Taking a Magical Mystery Tour

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"Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" hit the music stores six months earlier, and it was still making headlines on this day in 1967 when "Magical Mystery Tour" was released.

But so were other songs the Beatles had written and recorded but had not yet released on an album — like "All You Need Is Love" and "Baby You're a Rich Man," which were released as the two sides of a single six weeks after the "Sgt. Pepper" album.

The Beatles were constantly experimenting with sounds and recording techniques. They rose to prominence with no real long–term expectations and therefore felt free to go wherever their interests took them. I saw an interview with Ringo Starr from around the time the Beatles made their first appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show, and he said he hoped the group would be successful enough that he could use his earnings to invest in a beauty shop in London. Neither he nor the other Beatles would have believed it if they had been told their recordings would still be influencing popular music half a century later.

Anyway, following the completion of "Sgt. Pepper," Paul McCartney had a brainstorm. He wanted to create an extemporaneous film about the Beatles and their music. "Ordinary" people (including the Beatles) would travel on a bus and have magical adventures.

The project yielded a 52–minute movie that was aired on the BBC the day after Christmas and was so savaged by the critics that it has been seldom seen since.

It also produced six new Beatles songs — not enough by themselves to make an entire album. Capitol Records rounded out the album by including five previously non–album singles.

As always, the music was good. In fact, for many observers, it was the music that salvaged the entire project. The film had no script and no real direction.

Still in the context of what had come before — and what was yet to come — "Magical Mystery Tour" was exactly what it seemed to be, a hodge–podge of songs consisting of a brief soundtrack and a group of songs that had been released as singles within the previous year.

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As I say, though, the music was good. George Harrison was bursting with creativity that would reach full flower a few years later when he released his triple–album solo effort "All Things Must Pass." In 1967, though, he was still a member of the Beatles and getting a handful of spots on albums that were largely dominated by Lennon–McCartney compositions.

Nevertheless, Harrison contributed "Blue Jay Way" and shared credit with John Lennon, McCartney and Starr on the instrumental "Flying."

Yes, the music was good, but the album and film were disjointed. It wasn't surprising that both got mixed reviews.

It richly deserves its place in the Beatles discography. But it doesn't flow seamlessly in the Beatles' musical timeline.

The Birth of the Beatles

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This is a milestone anniversary in the annals of 20th century music.

For it was on this day in 1957 that John Lennon and Paul McCartney, perhaps the most successful songwriting team in history, met for the first time.

Three years before forming the Beatles, Lennon and his band, the Quarrymen, were performing for the second time. They were providing the music at a church festival. McCartney was there.

Lennon asked McCartney to join the band, and he did — even though his father and aunt didn't approve of Lennon. They considered him to be beneath them — although McCartney's father allowed the band to practice in his home.

It was through McCartney that Geoerge Harrison joined the band. McCartney recommended him to play lead guitar, but Lennon thought he was too young (14 at the time). Harrison won him over by playing "Raunchy" on the top deck of a bus in Liverpool.

Ringo Starr joined the band later.

It was 60 years ago today, though, that the nucleus of the band that would dominate popular music for a decade and beyond was born.

'Wings Over America' Was Amazing Yet Disappointing

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The buzz that preceded the release 40 years ago today of "Wings Over America," a three–record album of Paul McCartney and Wings performing live on their mid–'70s American tour, was unlike anything I had ever seen before.

It hadn't been all that long, really, since the Beatles broke up, and I guess the withdrawal from the excitement of Beatlemania was too great for many fans. The tour was the first time McCartney had performed in the United States since the Beatles toured North America in the '60s, and there was a great desire to hear what McCartney sounded like in concert.

My sense was that there was general disappointment in the album even though it reached #1 on the Billboard LP chart. That was pretty amazing for a three–record set. I guess you had to be an ex–Beatle to accomplish that feat.

Immediately after their breakup, the Beatles embarked on their individual projects. Initially, the most successful ex–Beatle had to be George Harrison with not one but two extraordinarily well–received triple albums, "Concert for Bangladesh" and "All Things Must Pass." McCartney soon surpassed him, though, with several successful albums — but his triple album did not come along until "Wings Over America" hit the stores 40 years ago today.

"Wings Over America" contained mostly songs from those albums. Today it serves as kind of a nice time capsule, reminding us of what McCartney was doing in those first few years away from the Beatles, but at the time many fans wanted to hear McCartney performing Beatles songs. There was still hope, as I recall, that the Beatles would reunite, and that hope persisted for four more years until the assassination of John Lennon. In the '70s rumors of Beatles reunions were as rampant as Elvis sightings.

McCartney did oblige his fans by including live performances of five Beatles songs — but he provided considerably more than that 14 years later in another live triple album, "Tripping the Live Fantastic."

"Maybe I'm Amazed" was the only single released from the entire album, but it was far from being McCartney's most recent studio recording. It first appeared on his 1970 album, "McCartney," an album that was regarded more at the time as McCartney's attempt to cash in on the week–old breakup of the Beatles.

That album opened some wounds among Beatles fans that fester to this day.

But "Maybe I'm Amazed" found a wider audience as a live recording than it ever did as a studio piece. For those who had been following the four Beatles since their breakup, that may have been the most amazing thing about "Wings Over America."

After all, there were more than two dozen tracks on "Wings Over America." About 80% were from albums McCartney had made in the six years since the Beatles' breakup — and many, but not all, had been hits. There was a live version, for example, of "Live and Let Die," McCartney's musical contribution to the James Bond film series. And there was a live version of "Band on the Run," which may have been McCartney's most successful solo record up to that time.

"Maybe I'm Amazed" would have been the choice of few to be the only single from the album. Yet it was — and it was a big hit.

In hindsight, I guess the only single from that three–record set had to be a song that had been out there for awhile, not a recent release. Of course, that opens the door for an argument that a Beatles song should have been the single. But I suppose that gets us into issues of ownership rights and things like that.

I don't know whose idea it was to make "Maybe I'm Amazed" the only single from the album. But whoever thought of it was spot on.

Welcome to Crackerbox Palace

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OK, I know that "Thirty–Three & 1/3," the George Harrison album that was released in the United Kingdom on this day in 1976 (the U.S. release came five days later), wasn't the best he ever made.

Far from it.

But I liked it then, and I like it now, perhaps entirely because it contains one of my favorite songs from Harrison's solo career, "Crackerbox Palace."

I wouldn't underestimate another factor, though.

I didn't get that album the day it came out. I got it a month or so later — after I had been given a stereo for Christmas. This stereo was equipped with an 8–track player so Harrison's album was the first 8–track I ever bought.

My 8–track collection never got to be very large, but as long as I had that stereo, I had the Harrison 8–track, and I played it repeatedly.

Four singles were released from the album. The first was "This Song," which preceded the album by a couple of days.

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It was all right, kind of reminiscent of Harrison's commercial style, I thought — at least up to that point.

There was, as one of the lyrics suggested, "nothing tricky about it." It was a spoof of the court case of "My Sweet Lord" and the allegation that it was a copyright infringement of the Chiffons' "He's So Fine."

(A few months before "Thirty–Three & 1/3" was released, Harrison was found guilty by a district court judge of "subconsciously" copying the Chiffons' song and fined more than $1.5 million, which included about three–quarters of the revenue from the single and a significant part of the revenue from the sales of the three–record set "All Things Must Pass" on which it appeared.)

But "Crackerbox Palace," it seemed to me, demonstrated how much Harrison had learned — especially about writing creative lyrics — from working with John Lennon all those years.

And I've always been a Lennon fan.

"Crackerbox Palace" was released as a single a couple of months after the album hit music stores.

The third single was a 20–year–old Cole Porter tune called "True Love," which was introduced to the music–loving world in the movie "High Society." Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly sang it.

Covers have been done by Jane Powell, Richard Chamberlain, Nancy Sinatra and in a duet by Elton John and Kiki Dee. I think even Elvis did a version of it.

But Harrison's was the only one I know that was done in a blues rock fashion.

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The 50th Birthday of 'Rubber Soul'

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"Rubber Soul," the album the Beatles released on this day in 1965, is musical proof of the Theory of Evolution. As Rolling Stone observed when naming "Rubber Soul" the fifth–greatest album of all time, "The moptops were evolving in remarkable ways."

In fact, if you judge by the rankings on Rolling Stone's list, "Rubber Soul" — even at #5 on that list — is the third–best Beatles album behind "Revolver," which hit record stores nine months later, and "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band," which followed "Revolver." Creatively, I suppose, the Beatles were in their prime — even though that rather simplistic approach overlooks the creativity of later albums like "Abbey Road" (my personal favorite) and "Let It Be."

After all these years, "Sgt. Pepper" still gets most of the press, but diehard Beatles fans will tell you that "Rubber Soul" was the true turning point, the start of the Beatles' experimental phase. And when I say that, I'm not just speaking of the substances they ingested although there certainly was plenty of that going on. The Beatles were experimenting musically — with different sounds, different themes, different studio techniques. They stopped doing covers of other people's songs and did exclusively their own stuff — until a dab of "Maggie Mae" popped up on the "Let It Be" album.

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"Rubber Soul" was one of the first Beatles albums I ever owned — albeit a cassette tape — along with "A Hard Day's Night." It really had something for nearly every musical taste — folk rock, pop music, soul, R&B, even the still–emerging psychedelic style. Their work was influenced primarily by Bob Dylan, the Byrds, the Beach Boys and the popular soul groups of the day.

Many people think George Harrison introduced listeners to the sitar in later albums, but the sitar made its first official appearance in a song on a Beatles album on "Rubber Soul" — even though technically, I suppose, you could say the sitar made its debut on the soundtrack for "Help!" as one of several instruments featured on instrumental versions of songs that appeared on the Beatles' "Help!" album.

The sitar made a significant contribution to "Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)," which has always been one of my favorite Beatles songs. But you could pick just about any song on "Rubber Soul" and say it was your favorite on the album — and you could make a good case for it, whichever song it turned out to be.

The best — and probably most recognizable — tunes on the album are "Drive My Car," "Nowhere Man," "Michelle," "In My Life."

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But that doesn't mean the others aren't just as good — "You Won't See Me," "The Word," "What Goes On," "Girl," "I'm Looking Through You," "If I Needed Someone."

Harrison, who was really coming into his own as a songwriter, said the album was "the best one we made ... we were suddenly hearing sounds that we weren't able to hear before." Ringo Starr observed, "There was a lot of experimentation ... influenced, I think, by the substances."

Be that as it may, "Rubber Soul" has long been regarded as a landmark album in the establishment of what came to be known as "world music." In the next few years, instruments that had not been heard in popular recordings suddenly were everywhere. Even now, half a century later, the heirs of that genre can be heard.

One song on the album would be regarded as politically incorrect if it was released today. Just the title of the song — "Run For Your Life" — sounds menacing, but the more you realize that the singer is singing about his girlfriend and addressing her with the belittling moniker of "little girl," the more you realize how menacing it truly is.

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"Well I'd rather see you dead, little girl
Than to be with another man
You better keep your head, little girl
Or I won't know where I am
You better run for your life if you can, little girl
Hide your head in the sand, little girl
Catch you with another man
That's the end, little girl"

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The song was credited, as most were, to the Lennon–McCartney songwriting partnership, but it was mostly penned by John Lennon, and it is my understanding that it was inspired by an early Elvis Presley song, "Baby, Let's Play House."

Well, that's what Lennon said. It may also have had some autobiographical elements to it. It is known that, as a young man, Lennon was jealous and possessive and admitted hitting his women. "Run For Your Life" hit the record stores in the third year of his first marriage, a marriage that would end in divorce three years later.

Lennon said it was his least favorite Beatles song; later he said he regretted writing it, although reportedly it was George Harrison's favorite "Rubber Soul" song at the time it was released.

It has been argued that Lennon returned to the theme in a kinder and gentler fashion in "Jealous Guy" from his "Imagine" album.

The End of the Beatles' Long and Winding Road

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Forty–five years ago today, the fourth and final movie featuring the Beatles — "Let It Be" — made its debut. Beatles fans were already becoming familiar with the music from the film — the soundtrack had been released in the United Kingdom a few days earlier and would be released in the United States a few days later.

At the Academy Awards the next year, the "Let It Be" was declsred the Best Original Score.

It was also released about five weeks after Paul McCartney had announced he was leaving the band. The signs of an approaching breakup had been there long before.

"Let It Be" was the only Beatles movie that had no real plot, which made it, in my opinion, the purest of the movies when it came to musical content. That is what the movie really was, a document of a prolonged recording session. It was also the filmed record of a popular band going through its death throes. It happens to most bands, I suppose. For any of several reasons, the band reaches its limit, and the members all understand it is time to look for something new. It didn't seem to surprise them, and it shouldn't have come as much of a surprise to anyone who had been paying attention, either. Nevertheless, many fans still seemed to be in shock at the thought of the Fab Four never performing together again.

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I guess it all defied logic. The fans could read newspapers and magazines that detailed the band's breakup, yet, at the same time, there was another Beatles movie showing at the nation's theaters, and new Beatles music was playing on the radio. Nothing really seemed to have changed, the deniers told themselves, conveniently overlooking the evidence of an approaching breakup that had been accumulating for months. How could it be over?

Ah, but it was. The Beatles never performed as a band again. They each recorded solo albums and frequently collaborated with one or more of their former bandmates. I believe all four did play on one of Ringo Starr's albums — but on separate songs.

There were probably some hard feelings that lingered for awhile. Each Beatle seemed to have his personal agenda. In the movie, there appeared to be personality clashes between McCartney and each of his bandmates — but especially George Harrison, it seemed — at one time or another. John Lennon seemed to be obsessed with his new love interest, Yoko Ono. I'm sure Ringo had his issues, too. I just never could figure out what they were, other than he just wanted the band to keep making music — like they did when Beatlemania was new and the Beatles dominated the charts.

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In the rapid–fire universe of popular music, a few weeks or months can seem like a lifetime. The half–decade that passed between the Beatles' first movie — "A Hard Day's Night" — and their last — "Let It Be" — must have seemed like a millennium, especially when you think of all the musical territory that was explored by the Beatles in the interim.

Their music had certainly traveled light years from "Can't Buy Me Love" to "The Long and Winding Road," on the silver screen. They had gained an astonishing amount of maturity since they made their debut in America.

I found it fascinating to watch the Beatles taking those final, often tortured steps on that long and winding road. I still do. I seem to come away from each viewing with a different — and no less valid — sense of what I have seen and what significance it may have had in the eventual outcome.

Maybe that was the idea all along.

You Just Can't Make This Stuff Up

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This has already been a noteworthy year for Beatles fans.

February marked the 50th anniversary of the Beatles' arrival in America and their appearances on The Ed Sullivan Show. Earlier this month was the 50th anniversary of the premiere of the Beatles' first movie, "A Hard Day's Night," and the LP that contained the songs from the movie.

At the end of the year will come the 50th anniversary of the Beatles' fourth album, "Beatles For Sale," which was sandwiched between the albums that were tied to the Beatles' first two movies — and, as a consequence, is often overlooked, even though it had a lot of significance in the evolution of the Beatles as a band.

But I'll talk about that in a few months.

Today's Beatles news comes to us from the American West Coast, from Los Angeles' Griffith Park — frequently called Los Angeles' Central Park, although Griffith Park actually is bigger and rougher — where a pine tree was planted in memory of Beatle George Harrison in 2004. Harrison died in 2001.

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Well, it turns out that a new tree will have to be planted in its place. Why? Because the old one has been killed ... by beetles!

I'm sorry about the tree, but I can't tell you how appropriate it is for this to be a news story at this time. I and my colleagues at the community college where I am an adjunct journalism professor have been conducting a workshop this week for area high school students who are interested in journalism. It's been a crash course in all the basics of news coverage, including the things that make a story newsworthy — and a reminder of the things that drew me to this business in the first place.

This is one of those stories that proves that truth really is stranger than fiction.

A Hard Day's Write

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On this day in 1968, the Beatles released the only double album they would release while they were still together as a band.

Numerous multi–record collections were released after the group broke up, but the album that was released 45 years ago today — informally known as the White Album for its plain white cover — was the only exception to the single–record releases that characterized the Beatles' work.

Double albums were rare in the 1960s so that isn't really surprising. But it was the Beatles' first studio release in 18 months, and expectations were very high, being the Beatles' first album after the groundbreaking "Sgt. Pepper" album (well, technically, "Magical Mystery Tour" came out in November 1967, but it was not so much a Beatles album as a soundtrack for a British TV movie).

I suppose Apple wanted to make a big splash, and a double album was seen as a way to do that. Double albums were events in those days.

That seemed to promote misinterpretation of the significance of many of the songs. It is a bit disappointing for a Beatles fan like myself to realize that what the White Album largely is known for today, at least in the history books, is being the inspiration for Helter Skelter, the race war that the twisted Charles Manson and his easily manipulated followers envisioned.

The White Album was more than that. Rolling Stone named it the 10th greatest album of all time.

I'm sure any Beatles fan will tell you the music is what the White Album is about, even 45 years after its release. I can put that CD on today and still find songs that sound new and fresh and energetic.

And, while most of the songs were credited to the Lennon–McCartney team, there were a few songs by George Harrison and even one by Ringo Starr.

"Helter Skelter" was a song written by Paul McCartney and has been recognized as an early influence on the heavy metal musical genre. But the Manson family interpreted it as a description of an apocalyptic war — from which Manson would emerge to lead the survivors.

Manson, however, grew tired of waiting for "Helter Skelter" — as he had taken to calling this war — to happen on its own and decided he had to help it along. And thus the deadly sequence of events was put in motion, leading to a weekend of gruesome murders that were committed by Manson's followers in the summer of 1969.

That, at least, is what history remembers about the White Album. But there was so much more. Some of my favorite Beatles songs — like "Yer Blues" ...

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That was written by John Lennon — but, like all the compositions by Lennon and McCartney during their Beatles days, it was credited to the Lennon–McCartney songwriting team. It is often noted, however, that the Lennon–McCartney designation is deceptive because very few of those songs were equal parts Lennon and McCartney. One or the other usually contributed most if not all of the work — and that may never have been as true as it was on the White Album.

There were 30 songs on the White Album — including one ("Revolution 9") that wasn't a song at all, just an eight–minute–plus collection of unrelated sounds — and 25 were credited to Lennon–McCartney, but most of them really were solo efforts.

And Harrison was emerging as a songwriter in his own right, contributing in new ways all the time.

I like all four of Harrison's compositions that appeared on the White Album, but probably my favorite is "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," which was featured in Harrison's "Concert for Bangladesh" a few years later.

On the White Album, Eric Clapton of the recently disbanded Cream made an uncredited appearance, playing lead guitar on "While My Guitar Gently Weeps."

In an online poll last year, readers of Guitar World named it Harrison's best as a Beatle. While you will find Harrison devotees who prefer one of his songs or another over that one, most Harrison fans probably could be persuaded to go along with that choice.

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One song — "Don't Pass Me By" — was credited to Richard Sharkey, aka Ringo Starr (who also sang it on the album). It was his first solo composition.

During his Beatles days, Starr sang lead vocals on songs that were written by others (i.e., "Yellow Submarine," a McCartney composition, and "Act Naturally," which was written by Buck Owens) — and he sang his own compositions on his solo albums.

But "Don't Pass Me By" was Starr's first solo songwriting effort on an album.

Songwriting never seemed to be what motivated Starr. Lennon and McCartney, of course, were prodigious songwriters, and Harrison evolved from a somewhat hesitant songwriter to one who bubbled so with creativity that, after the Beatles broke up, he had to release a triple album to provide an outlet for the backlog of material that never found its way onto a Beatles album.

But Starr always seemed content merely to play the drums.

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Some critics thought the White Album lacked a theme, that it was a collection of unrelated songs. That probably was true — although you have to understand that, in 1968, theme albums were kind of rare. As innovative as the Beatles were, they weren't ahead of the curve on everything. Some of their albums did explore themes, but most did not. That kind of thing was more prominent after the Beatles broke up.

The White Album influenced me in ways that other albums did not. It was recorded at a turbulent point in the story of the Beatles — all four were starting to move in their own directions — as well as a turbulent time in the histories of America and the world. No wonder there was a sense of melancholy isolation in many of the songs.

It was just that simple. They were each moving on. It became official less than two years later when McCartney left the band and the breakup was formalized.

The White Album prepared the Beatles' fans for the next phase. I suppose it fulfills a similar function today, preparing the listener for the next phase of his/her life.

The Special Magic of Music

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"Look out any window
Look out any open door
Look out any window
See what's going on
In the world around you."

Bruce and Jonathan Hornsby

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Twenty–five years ago today, I started working for a midsized daily newspaper in north Texas.

That sentence really doesn't do justice to the wide range of emotions I was experiencing on this day in 1988. Some background information probably is in order.

I grew up in Arkansas, went to school there, and I had been working there ever since finishing my schooling (or so I thought). My life was there. My friends were there. And, by 1988, I felt like I had a few things going for me — not everything I had hoped for but some things. I was working for the newspaper I had dreamed of working for since I was a boy. It didn't pay as well as I guess I had hoped it would, and I had been looking for alternatives in 1988, but that didn't change the fact that I was proud to be a part of that organization.

My parents, both natives of Texas, had moved back there a few years earlier, and my mother was helping me in any way she could think of to find a more significant job. She offered suggestions, which were of little help, frankly, from a distance — but her ideas did help me stay focused.

Mom was better at identifying options in her own territory, and she encouraged me to move to Texas. If a better job could not be found, I could go to graduate school and find some sort of temporary job to make ends meet.

By the summer of 1988, I had been accepted by the University of North Texas' graduate program, and I had been offered a job at the Denton newspaper. It felt like the planets were moving into line.

I didn't really have a long–term plan in mind. If I had, I would have realized that about the only thing you can do with a master's in journalism is teach, and teaching was not my long–term objective in those days. Don't get me wrong. I've enjoyed working with students, sharing with them the things I have learned over the years. I hope it will make them better journalists.

But, even though I have now been teaching for close to one–eighth of my life, I'm not sure if that is where my future — or what is left of it — lies. Consequently, that degree may not have much real value in my life. I don't know yet.

Anyway, I decided to take the plunge for grad school. I gave my two weeks' notice in mid–July, and I made the move on August 7. In between, I picked up a few albums, and I listened to them a few times before my move, but I didn't really listen to them until after the move was behind me.

I wasn't sure at the time if I was doing the right thing. I guess it's normal to have such doubts. I had a vague idea of what I was getting. I would be living close to my parents and my brother for the first time since I was in school (and, ironically, I would be going back to school at about the same time that I moved so close to my family) and in an area with which I was pretty familiar. After all, I'd been visiting Dallas all my life. It seemed like my best option.

But, fairly quickly, I discovered that, for many reasons, living someplace is not the same as visiting the same place. After the move was over, I could look around my apartment and see all kinds of things that were familiar — but they were in new surroundings, and those surroundings didn't include my friends back in Little Rock.

My life had changed, and there were many times when I thought it wasn't for the better. I wanted free time in the evenings, which I had, but my friends were more than 300 miles away. When school started up a few weeks later, I discovered that my evenings would be taken up with an entirely new preoccupation — graduate school and the demands of each class.

My job was the same and yet different, too. I was doing the same work for the newspaper that I had done before — but my new job was at an afternoon newspaper whereas I had spent the last 4½ years working for a morning newspaper.

The difference between them was, literally, night and day.

For the latter, I worked nights; the hours changed a bit over the years, but typically I went to work around 3 p.m., and my shift ended around midnight. On high school and college football nights, it was not unusual for my shift to go on until 2 or 3 in the morning.

For the former, I had to be at work by 5 a.m. in order to finish putting together that afternoon's newspaper. Trying to function for the first month or so was like trying to cope with a never–ending case of jet lag. I would find myself at home in the afternoons, totally uncertain what I should be doing. Half of me said I should be getting ready for work, and the other half reminded me that I had already been to work.

It was during this time that I listened — really listened — to the records I had purchased in the weeks before my move. (In hindsight, I probably should have waited until after my move to purchase those records. Those vinyl LPs were pretty heavy, and I didn't need the additional bulk.)

The most prominent probably was "Scenes From the Southside," Bruce Hornsby's followup to his Grammy–winning debut album, "The Way It Is."

It's hard to describe my mindset at that time. Somewhere in my mind, I think I always expected to move back to Arkansas. I had never imagined my life being anywhere else. I guess I figured my exile to Texas would be temporary.

And, too, I think I was in kind of a state of disbelief. I had left behind what had always been my dream job for a very uncertain future.

Well, here I am, 25 years later, and I haven't been back to Arkansas except for visits. I haven't lived in Texas the whole time, either — I lived in Oklahoma for four years — but my exile has lasted a lot longer than I dreamed it would.

Most of the time, I suppose, that doesn't bother me, but there are times when it does ... like football Saturdays and occasions when my thoughts return, either through reverie or by force, to the days of the past.

And today, on the 25th anniversary. I remember how I felt on that first day — anxious, exhilarated and then totally astonished to be finished with my work by 2 in the afternoon! Then I went home, stretched out on my couch and fell asleep!

Heck, I had been up since shortly before 4 a.m.

When I woke up, I listened to that Bruce Hornsby album, especially the track titled "Look Out Any Window." I listened to it over and over. I thought of the friends I had left behind, some of whom are deceased now, and I thought of the future, much of which has now played out in my life. I can only hope there is more to come before I check out.

Life goes on within you and without you, George Harrison wrote. I never really knew what that meant until 25 years ago today.

That is the special magic, the special power of music.

The Global Pandit's Lessons

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George Harrison (left) and Ravi Shankar (right) were greeted
at the White House by President Gerald Ford on Dec. 13, 1974.

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This hasn't been a good time for music legends.

Last week, jazz great Dave Brubeck died, and yesterday it was sitar virtuoso Ravi Shankar.

Both men were in their early 90s so their deaths were not unanticipated. Yet their passing leaves a tremendous void in music.

I saw Shankar perform once.

It was nearly 40 years ago. My father, a college professor, was on sabbatical in Nashville, and Ravi Shankar came to the Vanderbilt campus and performed there with his entourage one evening.

My father, a fan of Shankar's music, took the whole family to see him. I was too young at the time to appreciate a whole evening's worth of the sitar player's music, but I knew who he was. He was an inspiration to George Harrison before and after the Beatles broke up, and he rubbed elbows with violinist Yehudi Menuhin, a classical musician my father admired.

He influenced other genres, too, but his roots were in traditional Indian music. His Western audiences were seldom well versed in it — I remember giggling when I watched "Concert for Bangladesh" and the audience, not knowing what it had just heard, applauded when Shankar and his colleagues finished warming up.

"Thank you," Shankar said. "If you liked the tuning so much, I hope you'll enjoy the playing more."

In such a gentle, good–humored way, he taught his audiences about the music of his native land.

In India, he was called Pandit, which means teacher — or, more accurately, scholar — but I never felt he was seen as a teacher in this country. At least, not as a traditional teacher. His manner was too informal, too relaxed. Too inclusive.

He wanted all his listeners to understand the deeper meanings behind Indian music, and he was frustrated in the 1960s and 1970s when, following his introduction to American audiences through Harrison and the Beatles, he found his concerts being attended largely by drug–using counterculture types.

Still, the world was his classroom. His lessons may have been understated, but they had staying power. Teaching others about Indian music was something he long wanted to do.

"The idea of helping Western listeners appreciate the intricacies of Indian music occurred to him during his years as a dancer," writes Allan Kozinn in the New York Times.

He taught Western listeners all the time, whether it was through his concerts or his recordings — including his score for "Gandhi" — or his actual work with students.

Sadly, many modern listeners may only know Shankar as the father of Norah Jones, also a musician who has done her father one better by winning a Grammy — nine of 'em, in fact.

I'd like to think much of her success was due to the education she received at the University of North Texas — where I got my master's degree — but I know most of it is in the genes.

That may not be such a bad legacy, though. Jones continues to attract listeners, and, in turn, they learn who her father was. That knowledge may inspire some to learn more about his life.

And the pandit's lessons continue.

Imagine ...

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Today is the 32nd anniversary of the shooting of John Lennon.

I always have this feeling of great sadness on this day. Every year. As soon as I remember that it is the anniversary, I remember that day. It was probably the most personal moment of my college days. It was certainly the most memorable. To this day, I can remember almost every detail of that day with a clarity I cannot achieve with almost any other day in my life — even one as recent as yesterday.

(The sole exception to that would be the day my mother died, but that is another story.)

I've grown used to that, but I wasn't prepared for the realization that, on this day a mere eight years from now, John Lennon will have been dead as long as he was alive. Sean, the son Lennon and Yoko Ono had together and about whom Lennon sang on his last album before his death, will be 45 — five years older than his father was when he died.

I still find it stunning when I think of all that Lennon accomplished in his 40 years — and all he could have accomplished had he lived.

I have always felt that was the great tragedy — all the contributions to art and music and social thought that Lennon could have and almost certainly would have made in the 1980s and beyond but were lost on that December night in New York 32 years ago.

My memory is of a melancholy Christmas that year. All my thoughts were overshadowed by the shooting of John Lennon. The Beatles, you see, played the music of my childhood. I cannot remember a time when I did not know songs like "A Hard Day's Night" or "She Loves You" — they were played so frequently on the radio when I was little.

Losing the first Beatle was a traumatic experience.

It wasn't any easier some 20 years later when George Harrison died, but at least there was some advance warning that allowed Harrison's fans to prepare themselves. He had been sick for awhile.

But Lennon's death was entirely unexpected, a real shock.

Imagine what might have been.

Sir Paul Turns 70

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Paul McCartney is 70 years old today, which seems incredible to me.

I don't remember much about the early days of global Beatlemania, but I do recall that McCartney was generally regarded as the attractive Beatle.

The other Beatles had their devotees, of course, but the impression I got was that most of the young women of that time had serious crushes on Paul.

I never really understood that. Paul wasn't the youngest of the Beatles (that was George Harrison) or the wittiest of the Beatles (as far as I was concerned, that was John Lennon). Maybe there was a perception that he looked more boyish than the others — but, as far as I was concerned, they all looked boyish when they burst onto the scene.

There was a good reason for that, too. They were all in their 20s.

McCartney always had a knack for writing catchy tunes — just count all the hit tunes he wrote — and there is something to be said for longevity. Lennon died at the age of 40 (he was murdered), and Harrison died of cancer when he was 58. McCartney has avoided either fate — thus far — but I'll be darned if he doesn't still look a bit boyish.

He doesn't look as boyish as he did when, in his early 50s, he appeared on Saturday Night Live and was interviewed by Chris Farley.

That's been nearly 20 years ago, and it is the first thing that comes to my mind now when I think of McCartney.

In the skit, Farley played a rather clumsy TV host who was interviewing McCartney and asking him questions like "Remember when you were with the Beatles? That was awesome!"

Farley kept chastising himself after every question, and McCartney constantly reassured him that "You're doing great."

(Perhaps my favorite part of that interview was when Farley asked McCartney about the rumor that the phrase "Paul is dead" could be heard if a Beatles record was played backward. "That was a hoax, right?" Farley asked.

(And McCartney replied, "Yeah, I wasn't really dead.")

But what started out as a lame interview (for comic purposes, of course) gained some redemption at the end when Farley asked McCartney, "Remember when you were in the Beatles? And you did that album Abbey Road, and at the very end of the song, it goes, 'And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make?' Is that true?"

McCartney replied, "In my experience, it is. I find, the more you give, the more you get."

Farley turned to the camera and mouthed the word, "AWESOME!"

And I would agree with that.

Ten Years Without George Harrison

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Nearly a year ago, a friend of mine asked me to write something about George Harrison.

I knew we were coming up on the 10th anniversary of Harrison's death so I promised her that I would. And this is the fulfillment of that promise.

But I've really been fulfilling the promise incrementally over the year.

Since she made that request, I have written other pieces that mentioned Harrison — specifically, in connection with "Taxman" and when I wrote about his musical tribute to former Beatles bandmate John Lennon and when I wrote of the anniversaries of the benefit concerts for Bangladesh and the release of the Beatles album "Revolver."

All of that has reminded me how much modern music owes the "quiet Beatle." I haven't seen Martin Scorsese's HBO documentary about Harrison, but I have heard that it is an important step in giving him the recognition he never really seemed to get during his life.

If that is so, then I applaud it.

Because I have learned things about Harrison as I have worked on this article since making my promise — perhaps I re–learned some of them.

There were lots of things about Harrison that I already knew or thought I knew.

I knew Harrison was a seeker. He was easily the most spiritual of the four Beatles. And that has its place, I suppose. It may be the single quality that people mention most about Harrison.

There are worse ways to be remembered.

But I always felt there was more to him than that. Harrison possessed a sensitivity that Lennon, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr did not — at least not to the extent that Harrison did.

That sensitivity could be seen in the passion he had for humanitarian causes. That wasn't something he did because it was fashionable. He was involved in humanitarian issues all along, but he was more visible after the Beatles split up.

His role with the Beatles was always limited. He always existed in the overwhelming shadow of the Lennon–McCartney partnership, but that role, thankfully, expanded in the later years, and the world was allowed to see more of his talent in songs like "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," "Here Comes the Sun," "Something" and "Within You Without You."

Harrison's most significant contributions were musical, but that doesn't mean his musical talent and his spirituality were kept separate from each other; far from it. The two often converged — as when Harrison's acceptance of Indian Hinduism led to the introduction of sitar music to Western listeners.

"In his most obvious contribution to music as lead guitarist for the Beatles, George Harrison provided the band with a lyrical style of playing in which every note mattered," wrote Bruce Eder for AllMusic.com.

"Later on, as a songwriter with the Beatles and subsequently as a solo artist, Harrison used his celebrity and his musical sensibilities to try and raise the awareness of millions of listeners about issues much bigger than music."

That's probably what sticks out in my memory of George Harrison. His music always had an other–worldly aura to it. Sometimes it was subtle, other times it wasn't so subtle. But it was always about things that were bigger than the music alone.

Music was where Harrison found his sense of purpose. He perceived, as many do, that his true mission in life was to seek a higher power, and I feel that, ultimately, he believed he had reached it through his music.

But there was, as I say, the humanitarian side of Harrison that really got its chance to blossom when the Beatles broke up.

Do spirituality and sensitivity exist as separate entities? That is a different argument — and one in which I prefer not to engage on this occasion.

But I will say this: As much as I admired Lennon and as much respect as I have for what McCartney has done musically, Harrison truly distinguished himself post–Beatlemania — apart from writing and recording popular songs and beyond anything the other three did.

Harrison was, as John Donne wrote centuries ago, "involved in mankind."

He was really the first to organize a benefit concert featuring several big–name performers, a pioneer whose experiences still serve as useful guides for what to do and what not to do. His concerts for Bangladesh truly blazed a trail for others to follow.

I sensed a certain amount of peace in the last years of his life — peace that may have been missing when he was young and his pursuit of the spiritual world often seemed to be at odds with the people and things that surrounded him.

That pursuit didn't get any easier as he got older. In 1999, he was stabbed by an intruder in his home, an ironic turn of events, considering that, in the 19 years since Lennon's murder, Harrison may have been the most reclusive of the surviving Beatles, avoiding most public appearances and probably taking more security precautions than McCartney or Starr.

He had been diagnosed with throat cancer a couple of years earlier, but it seemed to have been successfully treated and nothing more was heard about that until 2001, when it was revealed, in successive months, that he had been treated for lung cancer and a brain tumor.

The final months of his life were hardly peaceful. There were reports that his death was near, even when it turned out not to be true.

And then there was the report that was true. In mid– to late November, it was reported that George Harrison was expected to die within days.

And so he did.

Maybe age — as it has long been rumored to do — brought him peace and wisdom even though he was only 58 when he died.

Both were well earned.

Locked and Loaded

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To me, it seems as if the Beatles have always been around.

I cannot recall a time when I did not know the words of their earliest hits — and let's be honest about this, the words from some of those early songs were pretty simple.

(I mean, come on — "She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah ...?")

As far as I was concerned, the Beatles had always been part of the musical landscape. There had never been a time when they had not existed, and there would never be a time when they would not exist.

That was not the way it really was, of course. The Beatles were a phenomenon, forever a part of the fabric of the 1960s. The individual members went their separate ways in 1970 and enjoyed varying degrees of success on their own — but they never scaled the heights as individuals that they had mastered as a group.

Obviously, there was a time when the Beatles did not exist. But I'm still enough of a fan to say that I do believe they — or, at least, their music — will live forever.

Be that as it may ...

Forty–five years ago, it could be argued that the Beatles were more popular than anything or anyone else in recorded history.

In fact, it was.

In March 1966, John Lennon told The Evening Standard of London that the Beatles were more popular than Jesus, kicking off a series of demonstrations and record burnings by irate religious groups in the American South.

A little more than five months later, Lennon held a press conference in Chicago to apologize for the remarks.

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"I suppose if I had said television was more popular than Jesus, I would have gotten away with it. I'm sorry I opened my mouth. I'm not anti–God, anti–Christ or anti–religion. I was not knocking it. ... I was not saying we are greater or better."

John Lennon
Aug. 11, 1966

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A few days before that press conference, the Beatles released the album that is considered the third–greatest of all time by Rolling Stone — "Revolver."

George Harrison, Rolling Stone observed, said that he saw little if any difference between "Revolver" and the album that came before, "Rubber Soul."

"[T]hey could be Volume 1 and Volume 2," he said.

And, in a way, I think he was right about that.

They were different records, of course. But they were both part of what I have come to regard as the Beatles' middle period. They had progressed past their breakthrough phase, when the emphasis was on catchy popular tunes, and were evolving into serious artists who sought to say something meaningful and lasting in their music and lyrics.

I guess I have always seen "Rubber Soul" and "Revolver" as opposite sides of the same coin. Like its predecessors, "Rubber Soul" was heavy on the love songs, but there was more maturity in the lyrics. It was clearly influenced by what was called "folk rock" at the time.

The music of "Revolver" had a harder edge. Its themes were darker, but the lyrics showed the same sense of insight.

The Beatles had moved beyond "Please Please Me," but they had not yet reached "Sgt. Pepper" in their musical evolution.

They were betwixt and between, occupying a musical Middle Earth, with George Harrison having a greater influence on the music than ever.

For example, "Taxman," my favorite song to play each April 15, appeared on "Revolver" — but that was perhaps the most traditional of the songs on that album.

Most of the rest of it was experimental in one way or another — instrumentation, lyrics, subject matter in general. As Stephen Thomas Erlewine wrote for AllMusic.com, "[a]ll the rules fell by the wayside."

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Really, what else could one say about an album that contained songs like "She Said She Said" (rarely had popular music devotees been exposed to lyrics as dark as "She said/I know what it's like to be dead/I know what it is to be sad ...") or sounds like Indian sitars or general studio experimentation?

That would be normal for the Beatles in the years ahead, but it was a departure from anything they had done previously — even "Rubber Soul" was more acoustic than "Revolver," which introduced listeners to all kinds of unfamiliar, even unsettling, sounds.

In their pioneering way, the Beatles were leading popular music into the future.

The Concerts for Bangladesh

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"The Concert for Bangladesh" could have been the first movie my parents allowed me to attend by myself.

I'm not positive that it was. In fact, I'm almost sure that it wasn't. But if it wasn't the first movie I ever saw by myself, it was one of the first.

The movie was a film document of a benefit, multi–performer concert to aid the people of Bangladesh, who had been plagued by war and famine. Ex–Beatle George Harrison gathered together folks like Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, Ringo Starr and others for a benefit show.

In hindsight, I'm sure it was the model for shows like Live Aid and other benefit concerts that were so prevalent in the 1980s and 1990s.

Eventually, the concert and the movie and triple album that came from it generated more than $200,000 in relief funds, but the organizers failed to apply for tax–exempt status, leaving the money snarled in an IRS escrow account for a decade.

I've heard that experience left a bitter taste in the mouths of many of the participants.

Well, that really is another story.

I was quite young in 1972 when the movie was at the theaters, and I was ignorant of many details. I had an older friend who had been given the album for Christmas so I had heard the music before, but I didn't realize that there wasn't one concert for Bangladesh but two.

I don't think that made me unique. In fact, unless you were living in the New York area 40 years ago, you probably didn't realize there were two concerts.

Both concerts took place 40 years ago tomorrow in New York's Madison Square Garden.

In terms of musical content, the shows were almost identical. The songs weren't played in the same order, but there were few variations.

• In the afternoon show, Harrison played "Awaiting On You All" and Dylan played "A Hard Rain's A–Gonna Fall." Neither song was performed that night, but both recordings were on the album and in the movie.
  
  Dylan also performed "Love Minus Zero/No Limit" that afternoon, but he did not play it that night. The recording wasn't included in the original album or movie, but it was part of a special edition DVD issued six years ago, and it was included as a bonus track on the reissued CD in 2001.


• In the evening show, Dylan played "Mr. Tambourine Man." He didn't play that one in the afternoon and it wasn't in the movie, but it was included on the album.

The film combined footage from both shows, and — with the exceptions of the songs I mentioned — the rest of the shows were identical.

When I saw the movie, it seemed like one concert to me, not a compilation of clips from two different shows. I suppose it could be an example of how easy it is for even a semi–talented film editor to fool a young boy, but I'm not certain about that.

Clearly, I'm older now, but I wasn't able to differentiate the last time I saw the movie — and you really can't tell from listening to the album.

For all intents and purposes, the movie and album that were generated from the two performances on Aug. 1, 1971, might as well have been done in a single take.

The movie is streaming for free online today and tomorrow. Judge for yourself.

Harrison's Tribute to Lennon

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The murder of John Lennon in December 1980 was, as I have written before, a traumatic event for anyone who was old enough to understand what had happened — but especially if that person happened to be old enough to remember when Lennon was half of the most influential songwriting team in the world.

I was only a child when the Beatles were making records, but I really felt as if I had lost a friend when Lennon was killed. I could only imagine how devastating it must have been for those who really had been close to Lennon during his life — people like former Beatles bandmate George Harrison.

Harrison's solo career after the Beatles broke up was kind of a mixed bag, I guess. It started out with a bang. He had a huge backlog of material that he never recorded with the Beatles, and he took the extraordinary step of releasing a triple album at a time when double albums were still something of a rarity — not to mention a gamble for an unproven solo artist (even one who had been a member of the Beatles).

I always felt — and, apparently, so did many others — that the quality of the songs on that triple album justified its release. More than 30 years later, that triple album — "All Things Must Pass" — was still held in such high regard that Rolling Stone named it one of the Top 500 Albums of All Time.

In August 1971, Harrison organized what I always felt was the model for the benefit concerts that were so prevalent in the 1980s — his star–studded concert to raise funds for Bangladesh refugees that he expanded into a revenue–producing movie and another triple album.

After that, though, his success was spotty for the rest of the decade, I would say. He had a few high moments but nothing approaching the commercial reactions he got for his earlier post–Beatles efforts.

And, in 1979 and 1980, he was ensnared in the production of an album that dragged endlessly.

A few months before Lennon's murder, Harrison thought he had finished work on the album, but the record label executives told him to drop four songs because they were too downbeat — so Harrison returned to the studio.

Just before Lennon's death, Harrison was working with another ex–Beatle, Ringo Starr, on a song called "All Those Years Ago," but it was unfinished until Lennon was killed.

I'm not sure what "All Those Years Ago" was about before Lennon's murder. After that event, though, it took on its true purpose — as a tribute to Lennon.

Harrison reworked the lyrics and included references to "All You Need Is Love" and Lennon's biggest hit as a solo performer, "Imagine."

Both references must have been painful for Harrison. "All You Need Is Love" was commissioned by the BBC, which had asked the Beatles for a song that contained a simple message that everyone could understand.

And Lennon himself had said that Harrison's contributions to Lennon's "Imagine" album were "the best he's ever f**king played in his life."

Harrison still had more to say musically about Lennon and the Beatles, which he did a few years later in a song called "When We Was Fab."

And he found a receptive audience for that single, too.

But the prime time for musical tributes to Lennon was in the early 1980s.

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Less than a year after Harrison's song was released, Elton John released his homage to Lennon, "Empty Garden (Hey Hey Johnny)."

That was a good song — John himself said he had been afraid that songs that were dedicated to Lennon would be "cheesy" until he read Bernie Taupin's lyrics in "Empty Garden."

But, to me, Harrison's song was more powerful. Maybe that was because of the knowledge that Lennon and Harrison had shared the staggering experience of being Beatles — something that only three other people ever shared with them.

It was actually released as a single in May 1981, but it was released as part of the "Somewhere in England" album on this day 30 years ago.

And it is to the presence of "All Those Years Ago" that "Somewhere in England" owes the success it enjoyed. As I recall, that is virtually the only song from the album that was known — or played on the radio — at the time, and it is likely the only reason the album reached #11 on the charts.

But those charts were misleading. The album's success was meteoric in nature, and it quickly fell from the heights it reached.

In hindsight, the album's commercial performance resembled the monthly jobs report with its conflicting numbers.

The album's chart position would suggest greater sales than it actually enjoyed. Its time on the charts was brief, though, and it wound up being Harrison's first solo album that failed to achieve gold status in the United States.

But Harrison's tribute to Lennon will always make that album special in his discography.

Tax Day

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"For to whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required."

Luke 12:48

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George Harrison was always a spiritual kind of guy, easily the most spiritual of the Beatles.

So it's probably appropriate, when all is said and done, to mention his song "Taxman" — since today is this year's deadline for submitting income taxes — and that passage from Luke today.

I guess anyone who plays that song on the deadline for mailing in tax returns does so in a tongue–in–cheek fashion — like the post offices that frequently have been known to play the song on their sound systems for last–minute filers who line up to mail their returns.

Several years ago, it was used as part of the commercial campaign for a prominent tax preparation service. I guess that meant the song had come full circle.

Over the years, it has become my default song on Tax Day — even on those rare occasions in my life when I have received a refund.

Harrison wrote the song out of frustration and anger over being heavily taxed by the British government — and who could blame him? The British progressive tax placed him in its highest bracket, resulting in a 95% supertax.

He began recording the song almost exactly 45 years ago, on April 20, 1966, and it was released on the Beatles' "Revolver" album in August of that year.

"Revolver" deserves to be written about at length, and I plan to do so later this summer. The 45th anniversary of its release, in fact, will be the first anniversary of the death of a dear friend of mine named Phyllis, and I expect to write about her on that day, too.

Phyllis, as I have written before, was an accomplished musician. She and I never discussed "Taxman" or "Revolver," but I know she liked the Beatles — and, I suspect, she liked the song and the album.

That's just speculation, of course. I'll never know if she liked either one. I can only guess.

To misquote the old advertising jingle — everybody doesn't like something ...

But nobody likes paying taxes.

You didn't have to be George Harrison to understand that.

Ravi Shankar Is 90

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My father was a religion professor when I was growing up.

And I figured out early that his musical tastes differed from the fathers of my friends. In the central Arkansas town where I was raised, the fathers of most of my friends seemed to like country music. There were a few who liked the popular music of the day, but most of them were country boys who listened to country music on AM radio stations.

But Dad always liked ethnic music, which made his musical tastes unique among the grown men in my life. As a child, I always more or less assumed that was kind of an occupational hazard. My father taught classes about all religions, and he had recordings of music from places like Israel and Egypt, music I tended to associate with programs I had seen about the Holy Land.

There probably wasn't anything particularly religious about those recordings, just an association I made as a child. And I'm sure there was no Hindu significance to any of the music recorded by Ravi Shankar that my father had in his collection.

Shankar is 90 today. And, even though he is generally considered a sitar player, many folks fail to give him due credit for his influence on mainstream popular music.

I don't know how Dad found out about Ravi Shankar. I've never asked him. Dad likes classical music, too, and he may have learned about Shankar through violinist Yehudi Menuhin, who Dad admired. Menuhin had enjoyed quite a bit of success long before he collaborating with Shankar.

Popular music fans became familliar with Shankar through the Byrds and George Harrison of the Beatles. Harrison used the sitar on his song "Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)" and "Within You Without You." Later, Shankar appeared at the legendary Woodstock festival and joined Harrison in the famous benefit show, "The Concert for Bangladesh." Shankar got a Grammy for his contribution.

A decade later, Shankar was nominated for an Academy Award for his music in the film "Gandhi."

If today's audiences are familiar with Shankar's name, it is probably because he is known to young listeners as the father of singer–songwriter Norah Jones

I actually got to see Shankar once. And I saw him with Dad. When my brother and I were young, my father went on sabbatical in Nashville, Tenn., and the family went with him. We had the opportunity to see Shankar perform at Vanderbilt University while we were there.

I guess I was too young to appreciate the differences between the compositions he played. But that is an evening I will always remember with fondness.

Harrison's Harbinger of Singular Success

An item at Wikipedia caught my attention this morning.

On Wikipedia’s main page is a "featured article" — which may or may not be relevant to the date or something in the news.

This morning, the "featured article" was about the song "Something" that appeared on the Beatles’ album "Abbey Road."

"Something" was written by George Harrison. Although "Abbey Road" was the 12th studio album released by the Beatles — and in spite of the fact that Harrison had been writing songs that appeared on albums by the Beatles for six years, including "Taxman," "Think for Yourself," "If I Needed Someone" and "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" as well as songs that, for one reason or another, weren't recorded by the group — "Something" was the first Harrison song to appear on the "A" side when it was released as a Beatles single in October of 1969.

This terminology may sound odd to youthful ears that have never listened to a 45-rpm vinyl recording.

But, in the years when the Beatles were making music, the "A" side was the song on the single that was promoted commercially. There might be several singles released from one album, and they were all usually used to promote sales of the long-play album.

The "B" side was the "filler" song, the one that was put on the other side because, well, something (so to speak) needed to be there.

The song on the "A" side was the one that the promoters expected to be a big hit — although there were times when my friends and I bought singles because we liked the "B" side songs.

Buying singles was an economical way to collect music if you didn’t have a lot of money to spend. But the LP ("long play") made it possible to listen to music for extended periods of time between changes.

Anyway, if someone recorded a song that was a hit as an "A" side single, it was like striking gold. The "B" side song was usually forgotten.

And, for half a dozen years, Harrison’s songs had served as the "B" side material for the group.

Small wonder, then, that, after the band broke up, Harrison — who had been feeling more and more confined in his role with the Beatles — became the first Beatle to have a #1 solo album — the ambitious three-record set "All Things Must Pass."

By George, he had to do something with that backlog of material!

(An interesting trivia point. One of the assistant engineers on the "Abbey Road" album was Alan Parsons — who was unknown at the time but went on to engineer Pink Floyd’s "The Dark Side of the Moon" and produced several successful records with his own Alan Parsons Project.)