words used in the songsʼ titles — "end", "crying", "stone", "tired", "blue", "grey", "lies"; there is hardly even a single reference to that consoling divine presence any more, this is like frickinʼ chapter 3 of The Book of Job all over again.

But that in itself would be okay. George really must have felt like shit at the time, and a great artist who sincerely feels like shit can make great use of it in the studio — and Harrison, of all people, was quite well known for converting sorrow and depression into fabulous music. The problem is that most of these songs are quite far from fabulous. They are not bad, but it seems that at this particular moment Georgeʼs knack for brilliant musical hooks had deserted him: the material is quite ordinary and looks like it was somehow self-forced out of the artist rather than flowed out of him through inspiration. Slow, monotonous, with hardly any striking new chord changes or inventive arrangement details, these songs read more like routine newspaper bulletins on the state of Georgeʼs mental and spiritual health. (Hence the albumʼs title, perhaps?).

A good case in point is ʽThis Guitar (Canʼt Keep From Crying)ʼ, a song that was very obviously conceptualized as a «sequel» to ʽWhile My Guitar Gently Weepsʼ — a bad, bad, bad idea. With clumsy and quickly dated lyrics ("learned to get up when I fall / Can even climb Rolling Stone walls" — poor rhythm, silly jab), a melody that seems like a seriously inferior, broken variation on the original classic, and very awkward and unnecessary use of the ARP synthesizer, it has a distinct whiff of unintentional self-parody. It demands to be taken seriously, but in the general context of George Harrison as a master songwriter this is impossible to do — in fact, it only makes matters worse. It might have been easier to stomach if it were openly parodic.

Much better is ʽThe Answerʼs At The Endʼ, whose verse melody recaptures some of the majesty of All Things and Living... — a simple, but stately progression with George clearly in better control of himself and the bass / piano dialogue reminiscent of ʽIsnʼt It A Pityʼ. But it pretty much falls apart in the chorus ("donʼt be so hard on the ones that you love..."), which is annoyingly repetitive, lacks a convincing conclusion and ultimately gets looped over and over again as if it were openly mocking the songʼs title — not only is there no answer, there is not even any suitably memorable end.

As the record goes by, you gradually understand that this slow, smooth, depressed vibe is going to characterize every single song — even love ballads such as ʽOoh Babyʼ and ʽCanʼt Stop Thinking About Youʼ are full of tragism: ʽOoh Babyʼ has lines like "I wonʼt say itʼs forever / Right now while weʼre together" and a vocal delivery that is somewhere in between «tenderest ever» and «dying dog», while ʽCanʼt Stop Thinking About Youʼ is about separation and loss, with a nice buildup in the verse but, once again, an excruciatingly repetitive chorus.

I do like the weepy flow of ʽWorld Of Stoneʼ and the quirky jazzy chords of ʽTired Of Midnight Blueʼ, but even those technically good songs overstay their welcome and very quickly run out of ideas. This is weird, because the overall song lengths do not seem that large compared to previous records, yet somehow there is this uneasy feel that every single tune here drags on and on, with the album severely padded out despite only having nine songs on it (the tenth track, ʽA Bit More Of Youʼ, as you can guess, is an all-too-brief reprise of ʽYouʼ at the beginning of Side B). Clearly this is just because the tempos, tones, and melodic backbones leave much to be desired.

The very last song is significantly different, yet it also happens to be pretty bad: ʽHis Name Is Legsʼ is a literally out-of-nowhere tribute to ʽLegsʼ Larry Smith, the drummer of The Bonzo Dog Band and Georgeʼs good pal — with lyrics that will only be comprehensible to major fans of the Bonzos and Monty Python and a jumpy, but oddly stiff melody with elements of funk-pop and absolutely no humorous undercurrent to it. I mean, if you are writing a tribute to a comedian, you might as well make it funny, no? And if you were in no shape to create something funny, then why indulge your good friend at precisely such an inconvenient moment in your life? A very weird and misguided gesture that ends this weird and misguided album on the most weird and misguided note one could ever imagine.

That said, while this is probably one of the least likely Harrison albums for me to revisit, Extra Texture holds enough sincerity and charisma to at least be accepted as another important chapter in the life of this extraordinary person. You do get to understand that he was feeling quite shitty, and you do get to sympathize; whether you would want to embrace these songs for yourself and save them up for your own rainy day is quite another matter. It is interesting, too, that George must have hit that wall at about the same time as John (whose own crisis was set in stone just one year earlier with Walls And Bridges) and just a wee bit earlier than Ringo (who was never that hot about spilling his own troubles on record, but would still go through a fairly dark streak in 1976–78). As for Paul... well, Paul had Wings. ʼNuff said. 

George Harrison: Dark Horse

GEORGE HARRISON: DARK HORSE (1974)

1) Hari's On Tour (Express); 2) Simply Shady; 3) So Sad; 4) Bye Bye Love; 5) Maya Love; 6) Ding Dong Ding Dong; 7) Dark Horse; 8) Far East Man; 9) It Is ʽHeʼ (Jai Sri Krishna).

General verdict: As long as you can come to terms with a man singing against the doctor's orders, this will forever remain the truly underrated "dark horse" in George's catalog.

All four Beatles went through moments of dark personal crisis in the Seventies — ironically, while Paul was arguably the first, shattered and hurt by the breakup of the band at the same time that John and George were triumphant in their newly-found freedoms, by 1974 the tables had turned: Paul was busy re-conquering the world with his new band on the run, whereas John and George were suffering from various degrees of disillusionment, watching their family life crackle and crumble, and drinking themselves under the table. Consequently, Dark Horse was released at what might arguably have been the lowest point in George's adult life — his marriage was breaking up, his litigations seemed unending, and he was seeking refuge in a very material world of alcohol, drugs, and seedy parties.

All of that is reflected, one way or another, in his third studio album — to such an extent that history had no choice but to put a solid curse on it, one that I will be unable to lift even despite having liked the record for all my life. Chief reason for this is George's voice: shot to hell by a combination of self-inflicted and natural damage, it sounds brutally robbed of at least half of the required frequencies — more like a hobo in the last stages of TB than a distinguished, if not exceptional, singer from one of Britain's finest vocal bands, particularly on the title track (which was recorded shortly before the start of George's infamous North American tour, where his vocal problems translated into complete disaster).

I will, however, dare not to urge you to «look past the obvious problems with the voice», but rather to try and make you embrace the voice. Even when I first heard Dark Horse completely outside of any context, knowing absolutely nothing about Patti Boyd or about the drinks and the drugs, it was crystal clear that something really painful was going on — that this was not an album by a nice person deeply upset about the world's troubles, as was All Things Must Pass, but rather an album by a deeply unhappy, thoroughly depressed person about troubles that were his own and nobody else's at the moment. A song like ʽSo Sadʼ might not, technically, be more of a «downer» than ʽWhile My Guitar Gently Weepsʼ, but in the latter, Harrison sheds a tear for the whole world, while here he is trying to express his personal pain — and in some ways, it cuts much sharper when you allow yourself to relate to it. The key breakthrough happens in the "and he feels... so alone... with no love... of his own" bridge — it is impossible not to feel the tension in his voice and palpitation in his heart, an almost suicidal outburst after the relatively quiet and brooding acoustic verse. And that coarse, hoarse, feverish voice is the perfect conductor. (It also does not hurt that Nicky Hopkins is credited as the piano player on this track).

Although the complete list of credits for Dark Horse mentions over twenty people, many of them are limited to just one or two tracks — the final results were culled from a variety of sessions — and on the whole, the album has a fairly minimalist feel compared to 1970–73: no soaring strings, no bombastic walls of sound, no armies of nameless felt-but-not-heard guitarists, typically just your basic rock band setup with some keyboards, saxes, and woodwinds. The setup is risky, since it exposes George's weakened voice like never before; but if you are going to make a deeply personal record about your deeply personal pain, why conceal it behind an ocean of soundwaves anyway? Besides, this offers a good opportunity to show off a few tasty instrumental bits that would have never caught one's ear otherwise.

A good example is the much-maligned cover of ʽBye Bye Loveʼ, far from a masterpiece, but still much better than most critics are willing to admit. Some are actually offended by George's added lyrics that turn the song into a personal artistic vendetta against Eric and Pattie ("I hope she's happy, old Clapper too") — let us just hope these people never find themselves in the position of watching your wife leave you for your best friend. Personally, I find it more interesting how George completely re-wrote the song in a minor key, actually providing real substance to the words "bye bye love, bye bye happiness" — and he also plays a mean bass guitar on the track, with the bass supplying most of the melodic content and most of the grim atmosphere. Think of it as an impulsive, regrettable, petty act of instantaneous revenge if you wish, but there is no denying that a lot of work and a good pinch of musical inspiration actually went into it, the same way that John's ʽHow Do You Sleep?ʼ is completely redeemed by its musical content.

On the whole, George's songwriting instincts here are fairly intact, despite all the troubles: as usual, each song is catchy in its own way, even the opening instrumental ʽHari's On Tourʼ, led in by an unforgettable twin slide-sax riff delivered by George in unison with Tom Scott (the backing band is the jazz-rock outfit L. A. Express, known mostly for backing Joni Mitchell in the mid-Seventies). A seriously underrated long-time favorite of mine is ʽMaya Loveʼ, a lyrical throw­away with a special kind of instrumental coolness — the best parts are actually in between verses, where Andy Newark on drums and Billy Preston on piano compete in who can hit harder and harsher, while George's slide guitar quietly and attentively lies in waiting. ʽFar East Manʼ, a collaboration with Ronnie Wood, is a touching plea for mercy and sympathy, with Tom Scott's saxophone playing once again a true highlight.

Only a couple of tunes display a kind of sluggishness that makes them look sillier than the rest. ʽDing Dong Ding Dongʼ, a set of slogans set to a fairly repetitive melody, is uncomfortably optimistic; perhaps it might have worked better in an authentically All Things Must Pass-ish setting, with an even more bombastic arrangement and with George in better vocal form. That said, it is nothing compared with the awkwardness of ʽIt Is He (Jai Sri Krishna)ʼ, essentially just a generic mantra, completely devoid of personality — a long, long way away from the depth of ʽMy Sweet Lordʼ, and certainly not aided by the use of the wobble board, which just makes it seem as if George were simultaneously busy cooking up some stew in a large cauldron. Unless we agree to treat it as an intentionally comical finale to an otherwise seriously tragical record, it is quite an anti-climactic way to go, compared to ʽHear Me Lordʼ or ʽThat Is Allʼ.

Still, there are some people out there who like it, too, and, in fact, the funny thing about Dark Horse is that most of its detractors tend to agree that it is a shit record with one or two really good songs on it, yet nobody ever manages to agree on which particular one or two songs are really good — a classic case of «underrated» in my book. It is definitely a problematic album, yes, but it has a raw, aching sincerity to it that would become much harder to find on subsequent records: it might, in fact, be the last close-to-great album George made before his Cloud 9 come­back in 1987. As a matter of fact, it charted surprisingly high in the US, though just as surprising­ly low in the UK; but it is true that he did shoot himself in the foot both critically and commer­cially here, and that, perhaps, it was totally unintentional — it is simply that his 1974 lifestyle prevented him from foreseeing that a release like that would be disastrous at the time.

Whatever the circumstances might have been back then, though, nowadays, in an era when indie singers sometimes sound as if they were born with laryngitis, Dark Horse should be given its due as a deep, honest, and musically interesting account of personal misery — not as intense or angry as John's Walls And Bridges, of course, but then George himself was never as intense or angry as John (or, at least, not typically so). And I cannot lay enough stress on the «musically interesting» bit: whatever sincere emotion there is in these songs, it is carried almost exclusively by the melodic phrasing of the slide guitars, saxes, and pianos — a feature that would become too smoothed out in the man's subsequent output, but is still going strong on Dark Horse.

George Harrison: Living In The Material World

GEORGE HARRISON: LIVING IN THE MATERIAL WORLD (1973)

1) Give Me Love (Give Me Peace On Earth); 2) Sue Me, Sue You Blues; 3) The Light That Has Lighted The World; 4) Don't Let Me Wait Too Long; 5) Who Can See It; 6) Living In The Material World; 7) The Lord Loves The One (That Loves The Lord); 8) Be Here Now; 9) Try Some Buy Some; 10) The Day The World Gets 'Round; 11) That Is All.

General verdict: A mix of rather stereotypical preachiness and unique melodicity — fortunately, the latter can make you forget all about the former.

There is one big reason why George's follow-up to All Things Must Pass could never conjure up quite the same level of emotion as its predecessor did — and you already see part of that reason in the album's title. All Things Must Pass was a deeply spiritual album, and most of its songs were concerned about the brevity and transience of human existence; nevertheless, it was, above and beyond everything else, an album about human existence. But by 1973, apparently disgusted with everything that it was possible to get disgusted about — his family life, his litigations with fellow Beatles, the dire financial consequences of the Concert for Bangla Desh affair, let alone political and social concerns of the day — George no longer seemed to care much about human existence. Most of the songs on this album are about "my salvation from the material world", for which there is seemingly no redemption.

With their typical aversion to religious preaching and generally secular attitudes, many leading critics of the day had no choice but to focus on George's shortcomings as a lyrics artist this time around — and not without reason. Naturally, George Harrison, the quiet kid from lower-middle-class Liverpool, could never be mistaken for a first-rate religious philosopher, but his lyrics on All Things Must Pass were generally not bad; compared to them, the outlook presented on Living In The Material World is downright primitive, with Christian, Hindu, and Krishnaite clichés all over the place, as if the artist were consciously surrendering his independent mind to some synthetic-eclectic religious dogma. A critical outlook on the world's problems and on the inherent flaws of the human species? Acceptable. An appeal to The Lord Sri Krishna to come around and deliver the suffering artist from this horrible place? Ehhhh...

Since George produced the album himself this time around (all the songs with the exception of ʽTry Some Buy Someʼ, which was originally intended for a Ronnie Spector solo album and had been recorded in early 1971), there is also the noticeable change in the overall sound — the effect is far more personal, with George's voice no longer consistently obscured and overridden by the huge wall-of-sound ambience. Instead of having his music come down on you as some sort of overwhelming heavenly host, it feels more like letting him in to pray in the middle of your living room, which can feel uncomfortable. And it certainly gets worse if you remember that the «quiet Beatle», in his everyday life, was not at all averse to material existence and material possessions: his passion for Formula 1 racing, for instance, clearly shows that sometimes, at least, his senses were quite fully gratified in the material world, rather than in the spiritual sky.

And yet, none of this truly matters as long as we try and focus on the music. Recorded by more or less the same team that had worked on All Things Must Pass (with the notable addition of Nicky Hopkins on piano, whose presence is vital to some of the tracks), the album consists more or less of newly written material, which is still consistently excellent: the Beatle school of thought is not easy to get rid of so quickly, and no amount of disgust with the material world could let old George forget the essentials — namely, that any message you wish to impart works twice as well if it is imparted in the form of a solid musical hook. Without the wall-of-sound rumble at your heels, Living In The Material World also has a decidedly «rootsier» flair to it: folk, country, and blues influences abound, especially since George mostly plays dobro and slide, yet the melodies themselves are quite far from «generic» 12-bar blues.

The first of these melodies is also the most well-known: ʽGive Me Loveʼ was the first and only single from the record, the only song from it to be regularly played live whenever George played live (which was not often), and also pretty much the only one to carry a 100% positive and optimistic message, not only through its lyrics, but also through the twin joy of Nicky Hopkins at the piano and George doing some amazing slide runs. Almost deceivingly positive, I might add: while the last song on All Things Must Pass and the first song on Material World are both straightforward prayers to the Lord, ʽHear Me Lordʼ is in F minor, while ʽGive Me Loveʼ is in F major, and there is nothing about George's tender "give me love, give me love, give me peace on Earth" that would suggest peace and love are impossible, or even that peace and love are not already here, and that the artist is merely asking the Lord to help keep them rather than help bring them about out of nothing. The song's emotional core is, in fact, so simple that, while it is hardly possible not to be comforted by its warmth (probably the warmest he got since the days of ʽHere Comes The Sunʼ), it is quite possible to miss a certain element of psychological depth that was already there in the first opening chords of ʽI'd Have You Anytimeʼ — and subconsciously prepare yourself to be somewhat disappointed with the rest of the album as well.

Shockingly contrasting cold showers, however, begin to hit you as soon as the glowing intro is over. First, there is anger, as George vents his feelings over the ongoing Beatle-related litigations in ʽSue Me, Sue You Bluesʼ — a song whose main riff I remember directly creeping me out when I had first heard it as a small kid (and, accordingly, had not the slightest idea of what the man was actually singing about); to this day, there is something distinctly gruff-voodooistic about this particular combination of dobro and piano, even more unsettling than any given Black Sabbath riff (most probably, it's all about that brisk downward dobro swoop, as efficient in its way as the Sabbath tritone). Anger and bitter sarcasm: emotions that were not attested at all on All Things Must Pass, and are so much at odds with the atmosphere of ʽGive Me Loveʼ — in fact, this is probably the second most-pissed off ex-Beatle song after ʽHow Do You Sleepʼ in that three-year interval — that even if you happened to fall asleep in paradise during the first song, the second one will get you back on your feet in no time. (And look out for some awesome drum work from Jim Keltner on the song's numerous stop-and-start parts).

That anger vibe never truely reappears again in such an explicit form, but the mood is «spoiled» once and for all: from then on, the prevailing ambience is that of constant sorrow, the only joy being provided by the hope of eventually getting out of this place. Formally, the distinction between «rockers» and «ballads» is more or less blurred here, but most of the record spends its time in the state of a slow, solemn, spiritual procession, only speeding up to the state of a steady ʽGet Backʼ-ish gallop on the blues-rocking title track — which is, perhaps, appropriate, since it is the one song on the album presented as a decisive public pledge: "got a lot of work to do, try to get a message through, and get back out of this material world". If you do not think too hard about it, the song is kinda fun, but unlike ʽGet Backʼ, it does not consciously try to be fun — and the seriousness of its message does not quite agree with the playfulness of its rhythm, or, let's face it, the almost infantile crudeness of the lyrics (an attempt to merge personal experience with the gist of the already-not-too-original teachings of Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada), so I actually think of it as one of the album's weakest numbers.

But instead, let me point out that among all the preaching, there are some heartbreakingly aching moments to be found on the album — primarily in its slowest ballads. In particular, ʽWho Can See Itʼ is no less than a musical miracle: in its purest form, over just a few bars the melody starts out as quiet, reclusive sorrow, rises to sharp, throbbing pain, and then rises higher to blissful, triumphant revelation. George later admitted being influenced by Roy Orbison for this particular composition, but there is a certain element of utterly non-formulaic, non-commercial honesty here that would be hard to find on any Roy Orbison song, no matter how poignant or masterful (or, perhaps, this is simply admitting that George sings it like a flawed human being, rather than like a perfect angel from heaven). Although a bit less anthemic, ʽThat Is Allʼ, closing the album, is no less beautiful — a simple love confession to God or to a lady, upon first sight, but so much deeper when you put its clichéd lyrics to that mournful music and understand that the lines "that is all I want to say, our love could save the day" actually mean that "our love cannot save the day", no matter how hard you try.

Generally speaking, though, there is something to like on just about every track here. Simply the presence of Nicky Hopkins trading solos with George is enough to aurify ʽThe Light That Has Lighted The Worldʼ, as are Jim Horn's brass arrangements on ʽThe Lord Loves The Oneʼ and the last remnants of grandiose Phil Spector production on ʽTry Some Buy Someʼ. If you break these melodies down and run formal musicological algorithms on them, my gut feeling is that they will stand up tall and proud against any chosen sequence on All Things Must Pass; there is really nothing other than that vague feeling of Cosmic Epicness (for much of which the responsibility falls on Phil's, rather than George's, shoulders) to separate them from each other. It is an impor­tant feeling, for sure: despite the general recent re-appraisal of Living In The Material World, there is no way that it will ever escape from under the shadow of its so much more monumental elder brother, with its smaller sound, poorer lyrics, narrower message, and briefer gestation period. But all those who treasure George Harrison's melodic gift over formal musical innovation might ultimately think of the album as far more timeless than quite a few cutting-edge releases from the progressive or glam-rock camps of 1973 — and as much as I admire, say, Peter Gabriel or David Bowie as the leading boundary-pushers of the day, neither of them could sing "I only ask that what I feel should not be denied me now" with that much trembling passion.

George Harrison: The Concert For Bangla Desh

GEORGE HARRISON: THE CONCERT FOR BANGLA DESH (1971)

1) Introduction; 2) Bangla Dhun; 3) Wah-Wah; 4) My Sweet Lord; 5) Awaiting On You All; 6) That's The Way God Planned It; 7) It Don't Come Easy; 8) Beware Of Darkness; 9) Band Introduction; 10) While My Guitar Gently Weeps; 11) Jumpin' Jack Flash / Young Blood; 12) Here Comes The Sun; 13) A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall; 14) It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes A Train To Cry; 15) Blowin' In The Wind; 16) Mr. Tambourine Man; 17) Just Like A Woman; 18) Something; 19) Bangla Desh.

General verdict: The roughest, crudest, and most heartbreakingly sincere benefit concert ever given.

Benefit concerts these days are a dime a dozen, and while their goals generally remain noble and their efficiency may have significantly increased since the early days, their general setting and atmosphere are usually a snooze — it is not often that «music royalty» guests, invited to perform a short selection of their best-known hits, are able to convince the discerning listener that the event really matters to them. They are usually fairly pragmatic affairs: you donate, you come, you play or you listen, you make peace with your conscience, you go home.

But at the dawn of the Age of The Benefit Concert, things could be a bit different, and, arguably, there was no time when they were more different than August 1, 1971, at the Madison Square Garden. That night, two shows were played by a large bunch of people who somehow managed to get together, for a good reason that few of them probably understood too well, despite the fact that none of them really wanted to be there all that much, and, against all odds, succeeding in generating emotional magic out of general chaos and turbulence. The Concert For Bangla Desh stands out as one of the roughest, shoddiest, most spontaneous events in the history of collective pop gatherings — so much so that it transcends mere historical value and becomes its very own, very special brand of cool; not to everybody's liking, perhaps, but I have always held a soft spot in my heart for it (since I first had it taped for me on a poor-quality cassette back in 1989, with the chewed tape and glitchy-hiccupy scratched LP pleasantly adding to the shoddiness).

Of course, we should not exaggerate in the manner of the average YouTube commentator («look how wasted they all were», «coke city!», «that's what the power of smack does to you», etc.), but it has been documented pretty well that, putting it mildly, this was not the happiest bunch of people that George succeeded in putting together for the event. The ex-Beatles were still recupe­rating from the post-Beatle shock (so that Paul rejected the offer altogether, and John refused at the last moment); Eric Clapton was in deep depression over having fallen in love with his best friend's wife; Bob Dylan was in even deeper depression over... well, whatever it is Bob Dylan can get depressed about (only Bob Dylan knows for sure); Badfinger were already having publicity and financial issues with their labels; and I'm certain Billy Preston and Leon Russell must have had their share of hard times, too, because, heck, who didn't in 1971?

And yet, get together they did, and made the magic happen. The huge amount of musicians on the stage was, in a large part, due to all the extra publicity — one thing George did succeed in was turning Bangla Desh into a household name for a few months. Yet it also fell very much in line with the studio atmosphere of All Things Must Pass, so that the four songs selected from that album could be played with comparable bombast; and although issues of syncronizing, mixing, and simply staying in tune were unavoidable (not to mention that all the rehearsing process took about four days, with many members of the onstage band checking in at the last moment), that brotherly spirit somehow managed to make it to the performance and save the day.

Arguably the single best track to illustrate the spirit in question is the band's somewhat «non-canon» rendition of ʽWhile My Guitar Gently Weepsʼ — with no piano intro (Billy Preston plays organ instead) and a radically different Clapton tone. If you watch Eric doing his solos live, he will strike you as being particularly mummified: almost no body movement, a blank expression on his face, fingers making tiny, subtle-as-hell flips against the huge Gibson that he almost seems to have difficulty holding up — and the solos themselves are completely different from whatever he played on the original studio version. At some point in the outro, George «dances up» to him and challenges him to a guitar duel, playing a louder, higher, shriekier part, almost as if he is begging Eric to come out of that shell. But if you listen closely — and you should, because Clap­ton's tone is almost unusually thin and quiet — the phrasing is every bit as suicidally tragic as it used to be, with a newly improvised, but almost equally beautiful weeping melody. Clumsy in some ways, this variation on the original made the song live, grow, and evolve, and the thin quiet tones took away its «cosmic lament» coating and gave it a much more intimate, personalized flavor — two tormented souls crying their hearts out in beautiful non-unison.

That rugged atmosphere completely dominates the album, aside from, perhaps, the first section, given over to Ravi Shankar: for many people, ʽBangla Dhunʼ was (and, perhaps, still will be) their first exposition to «serious» Indian music (as opposed to Bollywood soundtracks), and I am sheepishly proud to say that I always thought it kicked serious ass, despite occasionally still skipping it because of the length (a sixteen-minute raga can get on your nerves, no matter how technically or spiritually awesome it is). Rumor has it that the actual concert performance was about 45 minutes, in which case I am grateful that the expanded deluxe anniversary edition has been so late in arriving — which is not to take away the admiration for the amazingly disciplined interplay between Ravi and Ali Akbar Khan, putting to technical shame all the ensuing Western performers. No boos in the audience, either, which is a relief considering Ravi's hilarious retort to the clappers after the first two minutes ("thank you! if you appreciate the tuning so much, I hope you will enjoy the playing more").

But let us be honest — with no disrespect to Shankar, this is a George Harrison album, and most of us have landed here for George, or, at best, for some of George's English-speaking friends. The friends do not let him down. Ringo merrily and nonchalantly sings off-key on his first successful solo single, ʽIt Don't Come Easyʼ; Billy Preston lifts spirits up with a powerful, almost shamanis­tic build-up on his gospel anthem ʽThat's The Way God Planned Itʼ; Leon Russell throws in a highly unorthodox medley of ʽJumpin' Jack Flashʼ and ʽYoung Bloodʼ, turning the former into a witchy ritual and the latter into bombastic rock opera; and Dylan plays a surprisingly long (five songs, plus ʽLove Minus Zero/No Limitʼ if you have the bonus-track CD edition) acoustic set that shows him in ragged, but overall good form (for many people back then, any form would have been a blessing, given how few the man's live appearances were in between 1966 and 1975). Of all these mini-sets, Leon's is probably the one that sticks out most — in a show so much oriented at spiritual uplift, his caveman exercises in sexual innuendo feel somewhat out of place; but in the long run, his ten-minute medley still works as an odd «materialistic» counterpoint to everything else, a burlesque-carnivalesque interlude to a generally solemn ceremony that allows you to let your hair down, get your rocks off, and blow some steam in the interim.

As for George, he did not shy away completely from Beatles-era material (ʽHere Comes The Sunʼ is especially adorable, with Badfinger's Pete Ham assisting on second acoustic guitar), but he did use the occurrence as a nice pretext to try out some of the All Things Must Pass stuff. The acute­ly felt onstage sloppiness of the performances is, nevertheless, fully vindicated by the collective energy of all the great musicians — and a particularly nice touch is the addition of Don Nix's "Soul Choir", giving all the religious songs an even more pronounced gospel feel, with good reason (check out in particular the little wailing bits done by Claudia Lennear, one of the hottest backup singers back in the day — and allegedly one of the basic referents behind ʽBrown Sugarʼ, Marsha Hunt being the other one in Mr. Jagger's fervent hunt for African-American beauties). Because of the way things turned out, George goes really heavy on the «anthemic» parts of his magnum opus, but this does not prevent him from turning in an equally inspired rendition of ʽBeware Of Darknessʼ (sharing lead vocals with Russell).

It all comes together in the one song written specially for the event. ʽBangla Deshʼ is far from George's finest hour — an openly manipulative and pragmatic track, though, admittedly, still very heartfelt and sincere; what matters here, though, is not the melody or lyrical context, but the raw energy and camaraderie of all the players onstage, starting out slow but eventually whipping themselves up to barely controlled frenzy, with all the brass players, guitarists, keyboardists, percussionists on stage spirited away to oblivion. In this moment, you really feel like it all mattered: maybe the concert did not save the poor kids of Bangla Desh, but for everybody present, it still fulfilled a soul-cleansing function — it is hard for me to imagine being present at a show like that and not going away home a slightly better person than before. No fanfares, no ego-stro­king (an accusation that could be targeted at quite a few large gatherings — such as The Last Waltz, for instance), just a bunch of somewhat battered-up guys who were able to pool their own personal problems, throw them on top of a large regional problem, and end up with a goofy, glorious mess of cosmic despair and overriding optimism.

If you are looking for sharp sound quality, technical coordination, and ideal balance between all the players onstage, this thing is not for you — any fan of George's with those qualities in mind needs to skip past all the remaining decades of George's own life and go straight to the memorial Concert For George (which, ironically, had many of the same people and many of the same songs performed), which satisfies all those requirements perfectly. But if you are more interested in the vibe, in witnessing how a bunch of good songs can grow and evolve — maybe at the cost of an ugly offshoot here and there — right under your very nose, in imagining yourself in the presence of so many great people, none of whom give a fig about their own greatness, then The Concert For Bangla Desh becomes as much of an endearing travel companion to All Things Must Pass as, say, Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out! is to Let It Bleed, or Live At Leeds is to Tommy (except that the Stones and the Who, for themselves, were very well aware of their onstage greatness and made 100% use of it).

And yes, if the amount of money raised by a charity event is deemed, after all, secondary next to the amount of cathartic vibes produced at the same event, then I'd presume to say that The Concert For Bangla Desh may have brought far more good to this world — and might still be bringing it in as long as people continue to listen to the record and to watch the movie — than any number of rock'n'roll charity benefits held in the past fourty years or so. At the very least, this is the only recording from a benefit concert that I still listen to on a regular basis — with all due respect to Live Aid, Live 8, Music For Montserrat, and The Queen's Birthday Party.

George Harrison: All Things Must Pass

GEORGE HARRISON: ALL THINGS MUST PASS (1970)

1) I'd Have You Anytime; 2) My Sweet Lord; 3) Wah-Wah; 4) Isn't It A Pity (version 1); 5) What Is Life; 6) If Not For You; 7) Behind That Locked Door; 8) Let It Down; 9) Run Of The Mill; 10) Beware Of Darkness; 11) Apple Scruffs; 12) Ballad Of Sir Frankie Crisp (Let It Roll); 13) Awaiting On You All; 14) All Things Must Pass; 15) I Dig Love; 16) Art Of Dying; 17) Isn't It A Pity (version 2); 18) Hear Me Lord; 19) Out Of The Blue; 20) It's Johnny's Birthday; 21) Plug Me In; 22) I Remember Jeep; 23) Thanks For The Pepperoni.

General verdict: One of those few records that have a real chance to make a believer out of an atheist - at least for an hour and a half.

If we leave John's and George's early experimental solo albums out of consideration; if we also put Ringo's two first solo albums in the «experimental» category (since both were clearly just genre exercises, produced more out of boredom than anything else); and, finally, if we discount McCartney as, technically, a rushed job hurried to the market for extra-musical purposes — then a fair case might be made that each of the four Beatles' proper solo debuts, all the way from John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band to Ram and up to Ringo, would also be the highest point in each of their solo careers: an explosion of individual personality, hampered and restricted by the band format, one that would never get the chance to materialize had the Beatles not broken up. Even if all of their solo careers past those high points turned out to be complete crap (which, thankfully, they did not), it is still a good thing that The Beatles broke up precisely when they did break up: at the height of rock music's creativity, in an atmosphere of general artistic uplift that heavily promoted self-expression in the healthiest way possible. Now imagine if Paul McCartney's debut solo album came out in, say, 1986...

...anyway, we all know very well that nobody truly profited as much from the break-up as good old George — the one man who had to work real hard to get at least three of his songs on a Beatles album, let alone four. As history (and probability theory) tells you, George Harrison was not born with song­writing genius, like Paul McCartney and (slightly more arguably) John Lennon: rather, he spent the first half of the Beatle years sucking it in, breathing the same air as John and Paul, gradually understanding things about quality control and stuff. Meanwhile, the second half of his Beatle years was spent in trying to carve himself out a separate identity — everything from his Indian experiments to philosophical lyrics to growing the longest beard of all four of them to writing a shitload of songs that his bandmates constantly rejected because (a) quotas, (b) too dense and heavy, (c) QUOTAS! QUOTAS!

All Things Must Pass, recorded from May to October 1970, certainly sounds much different from what those songs might have looked like in the hands of George Martin — not to mention from the original demos, which are widely available in bootleg forms (the classic Beware Of ABKCO! is a must-hear for any respectable Beatles fan). One of the main reasons for this is Phil Spector, who co-produced the sessions along with George — in a way, one might construe the 1970-71 years as a short period of a subtle bond between George, John, and Phil (who was also involved in both the work on Let It Be and on John's Imagine) whose partial purpose was to tickle the feathers of Paul. But not just that. The alliance with Phil gave both, and George in par­ticular, a chance to temporarily switch from the typically «chamber» format of George Martin to a much more «symphonic» style — boosting their egos, some might say, but actually dissolving their egos in some sort of grand, cosmic sweep that exalts and humbles the singer-songwriter at the same time. For George, this was precisely what he needed at that period in his life.

There are people out there who actually prefer the slow, sad, deeply introspective acoustic demo of ʽWhile My Guitar Gently Weepsʼ to the finalized version on The Beatles — likewise, there are those who actually prefer the demos of Beware Of ABKCO! to the grand and glitzy musical behemoths on All Things Must Pass. There can certainly be room for both in anybody's life, but any statement about how the final versions suffer from a loss of depth, feeling, sincerity, etc., should be immediately relegated to the wastebasket as an irrelevant result of a crudely simplistic algorithm (i.e. «lonely acoustic guitar = GOOD; multi-layered production = BAD»). The truth is that both George and Phil were on the same wave, and that goes for the amazing playing team assembled in the studio as well — from Eric Clapton and his new friends, The Dominoes, to Billy Preston on the keys, Bobby Keys on saxes, Pete Drake on pedal steel, Badfinger on acoustic guitars, and George's long-time collaborator John Barham, responsible for the orchestrations.

All these people were there for one purpose only — amplify the message, and amplify it they did. With the exception of straightforward anger (an emotion not wholly unfamiliar to George, but one that he decided to shelve for the time being), All Things Must Pass is a collection of songs that covers pretty much the entire spectrum of human emotions, but also makes sure that these emotions are an intrinsic part of the cosmos at large — that joy or sadness are not generated in a vacuum, but are all separate manifestations of divine presence in the experiencers. Thus, if Harrison here is the main subject of these emotions, his numerous friends act as universal retrans­lators — something that makes perfect sense even in the context of a «localized» love song like ʽLet It Downʼ, because, according to the ideology of All Things Must Pass, all our actions and feelings still cause cosmic-scale repercussions. (Do try to remember that the next time your girlfriend's hair hangs all around you).

Yet the grand production of the album — all the booming drums, the multi-tracked guitars, the armies of brass, the backing vocals seemingly coming from under the ground, etc. — would mean nothing without the songwriting. And the preachy tone of the album, with its constant lyrical references to The Divine Presence and constant moral guidance imperatives, would be insuf­ferable if it did not have the musical backbone to give it proper substance. Why, indeed, should we be wanting to take life lessons from a self-taught Liverpudlian pop musician without a degree in philosophy or theology? Who is that guy that he thinks he's got the right to tell us to beware of falling swingers, or that "no one around you will carry the blame for you"?

To answer that question, let us start out with something seemingly very simple: ʽMy Sweet Lordʼ. Here is a song with really minimal, and fairly trivial, lyrics, more of a repetitive mantra than a proper song, in fact, not to mention all the controversy around it being lifted from The Chiffons' ʽHe's So Fineʼ (a matter utterly irrelevant to the case at hand, although I firmly belong to the camp that believes in subconscious borrowing rather than intentional stealing). If all this song had were its main acoustic riff and the endlessly repeated "my sweet Lord, oh my Lord", it would be just an annoying cheerleading oddity. But the song is not really about monotonous praising — it is about searching, and with relatively small hopes of finding. What makes it a piece of genius is not the chorus, but the "I really want to see you" verse (bridge?), reflected in the poignant guitar riff that opens and mid-bookmarks the song — and the subtle, but steady increase of tension as more and more layers are added up (drums, keyboards, backing vocals on the chorus, backing vocals on the bridge). The climax comes at 3:10 into the song — the last occurrence of "now, I really want to see you!..", by which moment all the players have entered the field and all that tension and pleading in George's voice have resulted in one final desperate explosion. And note how we are prepared for that explosion by George himself — his preceding set of four "oh, my sweet Lord"'s is already the sound of somebody well on the edge, tired of and fed up with the constant waiting, like he's hopping on the surface of a hot frying-pan or something.

Those of us who aren't all that big on Cosmic Conscience might certainly snicker at all the references to Krishna and Maheshwara: the very fact that George was a firm believer in religious syncretism, respecting all forms of spirituality as long as they did not involve human sacrifice, makes his specific invocations of Indian, Judeo-Christian, or any other deities look a little silly in perspective. But the genius of ʽMy Sweet Lordʼ, the way I personally perceive it, is precisely in that this is a song that one minute makes me snicker, and the next minute sends a sharp pang of desperation down my chest. At times, I have even stuck with an interpretation of the song that was probably never even remotely present in George's original conception — namely, that the mantraic chorus represents the formal (plodding, boring, formulaic, by-the-book) aspect of the religion, while the "I really want to see you / know you" parts represent the protagonist's occasio­nal doomed attempts to grasp the truth beyond the formula — always thwarted by the communal mantra in the end, meaning that the fade-out coda by itself is tragic (the seeker of truth drowned out by the meaninglessly repeated mantra). But even if that was never in the works, the fact that you can really easily see the song this way if you put to mind to it suggests some particularly subtle form of genius, one that the songwriter in person might not have identified in himself.

And this, mind you, is just one song. There are 18 of them here (17 if you count the two versions of ʽIsn't It A Pityʼ as one), and every single one is at least impressive / memorable / emotionally involving; at most, some of these easily rank alongside the greatest material that The Beatles released in their prime, and, therefore, represent the absolute pinnacle of «spiritually-oriented» pop music of the 20th century. If I had more time, I could probably make a novel out of this review — there is so much to be said about each of these compositions. As it is, I will have to restrict myself to just a few succinct observations about what it is, in my opinion, that turns each and every one of these songs into musical magic.

ʽI'd Have You Anytimeʼ: one of the sweetest electric guitar parts ever recorded — nobody can do these mini-serenades without the slightest whiff of cheap sentimentality better than George. Well on the level of ʽSomethingʼ, if you ask me.

ʽWah-Wahʼ: production so dense here that you can barely make out the vocals, but it is actually fun to witness George trying to outshout all the miriads of instruments. The main miracle, however, is how they can still make a frenzied and ecstatic guitar solo stand out in the middle of all the ruckus. The wah-wah riff is the equivalent of the world going round.

ʽIsn't It A Pityʼ: which one is your favorite version? There is definitely something to be said about the more quiet, understated second one, with lots of subtle touches from Clapton and a less obstructed lead vocal part, but if we recognize the album's monumentality at all, then there is no better example of that monumentality than the major seven-minute Phil-approved version. The highest lick that George plays at the top of the solo is the highest point of the album — the single sharpest knife-prick to the heart. And yet, at the same time, George's sense of humor is also evident as he subtly and seamlessly integrates the ʽHey Judeʼ chant into the coda, a gesture that can be decoded in half a dozen different ways at least.

ʽWhat Is Lifeʼ: clearly, life is a roller coaster, because that is what the song's lead riff continuous­ly sounds life. I like it how George leaves us a way out by making the lyrics equally applicable to God and/or to one's partner. Single most powerful statement of joy on the entire album (not that there's too many of them).

ʽIf Not For Youʼ: I like Dylan's version on New Morning very much, but it is only in George's version that you can actually hear the guitars and keyboards asserting that the winter indeed does hold spring and that the robin doth sing. Also, George understands the power of a tight, catchy, evocative guitar riff much better than Bob ever did.

ʽBehind That Locked Doorʼ: the song's ultra-slow waltz tempo makes the album stutter a bit in its pacing (and the fact that plenty of country artists rushed to cover it does not exactly constitute an endorsement), but Pete Drake's steel guitar part is pure magic here.

ʽLet It Downʼ: I have always been fascinated by the contrast between the seemingly peaceful (but also somewhat enigmatic) lyrics and the absolute thunderstorm nature of the chorus. Is this a song about drowning in love? George's variation on the Liebestod thing?... maybe it's just about rough sex? and no, none of these questions should ever be answered.

ʽRun Of The Millʼ: one of the two Apple-related songs on the album, it features some of the most Jesus-like lyrics and ends with a stellar Jim Price / Bobby Keys brass solo — carrying a certain finality with it that makes the song a perfect conclusion for the first disc.

ʽBeware Of Darknessʼ: hey, it's ʽBeware Of Darknessʼ, what can I say? It's cute how George snucks in that "beware of Maya!" line right before the guitar solo. It's as if he had something to say about darkness and sadness all right, but he's too helpless in the face of Maya, so he lets the guitar do all the talking instead.

ʽApple Scruffsʼ: the only «Dylanesque» thing about it is the prominent harmonica, otherwise it is just another perfect pop song with another perfect slide guitar solo — watch for the sly hushing-down of both the guitar and harmonica at the end, only to turn around and give you a double kick in the teeth at the last note.

ʽBallad Of Sir Frankie Crisp (Let It Roll)ʼ: never been a big fan of this one originally, but once you learn and keep in mind that the song deals with the forgotten past of Friar Park and its former aristocratic owners, its position so close to ʽAll Things Must Passʼ becomes more understandable, and its whisper-laden atmosphere becomes more sinister and ghostly.

ʽAwaiting On You Allʼ: if it weren't for the insane catchiness, I'd probably drop this one — way too happy and straightforward an anthem. But such an amazingly well-crafted rhythm track! and the way it gets bounced to and fro between the different players, echoed on and on, is a genuine production marvel. The dig at the Pope is kinda gratuitous, though — he might own 51% of General Motors for all we know, but how much does George Harrison own?..

ʽAll Things Must Passʼ: an atmosphere of solemnity that is simultaneously happy and sad and is also neither of these two at the same time is pretty hard to achieve, but I'd say the brass riff of the song does exactly that. I can see why the Beatles never approved the song in its original incarna­tion, but the horns give it personality. (Amazingly, Spector was against the horns in this case).

ʽI Dig Loveʼ: many people regard this as filler, but not me, not me. This is the weird dark horse of the record. The falling-and-rising chord pattern, derided by some, is just so oddly minimalistic and mystical, and the strange «tribal» drumming from Ringo and Jim Gordon is completely dif­ferent from anything else here. It probably represents George's urge to include something thoroughly unpredictable, «Pythonesque», and I respect it.

ʽArt Of Dyingʼ: love the original demo, but it did not have the lightning speed playing of Clapton that is so all over this song. If you listen really close, Eric is doing some totally jaw-dropping speedruns here, humbly shoved into the background — and beautifully contrasting with George's slow, solemn, mournful enunciation.

ʽHear Me Lordʼ: never been the biggest fan of this one, maybe because of getting a little burned out towards the end and not feeling like yet another endlessly repetitive groove right after the second version of ʽIsn't It A Pityʼ, but Gary Wright's piano work in tandem with more of Eric's soulful licks is still beyond all praise. And hey, why not end the record with a straightahead humble prayer? It sort of makes sense — so many songs here feature George the preacher and George the teacher, one final round of George the sinner would definitely not be out of place.

Amusingly, many people reject the highest honors for All Things Must Pass because of its third disc, the infamous ʽApple Jamʼ sessions. That complaint is one that I have never really under­stood — if you don't like it, don't listen to it. Even in the original package, the ʽApple Jamʼ disc was visually and physically «segregated» from the rest, clearly offered as a bonus for those who could stomach something a little different. And those jams, when seen as jams and nothing else, are actually not half-bad — after all, this is essentially Derek & The Dominos with special guest George Harrison sitting in, so why complain? If you happen to like Derek & The Dominos, there's plenty of first-rate guitar work going on there; moreover, ʽI Remember Jeepʼ and ʽThanks For The Pepperoniʼ are based on bona fide Chuck Berry grooves and are perfectly danceable. The 11-minute ʽOut Of The Blueʼ can get tedious, for sure, but not if you just treat it as background muzak generated on the spot by professionals.

Anyway, ʽApple Jamʼ does fulfill a certain symbolic function: its presence here helps to some­what deflate the seriousness and solemnity of the proceedings — much like an appearance by Monty Python thirty years later would deflate the solemnity and sadness of the memorial Concert For George. Or, if you prefer another approach, it can be viewed as a special thank you to all the people that played on the main album — with the Apple Jam tracks, the host gets off the podium and humbly blends in with the crowds. Most importantly, one should never think of All Things Must Pass as a triple LP — it is as double as they come, with an extra bonus disc thrown in for good measure, to be evaluated and enjoyed on its own terms or to be discarded and forgotten, whichever you prefer.

Whether or not All Things Must Pass is the best solo album ever put out by a Beatle is certainly debatable — what is not debatable is that it is the best solo album ever put out by a Beatle that tackles all, or most, of life's important questions and proves that the idea of taking the Beatles (or, at least, some Beatles) Seriously — with a capital S — was never as thoroughly ridiculous as could be implied by snobs, academics, philosophers, or classical buffs. Of course, I am not talking about the words — George isn't saying much here that hasn't already been logged in volumes of received wisdom — but I am talking about the way that the words are connected to the music. «Spirituality» is a notion that is quite easily prone to being abused in the pop sphere; All Things Must Pass is one of the few pop records that dares to focus 100% on spirituality and end up being a total winner. So thank you, John and Paul, I guess, for showing the way to your junior partner — who ended up showing you how such things really should be done.