Here Comes The Sun Beatles Review

Listen closely to the track. There is no cynicism. No irony. George’s voice, usually a dry, wry counterpoint to Lennon’s edge and McCartney’s showmanship, is suddenly vulnerable. He sings like a man convincing himself it will be okay.

“I’m not going back,” he told Clapton. “Let’s just go for a walk.”

The year was 1969. The Beatles, the greatest creative partnership the world had ever seen, were suffocating. Business meetings had replaced bass jams. Yoko Ono sat on an amp. Paul and John weren’t speaking. The “Get Back” sessions had devolved into apathetic silence. George Harrison, the band’s quiet lead guitarist, had finally had enough. He walked out of a meeting at Apple Corps in early June, looked up at the gray London sky, and drove to his friend Eric Clapton’s house in the country.

While Lennon gave us anger (“Working Class Hero”) and McCartney gave us nostalgia (“Yesterday”), Harrison gave us relief . He reminded us that no matter how dark the boardroom, how cold the argument, how long the winter… here comes the sun beatles

And it almost didn’t happen.

The sun is waiting right behind the clouds. And it’s coming.

The Dawn After the Long Winter: Why “Here Comes the Sun” Remains The Beatles’ Essential Tonic Listen closely to the track

They strolled through the gardens of Clapton’s Surrey estate. George picked up a borrowed acoustic guitar—a Gibson J-200—and sat on a lawn chair in the weak English sunshine. The clouds parted. Just for a moment. And out came a riff so pure, so childlike, it felt like it had existed forever: dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun…

“It’s alright.”

George Harrison spent much of his life in the shadow of John and Paul. He was the “quiet one,” the one who had to fight for two songs per album. But with “Here Comes the Sun,” he did something his bandmates never quite managed: he wrote a prescription. George’s voice, usually a dry, wry counterpoint to

It is not a song about weather. It is a song about survival.

It is the universal antidepressant. It plays at the end of disaster movies ( Parent Trap ), during post-9/11 charity concerts, and at the funeral of George Harrison himself in 2001—where Eric Clapton and Paul McCartney stood together and played it one last time for their friend.

At 1:43, the guitar solo arrives. In a band famous for fiery leads, George plays something astonishing: a melody . It’s not fast. It’s not loud. It bends and sighs like a man stretching his arms toward the light. It is the sound of a knot untying itself.

Eternal.