“A hoarse dork” was Village Voice scribe’s description of George Harrison upon the release of 1974’s Dark Horse, but I disagree–guitarist/vocalist Harrison may be my least favorite Beatle, but his voice isn’t hoarse–it’s a 98-pound weakling. What else do I have against poor George? Well, his songs are limpid pools of jello, his soggy spiritualism gives Eastern religion a bad name, and he’s been known to play the gubgubbi. Oh, and have I mentioned he’s more than a tad… boring?
On his star-studded third solo LP, Harrison wimps his way through 10 flaccid songs, declines to show off the formidable guitar chops he brought to the Fab Four, and fails to show even the slightest flashes of the songwriting genius responsible for such delicate and lovely gems as “Something” and “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.” When the best a former Beatle can come up with is a dopey (and only mildly enthusing) New Year’s Eve singalong called “Ding Dong, Ding Dong,” that former Beatle is in definite need of a shot of steroids.
Yes, steroids. George is like that concave-chested high school nebbish who still manages to get the girls; he has his charms, but they’re ineffable, apparently. Whatever do his fans hear in his thin-as-the-veil-of Maya voice? And his limpid and wispy songs, which so obviously need to hit the gym and develop some muscle? It’s a mystery is what it is, like Stonehenge or the final resting place of Jimmy Hoffa.
Dark Horse is a bloodless affair and as light as a balloon; as for its maker, his chief desire appears to remain as unnoticed as possible. And the same goes for his cast of superstar tag-alongs; with the exception of the ubiquitous Billy Preston on keyboards and Tom Scott on sax, they too seem to be doing their best to disappear into the wallpaper. “Ding Dong, Ding Dong,” for example, features the impressive guitar talents of Ron Wood, Alvin Lee, and Mick Jones, but you’d never know it by listening to it. All you can hear are those damned bells.
The pair of autobiographical songs provide some emotional and musical ballast, and without them the LP might have just floated away. As for get up and go, forget about it–the liveliest cut on Dark Horse (with the possible exception of “Ding Dong, Ding Dong”) is the instrumental “Hari’s on Tour (Express),” which sounds to my ears like the “coming back from commercial” noodling of the Saturday Night Live band.
You get nine songs: a tissue-paper-thin spiritualist tract called “It Is He (Jai Sri Krishna),” which is notable only for how deeply George’s vocals are buried in the mix; “Maya Love,” a bouncy but completely anodyne cut whose transcendentally dumb lyrics prove that you can lead George to a sheet of notebook paper but you can’t make him think, and a weak-kneed cover of “Bye Bye Love” on which George sounds, well, demented. If the boring Beatle like this all the time, he’d be my favorite member of the Fab Four.
What else? Well, there’s the unintentionally silly “Far East Man,” a pop soul move written in collaboration with Ron Wood. And let us not forget the radio-friendly title cut, on which Harrison does indeed sound hoarse. Unlike most of the LP “Dark Horse” has a nice mysterioso vibe going for it, that is unless you pay attention to the words, which prove once again that Harrison would have been better off out-sourcing his lyrics to India.
If “Dark Horse” is the LP’s strongest tracks, the pair of songs about the shitty year he’d had just spent (losing Patti Boyd to Eric Clapton, sinking into alcohol and cocaine abuse) are also passably good. The lugubrious “So Sad” boasts a nice melody and some delicate guitar work that make it possible to overlook Harrison’s vocals; on the country-rock-tinged confessional “Simply Shady” everybody’s second favorite rock ’n’ roll ascetic (first place, of course, goes to Ian MacKaye) is blinded by desire” and even sees pink elephants, and it’s worth listening to just to hear the dear man flagellate himself. Actually, the steel guitar work is fine too, and Harrison–while hardly in fine voice–sounds almost animated for once. Seems that chinless wonder Eric Clapton did George a favor by stealing George’s bird.
You know what comes to mind when I think of Harrison’s post-Beatles work? Tepid bathwater. Unfair? Perhaps. But it’s worth bearing mind that 7 of the 13 tracks from 1976’s The Best of George Harrison were Beatles songs, and they’re by far the best songs on the compilation. His later songs, with their Vedic vapors and less than memorable melodies, are an acquired taste I’d sooner not acquire.
Harrison’s was a vanishing act–he was the greatest shrinking violet in the history of rock ’n’ roll. Was it humility that made him so oddly self-effacing? Was it his desire to transcend his fleshly existence that drove his seeming desire to make as small an impression on the material world as humanly possible? Or was the guy just–and I say that with genuine affection–a hopeless wimp?
GRADED ON A CURVE:
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