The songs themselves are a very mixed lot. Most of it is the usual 4/4 three-chord bashings about, competent and often boring. Eric takes over on lead much of the time but really it is often impossible to tell who’s playing what. Here, he’s playing with Clapton and Dave Mason and a lot of other people. It would have been interesting to hear how George improvises. In this context the two-sided jam lies outside the context of the rest of the record.
If Paul’s studio is his home, George’s is his cathedral. George’s religiousity, his quest for egolessness, are fitting in a sound in which individual elements are subordinated to the whole. There is a monolithic sound which peculiarly reinforces the message of many of the songs. Individual instruments, even vocals, perhaps because George is not a strong singer, don’t count for much in this music. Everybody’s favorite sidemen - Whitlock, Gordon, Radle, and Clapton - along with Klaus Voorman and Alan White, fragments of the Plastic Ono Band - play almost indistinguishably from the staples of earlier Spector production: Larry Knetchel, Joe Osborne, and Hal Blaine, on many of the tracks.Īt its best, Spector’s production is the sound of one instrument, the mind of its producer. The sound is often so glossy and dramatic it is difficult not to be seduced by it, and one tries vainly to discover just what George’s music would be without it–a futile and probably destructive exercise anyway. The production is of classic Spectorian proportions, Wagnerian, Brucknerian, the music of mountain tops and vast horizons. His words sometimes try too hard he’s taking himself or the subject too seriously, or, if the subject is impossible to take too seriously, he doesn’t always possess the means to convey that impression convincingly. Often too, there are unresolved sentence fragments (“Eyes that shining full of inner light”), funny word uses (“Another day for you to realize me”), and conscious attempts at literary effects (“beware of soft shoe shufflers/dancing down the sidewalks”). Often there are more syllables than notes, and lines have to be hurried in order to get it all in. They are displayed prominently on the album sleeves and appear to have been written before the music. From the electronic whine which began “I Feel Fine” to the break in “Hard Day’s Night” to the crazed, sitar - influenced burst on “Taxman,” George exhibited an avant - garde imagination and a technical flawlessness, as well as the ability to stay within the bounds of a song, which has remained unparalleled. Up until now, George has been perhaps the premier studio musician among rock band guitarists. I remember him as shy, aloof, “Don’t Bother Me” George, whose luck it was to come down with a sore throat on the group’s first tour of the States, barely croaking out his best wishes and John’s witticisms over Murray the K’s airwaves young, vulnerable George the craftsman, bent over his Gretch in concert, making sure that every lick was as good as it was on record the perfectionist who would later dismiss the majority of Beatle music as “rubbish” briefly Haight - Ashbury George, with eyeglasses, like Lolita’s, in the shape of valentines humble George, Ravi Shankar’s student holy George. In those haylcyon days when Beatles did not have destinies, only personalities, and every Beatle fan had a favorite Beatle, John once satirized his mates as “wide-eyed Paul, cozy Ringo, and skeleton George.” George, overshadowed as he was by two enormous egos, and lacking Ringo’s openess, was the hardest to know.
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