The Wilburys' most underrated jam?

As I was scrolling through my iTunes library earlier, I noticed one track preference that made me smile: my most listened to song by the Traveling Wilburys is "New Blue Moon". If you're unfamiliar, you can forgive yourself. "New Blue Moon" is a deep, deep cut off Vol. 3. Basically, an unheralded ditty from a so-so record that's always been trapped in the shadow of its predecessor. But I for one absolutely adore the song. It's a busy little mover that shakes and shimmies just right. And the airy, drawn-out vocal phrasing on the verses makes for a perfect touch, conveying notes of sweetness and woe in the same breath. Enjoy below.

Review of "The Beatles Solo: The Illustrated Chronicles of John, Paul, George, and Ringo after the Beatles"

(This review was originally published by PopMatters).

More than other works of non-fiction, Beatles books need to justify themselves. With such a preposterous glut available and new installments joining the ranks every few months, it’s not enough – or shouldn’t be, anyway – for authors and publishers to simply coast on the Fab Four brand (redoubtable though it may be). What results from the industry's cynical, because-we-can mentality is that, for every Tune In – a rigorous history tome that actually boasts original research – there are dozens and dozens of superfluous offerings like 100 Things Beatles Fans Should Know & Do Before They Die or The Beatles in 100 Objects. Curious about the band’s horizontal pursuits? Randy Scouse Gits: The Sex Lives of the Beatles will fit the bill. All four of these titles hit shelves last year. The point almost states itself: The Beatles are the greatest band in pop music history, but enough is enough. These days, "a must read for Beatles fans" loosely translates as "coming soon to a used bookstore near you."

The Beatles Solo is more of the same, even with the minor caveat that author and journalist Mat Snow recounts the less familiar post-Fab existences of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. Yes, here are the messy, far-ranging, often fascinating solo years … treated to summaries that don't rise above the level of slight and perfunctory. Each exceptionally slim volume of this four-pack has the weight and feel of a glorified Wikipedia synopsis. Sure, they're longer, more polished, and heavier on opinion (sometimes gratingly so, as I’ll detail later), but surface-skimming is still the dominant mode. George’s historic Concert for Bangladesh walks away with three pages of actual text. Macca's fruitful and varied run since the turn of the century? Six. And, predictably, very few of the particulars will be new to Beatles enthusiasts.

But not everyone is a fanatic. What about less avid (but still interested) types who might have use for a primer that encompasses Imagine and Red Rose Speedway, the Traveling Wilburies and the All-Starr Band? This was probably Snow’s guiding concept for The Beatles Solo, and it’s appealing in theory. But there’s a small complication: the list price of $50. In addition to the hyper-abridged career bios, each book comes attractively decorated with an array of photographs: individual shots, album artwork, advertisements, concert footage, movie scenes, etc. Snow didn't skimp. And the whole package is housed in a nifty slipcase that features stylized caricatures of the Four on the front. In terms of production values, The Beatles Solo grades out as first-rate. But these enhancements also inflate the book's price tag to the point where it's completely at odds with the introductory spirit of Snow's mini histories. There’s a clash of visions at work. The generous eye candy notwithstanding, who would want to shell out top dollar for a mere token tour of post-Beatledom?

That tour unfolds along roughly these lines for each Beatle: auspicious success early on, followed by creative misfires, commercial washouts, and personal failings, followed by renewal and resurgence rooted in lifestyle changes and new outlets. Despite my criticism of Snow's reductive modus operandi, there is some truth to the general pattern.

For instance: John hit his solo artistic peak with John Lennon / Plastic Ono Band and Imagine, his first two proper LPs – and two of the finest issued by an ex-Beatle. He then bottomed out as a songwriter on 1972’s Some Time in New York City – an instantly fossilized overdose of radical chic – and as a responsible adult from ‘73-‘75 during his “lost weekend”, a dissolute 18-month separation from Yoko that found Lennon rampaging and recording in L.A. with Ringo, Harry Nilsson, and other notable rock ‘n’ roll debauchees. As Snow writes, John was “losing himself in vodka, Brandy Alexanders, and marching powder, yet clearly having no fun at all.” Realizing he’d gone astray, John eventually reconciled with Yoko before shunning the music business altogether and retreating into a 5-year period of Mr. Mom domesticity. (His second son, Sean, was born in late ’75.) John’s return to the spotlight, punctuated by 1980’s Double Fantasy, was of course tragically short-lived.

How about a less-chronicled example? Mr. Starkey’s career has veered from smash single "Photograph" and the rest of Ringo to a spate of flop records, even worse films, and alcohol abuse to sobriety, the touring bonhomie of the All-Starr Band, and reruns of Shining Time Station. A long and winding road, if you will. But not in Snow's handling.

(Side note: Of late, Ringo has been locked in a public contest with Yoko to see who can invoke peace and love more frequently. Hey, I hope they both win.)

It’s to Snow’s credit that, despite furnishing only bare-bones sketches of the solo years, he didn't go down the path of hagiography on top of that. The Beatles Solo is a warts-and-all retelling. But that’s not to suggest he’s evenhanded in his treatment of each Fab. The short version: Snow is emphatically *not* on Team Paul. And his repeated underlining of this fact grows stale in a hurry.

Comparing Paul’s “Too Many People” and John’s “How Do You Sleep?”, which both were aimed at the opposite party, Snow opines that at least the Imagine broadside “was written in blood and acid in contrast to the vanilla essence that flowed through Paul’s writing.” Indeed, kudos to John because he was by nature an asshole and thus a better one than Paul. Or how about the implication that when John reached #1 on the charts, it was born of his high-minded artistry; but when desperate-to-please Paul did so, he had only his shallow “craft and whimsy” to thank.

Lastly (though there are more illustrations), observe this line: “Though somewhat fragmentary and oblique, in keeping with the movie footage, George’s Wonderwall music (sic) held its own when compared with Paul’s 1966 soundtrack for The Family Way”. But why compare the two at all - they aren't remotely similar - unless the sole purpose was to take a needless and immature potshot at Paul? Snow couldn’t help himself, it seems. I mean, go ahead and stake a claim to your favorite or least favorite Beatle - confession: I've never really connected with the Quiet One - but please don’t be so cheap and frivolous when making your case.

In the most significant sense, Snow said too little with The Beatles Solo. And in a far more trifling but obnoxious way, he said too much. Beatles books are rarely win-win propositions. If you're a solo-years novice and a handsome but information-light and overpriced doorstop sounds satisfying, then The Beatles Solo will suit your tastes. If not, look elsewhere. You won't have to contend with a shortage of options.

Happy birthday, George!

The Quiet Beatle would've been 70 today. To celebrate the occasion, PopMatters compiled a list of George's top solo hits.

R.I.P., Ravi Shankar

The master sitarist and dear friend of George passed away on Tuesday at the age of 92. Below is some of the coverage of his death.

- NYT: "Ravi Shankar, Sitarist Who Introduced Indian Music to the West, Dies at 92"

Excerpt: Ravi Shankar, the sitar virtuoso and composer who died on Tuesday at 92, created a passion among Western audiences for the rhythmically vital, melodically flowing ragas of classical Indian music — a fascination that had expanded by the mid-1970s into a flourishing market for world music of all kinds.

In particular, his work with two young semi-apprentices in the 1960s — George Harrison of the Beatles and the composer Philip Glass, a founder of Minimalism — was profoundly influential on both popular and classical music.

- WSJ: "When Ravi Shankar Met George Harrison"

Excerpt: But when Mr. Harrison first approached Mr. Shankar for lessons in the mid-1960s, the idea of blending Indian classical music with pop music was puzzling to the sitar maestro.

“It is strange to see pop musicians with sitars. I was confused at first. It had so little to do with our classical music. When George Harrison came to me, I didn’t know what to think,” said Mr. Shankar in Raga.

“But I found he really wanted to learn. I never thought our meeting would cause such an explosion, that Indian music would suddenly appear on the pop scene,” he added.

- The Guardian: "Ravi Shankar: the Beatles' muse who turned his back on rock"

Excerpt: Harrison learned about Shankar from the Byrds and, after adding sitar lines to Norwegian Wood, the Beatle sought him out and later went to India for lessons. Shankar was now treated like a rock star, playing at the Monterey pop festival in 1967, then Woodstock and the Concert for Bangladesh at Madison Square Garden, and enjoying co-billing on Harrison's Dark Horse tour in 1974. It was then he decided that his career had gone horribly wrong. Western rock audiences decided India meant drugs and free love, and Shankar was shocked at the way his music was misunderstood.

"The association with India was so wrong," he once told me. "The superficiality of everyone becoming 'spiritual', the cliches of yoga … the Kama Sutra, LSD and hash … It was all against our music and our approach to music because we consider it so sacred." As for Harrison, Shankar said "he himself was very sorry and sad to see the way it was twisted and taken so casually. He never dreamed it would turn out like this."

- The Telegraph: "How Ravi Shankar was charmed by George Harrison"

Finally, here's George and Ravi together in an interview:

(If the video is removed, go here.)

"None of life's strings can last"

Here's one for George, from George. He died 11 years ago today. RIP

(If the video is removed, go here.)

"The Greatest Rock Spectacle of the Decade"

When I last wrote about the Concert for Bangladesh, I had this to say:

One of the central pleasures of the concert (as shown on the 2005 DVD) is that, notwithstanding the handful of rock 'n' roll powerhouses and living legends that participated, it was the well-regarded but still second-fiddle keyboardist Billy Preston who completely stole the show. In my view, his soulful rendering of "That's the Way God Planned It" and the animated, loose-limbed boogieing that he punctuates the song with outshine the two ex-Beatles' handiwork, Eric Clapton's unrehearsed guitar-playing, and Bob Dylan's mini-set. Preston's stage presence is truly radiant and even has an unmissable spiritual flair. There's also a lot of simple charm in the spontaneous feel of his performance. In sum, it's the most memorable moment of a concert not lacking in talent-heavy highlights.

After watching the film again, I thought I should go into greater detail. It deserves better.

Because the Concert became a template for future pop charity events like Live Aid and Farm Aid, it can be easy to focus on the significance of its legacy and lose sight of how incredible it was simply as a rock 'n' roll concert(s)*. No single performance is as memorable as "That's the Way God Planned It," but there isn't a bad apple among the whole batch. Every song delivers.

George and his super-group opened the show with three songs from All Things Must Pass: "Wah-Wah," "My Sweet Lord" and "Awaiting on You All." That's three Walls of Sound played live at Madison Square Garden. A perfect fit, as it turned out. Freed from the confines of the studio, the songs don't suffer from that gauzy, boxed-in quality that Phil Spector lathered all over his productions. These are the IMAX versions, exploding with bold color and a sonic hugeness that works much better live than on record. "Wah-Wah" in particular is a revelation. Next was "That's the Way God Planned It," which was followed by Ringo's star turn, "It Don't Come Easy." Ringo being Ringo, it's a perky, crowd-pleasing performance. Then came two more cuts from George: "Beware of Darkness," which features Leon Russell as a guest vocalist, and "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," which teams George with Eric Clapton on lead guitar. Because of his crippling heroin addiction at the time, Clapton wasn't expected to show. Only with the aid of methadone did he find himself able to function (and not all that well). Apart from the Clapton drama, the performance is noteworthy because it was the first time that "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" had ever been done live (the same was true for "Here Comes the Sun" and "Something," which came later). Next was Leon Russell's change-of-pace medley of "Jumpin' Jack Flash" and "Young Blood"; then George's delicate, stripped down rendition of "Here Comes the Sun"; and then the surprise of the night: Bob Dylan. Dylan hadn't been onstage in several years, and George had serious doubts he would make it. Though a nervous wreck, he did show, and the crowd received him rapturously. As depicted on the film, Dylan played "A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall," "It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry," "Blowin' in the Wind" and "Just Like a Woman." In that brief moment, the spirit of Sixties idealism was revived. Finally, once Dylan wrapped up, George returned to the mic and closed the show with "Something" and "Bangla Desh," which was the first charity single in pop music history. It was a day of many firsts.

Again, what a collection of songs. And, just as much, what a collection of musicians: George, Ringo, Clapton, Dylan, Ravi Shankar**, Billy Preston, Klaus Voorman, Leon Russell, Jim Keltner, Jesse Ed Davis, Badfinger, and more. That's an embarrassment of riches. George had cultivated many strong relationships over the years, and the Concert testified to how well-regarded he was. It was an event rooted in friendship.

Of course, a few of George's closest friends from the near past were conspicuously absent. In the early stages of planning, John expressed interest in playing, but he later backed out. George had stipulated that Yoko could not be involved, which apparently led to a dispute between her and John. After the Concert, the excuse John gave for his absence was that he had been on vacation in the Virgin Islands at the time. Paul, on the other hand, was a firm no from the start. He said that too much bad blood remained from the breakup. He couldn't stomach the thought of working alongside Allen Klein in any capacity.

In the end, it didn't matter. As with All Things Must Pass, the Concert for Bangladesh was George's moment to shine. To this day, it's still a major part of his legacy. The Concert started out as a noble cause but became a landmark event thanks to those superlative musicians and those classic songs.

* - The Concert actually consisted of two installments, but the film combined them into one.

** - I apologize for ignoring Shankar and the Indian music set. It holds little interest for me. I appreciate the craft but don't care for the creation.

"The film so funny it was banned in Norway"

The Beatles were part of, not one, but two Jesus controversies. The first and more infamous arose in 1966 after John boldly ventured that the Fab Four were more popular than the Son of God. The statement provoked a bitter backlash in the U.S. and dogged John for many years. The second "Jesus controversy" unfolded well after The Beatles had broken up, and it only involved George (and even then, somewhat indirectly). It took the form of a movie that, since its release in 1979, has often been hailed as one of the greatest comedies in cinematic history: Monty Python's Life of Brian.

In 1978, George came to the rescue of Life of Brian. Just days before director Terry Jones was to begin filming, EMI Films pulled funding due to unease about the movie's content, which consists partly of religious satire. (Plot: the titular Brian is born next to Jesus and gets mistaken for him.) George caught wind of this and - being rich, generous, and a friend and fan of the Python troupe - formed a production company called Handmade Films to finance the project. At one point, George said that he simply "wanted to see the movie." So much so, in fact, that he mortgaged his house to secure the funds. Not only did he get to see Life of Brian, he also made a cameo appearance in it. He played Mr. Papadopoulos, "owner of the Mount."

When the rest of the world saw Life of Brian, accusations of blasphemy rained down on the Pythons. From Norway and Sweden to the U.K. and the U.S., it was debated, picketed and even banned - a warmup act of sorts for The Last Temptation of Christ in 1988. The Pythons had the final laugh, though. As often happens with such controversies, the extra attention drove up ticket sales, and today Life of Brian is widely considered a classic.

I mention all of this because a) I've been trying to write more about George lately; and b) I watched Life of Brian over the weekend. I had seen it before, but this time I was old enough to truly appreciate it. It's uproarious. From Brian's haggish mother to the hopping "ex-leper" to the People's Front of Judea to Pontius Pilate's rhotacism, the gags never misfire. Is the film offensive? From one perspective, of course. It's full of swearing and off-color humor. Is it blasphemous? I would say no. I think it nimbly tiptoes around such sins. The only scene that shows Christ is handled tastefully, and I can't recall actual Christian doctrine coming up even once. By explicitly referencing the Gospels but keeping the narrative askew of Christ, the Pythons tempt you into thinking that what's onscreen is blasphemous. Perhaps they even want you to take the bait, only to realize that it's just a comedy you're watching. In fact, the movie's most sustained and stinging line of satire is directed at protest movements. The subplot involving the People's Front of Judea (and the Judean People's Front, the Judean Popular People's Front and the Popular Front of Judea) is hilarious. As is the whole movie. Kudos to George for backing a winner.

"The Worst of George Harrison"

Last week I observed that George Harrison: Living in the Material World pays scant attention to George's career as a solo artist. Here's what Scorsese omits.

Excerpts:

But there’s a 14-year gap that fans don’t like to discuss or even recall. In fact, the Quiet Beatle recorded six other studio albums during that epoch, each of which gives us insight into a rock ‘n’ roll legend literally at the bottom of his game. No question, there are some Harrison gems to be found here, but sadly, they’re often lost in the mire of this dreary epoch.

. . .

As for the reason behind Harrison’s erratic output of 1974-82, you can probably trace it to the usual suspects: an excess of money, drugs, partying, and well, excess. We also have to remember that George had already been a wealthy pop star for a decade and was now being asked, contractually, for a second act, thus his decreasing enthusiasm for the task. As your own ears will tell you, recording solo albums had become a chore for the former Beatle, as he’d conquered the summits of pop stardom long before. A new studio album meant continued cash flow, which was always beneficial, but clearly, Harrison’s heart was no longer in it, especially as the ’70s rolled to an end.

You also have to wonder why George didn’t have a manager who asked him for better product, or a good producer helping him pull these songs and albums together. Again, it alludes to the fact that he was rock-star royalty and didn’t need to answer to anyone, which is regrettable. In hindsight, most of George’s best solo albums were made with a strong producer in the room, notably Phil Spector and Jeff Lynne (and earlier, George Martin), but perhaps he didn’t like to cede control during this middle period. Yet imagine what a visionary producer—an Alan Parsons, Roy Thomas Baker or Todd Rundgren—might have done for Harrison’s recordings in that era. It speaks to a lost opportunity.

The Quiet Beatle in full?

Almost a year after its release, I finally watched George Harrison: Living in the Material World, Martin Scorsese's acclaimed documentary about the "Quiet Beatle." Based on the length of the film (208 minutes) and several reviews I had read, my main expectation going in was that Scorsese would provide a thorough, exhaustive treatment of George's life. I recall one reviewer opining that GH: LITMW would stand as the final word on the perpetual odd-man-out of The Beatles' powerhouse triumvirate.

It was strange, then, that upon finishing the doc, my first thoughts were all about how much it gave short shrift to or left out altogether. For instance, in Scorsese's hands, George's career as a solo musician is boiled down to All Things Must Pass, the Concert for Bangladesh and the Traveling Wilburys. These are the highlights, yes, but focusing on them to the exclusion of his many other solo releases leads to a dramatically incomplete picture of George as a recording artist. In other spots, GH: LITMW approaches whitewash territory (even if it doesn't quite get to that level). Scorsese couldn't possibly sidestep the messy love triangle that developed between George, his then-wife Pattie Boyd and Eric Clapton - and he doesn't - but he paints George as an almost passive player in the drama, which he wasn't. Elsewhere, George's widely panned 1974 U.S. tour comes up, as do the unkind reviews, but the section ends with someone swooping in to its defense. Though there are exceptions (like when Olivia Harrison broaches, with an obviously heavy heart, George's infidelity), the general tenor of the film seems to be: allude to the negatives when unavoidable and emphasize the positives as much as possible, because something close to the uncensored version might be too dicey.

If, on the other hand, there simply wasn't enough space to present George's story in more complicated detail (which is being charitable), Scorsese didn't help himself out by opting against a conventional structure for the film. His lightly impressionistic aesthetic, which eschews voice-over narration, the use of dates and strict chronology, is sloppy, tedious and inefficient. The narrative often feels like it's merely drifting along, sometimes covering the same ground twice and at other times not moving at all. A general vagueness prevails. I think the story would've benefited greatly from a more formal technique.

Though it has a fair amount to offer (i.e., various interviews, George's letters, rare footage, etc.), I have to count George Harrison: Living in the Material World as a missed opportunity. With so much at his disposal, Scorsese should've aimed higher.

"Early Takes: Volume 1"

Over the past week, I've been listening to Early Takes: Volume 1, the George Harrison compilation album that was released in tandem with Martin Scorsese's recent documentary about the Quiet Beatle. If, like me, you're not naturally drawn to George's solo catalog and, in particular, often feel overwhelmed by Phil Spector's lavish, echo-smothered, Big Pop production job on All Things Must Pass, the modest, stripped-down Early Takes may be in your wheelhouse. I mention George's first solo release because six of the comp's ten tracks are demos or early versions of songs from that album. With Spector out of the way, the difference in the texture and atmosphere of the two sets is like going from an opulent mega-church to an open-air country service. The songs here - most of them acoustic - are looser, folkier, more intimate. Unburdened of the Wall of Sound's padded lushness, notable cuts like "My Sweet Lord," "Awaiting on You All" and "All Things Must Pass" are able to stretch out and breathe freely, their spiritual themes losing no potency. The added space also benefits George's voice, which sounds more soulful, delicate and expressive than ever. (See the achingly beautiful cover of "Let It Be Me.") All told, I prefer this George Harrison to the one on All Things Must Pass. I suspect George himself did as well.

"Awaiting on You All"

(If the video is removed, go here.)

Another "My Sweet Lord"

Before George had made an instant classic out of "My Sweet Lord," he gave the song to Billy Preston, who - according to Wikipedia - scored "a minor hit in Europe" with his rendition. It's too *Seventies* for my tastes, but boy could Preston sing. And boy could he cultivate an epic fro. (If the video is removed, go here.)

A portrait of George as a young solo artist

From Ultimate Classic Rock:

‘Early Takes: Volume 1,’ a collection of raw, mostly acoustic demos from the start of George Harrison‘s solo career, will be released next month, with fans treated to early takes of some of Harrison’s most celebrated songs and many others.

The disc focuses on the time period in 1970 before the youngest Beatle dropped his first solo album, the smash ‘All Things Must Pass,’ with demos of ‘My Sweet Lord,’ ‘Awaiting On You All,’ ‘Behind That Locked Door,’ ‘Run Of The Mill’ and Harrison’s collaboration with Bob Dylan, ‘I’d Have You Anytime,’ included.

The article features a video for the acoustic demo of "My Sweet Lord," which you can find below. Give it a listen. With no slide guitar, backup vocals, or overall Spector-ian lushness, the beaming pop hymn that we're used to plays instead like folksy blues; warm reverence is replaced by shaggy soulfulness. Adding to the beauty, George's voice sounds as expressive as ever. All told, it's a more-than-worthy companion to the finished product.

Enjoy:


(If the video is removed, go here.)

"We'll bury 'em in the mix"

Last week's viewing of A Black and White Night prompted me to watch The True History of the Traveling Wilburys, a short documentary about the peerless and improbable super-group composed of George Harrison, Jeff Lynne, Tom Petty, Bob Dylan, and - until his death in December of 1988 - Roy Orbison. I was introduced to the Wilburys' music as a preteen, and took to its charms immediately. A decade-plus later, I still find both of their albums, Vol. 1 and Vol. 3, to be irresistibly tuneful, witty, and feel-good. The warmth of the songs is bound up in the band's love of making music and their admiration for one another.

The idea alone of the Wilburys is impossibly cool: five (then later four) musicians of legendary stature coming together to make two albums of breezy, buoyant, acoustic-driven rock 'n' roll. They even acquired nutty pseudonyms. The driving force of this "magic" (as he put it) was Nelson Wilbury, otherwise known as George Harrison. He wanted to record a B-side for "This Is Love," the third single from his 1987 album Cloud Nine. He enlisted the help of Lynne and Orbison, and arranged to use Dylan's home studio in Malibu. Petty got involved because George's guitar was at his house. The five of them went on to record "Handle with Care," which turned out so well that they decided to make a full album - Traveling Wilburys Vol. 1, a triple-platinum success that was cut in just ten days and featured two stellar singles in the form of "Handle with Care" and "End of the Line." Vol. 3 followed in 1990.

In Petty's words, the Wilburys were "a bunch of friends that happened to be really good at making music." The documentary emphasizes what a joy it was for these friends - even Dylan - to be around one another, collaborate and hear each other perform. In essence, the project was a celebration of music and friendship, and an instance of the two working as one. George said he marveled at how spontaneously Dylan fashioned the lyric for "Tweeter and the Monkey Man," an ingenious mock-Springsteen narrative about Jersey lowlifes. Petty reserved especial excitement for Orbison, saying he would occasionally think to himself, "Wow, Roy Orbison's in the band." He even dubbed that famous voice the Wilburys' "ace in the hole" (Which is true. Whenever Orbison comes on, the songs seem to reach full bloom. It's also why Vol. 1 is better than Vol. 3). The spirit of the music - light, quirky, and content with itself - reflects the pleasure everyone took in the Wilburys. They were just happy to be there, and it probably would've still meant a lot to them if they hadn't recorded or released anything.

Beyond the songs I've already linked to, I'd recommend "Last Night," "Margarita," "Inside Out," and "New Blue Moon" if you want to experience the best of the Traveling Wilburys.

*The quote in the title, which has to do with "recording errors," comes from George. It's the source of the Wilburys' name.

Today in (post) Beatles history

From Gibson:
1971, George Harrison became the first solo Beatle to have a #1 when “My Sweet Lord” went to the top of the U.K. single charts. The song, from his All Things Must Pass album, stayed at #1 for five weeks. The track returned to the top of the U.K. charts in 2002, following his death.

Re: Today in Beatles history

"George Harrison Remembered: 10 Favorite Cover Versions of His Songs," as compiled by Spinner.

Today in Beatles history

Here's another look-back involving George, but this time the day was one for grief and tears: On November 29, 2001, the "quiet Beatle" passed away at the too-young age of 58 after a bout with lung cancer.

Excerpt:
But tragedy crept into his world in 1997 with the discovery that a lump in his neck was malignant. Though he successfully battled the disease with radiotherapy, it was merely the beginning of a series of calamitous events. In 1999, Harrison was attacked in his home by a man later deemed insane by the courts. Harrison was stabbed seven times in the attack, having only been saved by Olivia jumping into the fray with a fireplace poker. Even as he healed from those wounds, Harrison received the devastating news that his cancer had returned, and this time there would be no reprieve. Harrison died of lung cancer in a Hollywood mansion once owned by Paul McCartney. His body was cremated and, according to his wishes, his ashes were spread across the Ganges River in India.

I never fail to be moved by the all-star performance of "My Sweet Lord" at the Concert for George. Billy Preston just nails his vocal.


(If the video is removed, go here.)

And below is what I consider George's most underrated entry in The Beatles' catalogue. It's the enticingly eerie and atmospheric "Blue Jay Way."


(If the video is removed, go here.)

Today in Beatles history

On this day in 1970, George released his most highly regarded solo work, the triple-LP All Things Must Pass.

Excerpt:
‘All Things Must Pass’ was his first solo album after the break-up of The Beatles and his first serious attempt at making a commercial album.

The album featured the now classics ‘My Sweet Lord’ and ‘What Is Life’. It was also the first session Phil Collins ever played on. He plays bongos on ‘Art of Dying’. (Collins also had a small part in The Beatles ‘A Hard Day’s Night’ movie when he was a kid).

Maurice Gibb also played keyboards on ‘Isn’t It A Pity’ but, like Collins, was uncredited.

The infamous Phil Spector produced the album. Guests included Ringo Starr, Eric Clapton, Billy Preston, Gary Brooker (Procol Harum), Alan White (Yes) and Gary Wright).

Post-Beatles greatness

Ed Masley of The Arizona Republic took a stab at compiling the ten best Beatles solo albums. Here are the results.

Inevitably, such a list is going to be greeted with contrary opinions (just look at the comments), and I myself would make some major changes to what Masley arrived at. Band on the Run should be much closer to the top; Ringo probably deserves to be included; and several of those Wings' albums just don't belong. And, respectfully, I must also disagree with this comment from Masley's summary of Imagine: "... 'How Do You Sleep?' takes the shine off his (John's) halo with a vicious swipe at Paul McCartney." Yes, that song was cheap and hateful, but John never had a halo to sully in the first place. Not even close, in fact.

Thoughts on "My Sweet Lord"

I had George's All Things Must Pass regularly playing in the car a couple weeks back, and it delivered as usual. I realize I'm hardly breaking new ground when I say it's his finest work. That seems obvious enough as the album boasts a very accomplished level of songwriting. And the kind of songs George was composing at the time - loose, warm, and free-spirited folk-rock -, combined with the album's prolific 6-side length, makes for a most inviting feel: George is beckoning us to commune with him and share in this bounteous wealth of music. We, of course, happily comply. Is All Things Must Pass too long? Yes. But that shagginess is part of its rich charm.

Another uncontroversial statement: "My Sweet Lord," George's beaming pop hymn to the Hindu god Krishna, is the album's high point. Like many others, I've felt this way since the first time that I listened to All Things Must Pass. It's the clear standout. Only in the last few weeks, though, have I come to truly understand (or so I think, anyway) the song's appeal beyond its lush and hypnotic sonics. For the longest time, the essence of the lyric eluded me. What didn't register was the exact tone of his words. And that is, George is avowing not mere spiritual devotion to Krishna but a deep tenderness for him: "I really want to see you/Really want to be with you." It almost amounts to a lover's affection (minus the sexual dimension, I should add). George desires to embrace, and be embraced by, his "sweet lord." He wants to feel the sense of completeness or fulfillment that close companionship can bring and that spiritual pursuits often have as their aim. He wants to meet his dear friend, and what seems to be driving him is an earnest, child-like love. This sentiment, delivered so sincerely, gives the song its beating heart.

Maybe a childhood filled with Christian church-going helps to explain why I find this so noteworthy. In my youth, I came across many hymns (which is, in part, what I'm approaching "My Sweet Lord" as), and they usually entailed confessions of faith or expressions of praise to God. Love, of course, is an essential element of this, but it's a love more rooted in reverence and thanks. From my experience, affection of the kind that George gives voice to on "My Sweet Lord" doesn't play much of a role in these hymns. Hence its striking quality for me.

Now maybe I'm mischaracterizing Christian hymns, or maybe I'm not familiar with a sufficiently wide range of them to comment like this. Maybe my comparison of a Krishna-celebrating pop hit from the '70s and Christian songs of worship is just too inexact to yield useful insights. I'm not sure. Either way, I'll stand by my central point: the yearning affection that George imparts on "My Sweet Lord" makes something divinely touching out of a mere pop song. And its power is only enhanced by how simple and plainly stated it is.

Thoughts on "Cloud Nine"

I've been regularly listening to George's Cloud Nine the last few weeks. And to be honest, it's been a curious experience. Prior to this, I was plenty familiar with the album and considered it a solid if somewhat dated affair. Recently though, I've found myself oscillating between two divergent minds: one is enthusiastic about what it's hearing while the other is much less so; one detects a skilled and canny sense of song-craftsmanship that emphasizes the complementary aspects of pop and rock while the other often picks up the unfortunate scent of cheesy '80s schlock. How to reconcile these inclinations?

It's possible that my original opinion - "solid if somewhat dated" - remains what I actually think and, in a way, represents the sum of the two takes that have been competing within me. That seems amiss though, because the reactions that Cloud Nine has elicited from me of late have been strong and pointed (even if contradictory). In other words, they're not suited for an aggregate view marked by slightly hesitant approval. After the first listen several weeks ago, I happily bought into the aims and execution of the album. Song after song, from the mid-tempo moodiness of the title track to the nuanced swagger of "Fish on the Sand" to celebratory affection of "Got My Mind Set on You," seemed to confirm that slick and stylized pop was not only not beneath George but was even a winning fit for his talents. The union of producer/ELO frontman Jeff Lynne and George appeared to work swimmingly.

But not long after this idea formed I started to sour on the album. I think elements of its '80s-ness really began to stand out and challenge my prior appreciation. The more I focused on the details of certain songs - like the bridge on "That's What It Takes" or sections of the lyric from "Wreck of the Hesperus" - the more I felt I had inadequately scrutinized the whole of Cloud Nine and would likely need to scale back my enthusiasm in a significant way. Owing to moments of schlock, over-production, and hollow lyricism, this did happen. Though relapses would subsequently occur, continuing my confused digestion of the album.

So where do I stand? I trust that I, like many others, will always tout "When We Was Fab" and "Got My Mind Set on You" as genuine classics. They're both remarkable songs. Below them, in the "solidly satisfying" category, I'd place the title track, "Fish on the Sand," and "Just For Today." Stepping back, I think Cloud Nine is one of those albums with an abundance of surface appeal. As a whole, it tends to feel right and delivers a kind of sonic pleasure that doesn't always penetrate too far into you, but more so satisfies when you're largely just aware of the vibe and texture of a song. The general thrust of Cloud Nine is not without bona fide rewards, then, but a more deliberate intake of the album produces something different. It produces a measure of disappointment. It produces a measure of frustration with various manifestations of a pop style that almost inevitably were to age imperfectly (and in some cases, quite poorly). Cloud Nine just can't overcome certain aspects of the context in which it was made. It's a pleasing pop album and still "works" to a large extent. But in 2009, I find it's successful in proportion to what you demand of the listening experience.