The Shocking Truth About Why George Harrison Nearly Quit The Beatles Before They Hit Their Peak

How the 'Quiet Beatle' fought a decade-long battle against Lennon-McCartney's songwriting stranglehold—and why his revenge was the greatest solo album in rock history

• John Lennon admitted he wrote songs for George because he "wasn't the best singer in the world" and could only handle three-note melodies

• Harrison was so frustrated by 1969 that he temporarily quit during the Let It Be sessions, calling the band "a drag"

• All Things Must Pass became the ultimate vindication—a triple album that proved George had been stockpiling masterpieces whilst Lennon and McCartney squabbled over credit

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"We wrote it for George in the film. It was a bit of a formula song." When Paul McCartney described 'I'm Just Happy To Dance With You' in such dismissive terms, he rather neatly encapsulated the patronising attitude that would plague George Harrison throughout his Beatles career. Here was a song—admittedly a perfectly serviceable piece of Mersey beat—handed down from the songwriting gods like a biscuit thrown to a performing seal. "That was written for George to give him a piece of the action," Lennon confirmed with characteristic bluntness, though one suspects his definition of "action" was rather more circumscribed than George's.

The phrase "piece of the action" is telling, isn't it? Not "equal share of the action" or "fair portion of the action"—just a piece. A crumb from the high table. Rather like being invited to a dinner party and being asked to bring your own sandwich. This wasn't magnanimity; it was tokenism dressed up as generosity, the musical equivalent of letting the younger sibling have a go on the swings after the big boys had finished.

But then again, this was 1964, when The Beatles were operating at the sort of industrial pace that would make a Victorian mill owner weep with envy. Two albums a year, films, tours, and enough screaming teenagers to power the National Grid—all whilst churning out material at a rate that would have impressed Tin Pan Alley at its most mercenary. In such circumstances, perhaps it's hardly surprising that George Harrison, barely 21 and still finding his feet, was treated rather like the work experience lad who's allowed to make the tea and occasionally contribute to the photocopying.

Yet even in those early days, there were signs that all was not well in paradise. Lennon's admission that he chose 'Do You Want To Know A Secret' for George because "it only had three notes and he wasn't the best singer in the world" reveals a breathtaking lack of faith in his bandmate's abilities. Imagine being told your musical contribution is valued precisely because it's simple enough for you to manage—rather like being praised for successfully operating a tin opener. It's the kind of backhanded compliment that would make even the most charitable soul reach for the nearest blunt instrument.

The tragedy—and it is a tragedy, in the proper dramatic sense—is that this attitude persisted long after George had proved himself capable of far more than three-note melodies. By the time of Revolver in 1966, he was contributing songs like 'Taxman' and 'Love You To', the former a razor-sharp satire of Harold Wilson's tax policies that made the Kinks' social commentary look positively gentle, the latter a sitar-drenched exploration of Indian philosophy that pushed The Beatles into entirely new territory. Yet still the Lennon-McCartney juggernaut rolled on, hoovering up album space like a particularly voracious vacuum cleaner.

The real question isn't whether George was capable of writing good songs—Abbey Road's 'Something' and 'Here Comes The Sun' settled that argument rather definitively—but why it took so bloody long for his contributions to be taken seriously. The answer, one suspects, lies in the peculiar dynamics of a band where two members had already established themselves as the creative driving force before the others had chance to warm the engine.

Consider the evidence: by 1965, when George was contributing the occasional song to Beatles albums, Lennon and McCartney were not only writing for themselves but for half of Britain's pop acts. They knocked out 'I Wanna Be Your Man' for The Rolling Stones in a matter of minutes, apparently, whilst poor George was lucky to get one track per album. It's rather like watching two master chefs commandeer the entire kitchen whilst the sous chef is relegated to washing up and occasionally being allowed to garnish a plate.

The Indian music phase, which began in earnest around 1965, provided George with something approaching musical independence. Suddenly, here was territory that neither John nor Paul could colonise—they could hardly claim expertise in the intricacies of the sitar or the philosophical underpinnings of Indian classical music. For the first time, George had found a musical language that was uniquely his own, and the results were extraordinary. 'Norwegian Wood' might have been a Lennon-McCartney composition, but that sitar line was pure Harrison, and it transformed the song from a pleasant piece of folk-pop into something genuinely transcendent.

Yet even this breakthrough came with its own frustrations. George's fascination with Indian music was often treated by the British press as an exotic fad, rather like collecting butterflies or learning to juggle. The fact that he'd spent months studying with Ravi Shankar, one of the world's greatest musicians, was somehow less newsworthy than John's latest pronouncement about Christianity or Paul's domestic arrangements. It was as if George's musical journey was viewed as a colourful sideshow rather than a serious artistic endeavour.

The late 1960s brought a subtle shift in the balance of power. Sgt. Pepper's featured George's magnificent 'Within You Without You', a nine-minute meditation on consciousness that proved he could command album space just as effectively as his more famous bandmates. The White Album, that sprawling double-disc testament to creative democracy, finally gave George the platform he'd been seeking, with four compositions including the sublime 'While My Guitar Gently Weeps'. Yet even here, the song required Eric Clapton's presence to be taken seriously—as if George's own musical judgment wasn't quite sufficient to validate his vision.

By 1969, the tensions had become unsustainable. George's temporary departure during the Let It Be sessions wasn't just a moment of artistic pique—it was the inevitable result of years of accumulated frustration. "I'll play whatever you want me to play, or I won't play at all if you don't want me to play," he told the others, with the weary resignation of a man who'd spent too long being treated as a supporting player in his own band. The fact that he came back at all speaks to either remarkable forbearance or a touching faith in the collaborative process.

The real vindication came, of course, with All Things Must Pass. Released in 1970, this triple album stands as one of the most extraordinary revenge fantasies in popular music. Here was George Harrison, the man who'd been allocated the musical equivalent of table scraps, serving up a feast that put both John and Paul's early solo efforts to shame. The album was stuffed with songs that were apparently "not good enough" for Beatles albums—a revelation that makes one wonder what exactly constituted acceptable quality in the Lennon-McCartney worldview.

Phil Spector's production, for all its occasionally excessive grandeur, provided the perfect showcase for George's accumulated songwriting genius. 'My Sweet Lord' became a global phenomenon, whilst 'What Is Life' and 'Isn't It A Pity' revealed a melodic sophistication that rivalled anything in the Beatles catalogue. The critics, bless them, were suitably astonished. Rolling Stone called it "the best album of 1970," whilst NME declared it "a work of sustained brilliance." One can only imagine George's satisfaction at reading such reviews whilst contemplating the years of creative rationing he'd endured.

The question of whether George deliberately held back his best material for his solo career is intriguing but ultimately unprovable. What we can say with certainty is that the man who'd been given 'I'm Just Happy To Dance With You' as a sop to his ambitions had clearly been stockpiling rather more substantial fare. The sheer quality and quantity of material on All Things Must Pass suggests that George had been working at a far more intensive pace than his Beatles output would suggest—rather like discovering that the quiet member of the family had been secretly writing novels in the attic.

Perhaps the most telling aspect of George's Beatles experience is how it reflected broader patterns of recognition and creative hierarchy. In any collaborative endeavour, certain personalities tend to dominate whilst others provide essential but less visible contributions. George's role as the "quiet Beatle" was partly a product of his naturally reserved personality, but it was also a function of the established order that had formed before he'd found his voice. Breaking out of such patterns requires either extraordinary assertiveness or the kind of accumulated frustration that eventually forces change.

The irony, of course, is that George's contributions to The Beatles were often their most innovative and forward-thinking. His exploration of Indian music opened doors that the band might never have discovered otherwise, whilst his guitar work provided the perfect complement to John and Paul's songwriting. Yet he remained perpetually cast as the junior partner, the talented supporting player rather than the creative equal.

All Things Must Pass represented more than just a successful solo album—it was a statement of artistic independence that redefined George Harrison's place in popular music. The fact that he'd accumulated such a wealth of material whilst supposedly playing second fiddle to Lennon-McCartney suggests that the creative hierarchy within The Beatles was more complex than it appeared. Perhaps George had been the quiet revolutionary all along, biding his time whilst accumulating the ammunition for his eventual artistic coup.

Looking back from our current vantage point, it's clear that George Harrison's Beatles experience was both a blessing and a curse. The platform provided by the band's success was invaluable, but the creative constraints were equally significant. The three-note melodies and token album tracks of the early years gave way to genuine artistic breakthroughs, but only after years of patient struggle. Whether George could have achieved the same level of recognition outside The Beatles is debatable, but there's no question that his talent deserved better recognition within the band.

The lesson, perhaps, is that creative partnerships require constant negotiation and adjustment. What worked for The Beatles in 1964—when George was content to play guitar and occasionally sing—had become destructive by 1969, when his songwriting abilities demanded equal consideration. The band's failure to adapt to this changed dynamic was one of the factors that ultimately led to their dissolution.

In the end, George Harrison's story within The Beatles is one of gradual recognition and eventual vindication. From the patronising gesture of 'I'm Just Happy To Dance With You' to the creative triumph of All Things Must Pass, it's a narrative that speaks to the complex dynamics of artistic collaboration. The quiet Beatle had found his voice, and when he finally used it, the world was listening. Whether John and Paul were paying attention is another matter entirely.

The broader context of George's marginalisation becomes even more apparent when one examines the business side of The Beatles operation. The Lennon-McCartney songwriting partnership wasn't just a creative arrangement—it was a financial juggernaut that generated vast royalties for its two principals whilst leaving George and Ringo to make do with their share of performance royalties. Every time 'Yesterday' or 'Hey Jude' was played on the radio, John and Paul's bank accounts swelled accordingly. When 'Something' became the most-covered Beatles song after 'Yesterday', George certainly received his due as the songwriter, but by then the pattern had been long established.

This economic reality undoubtedly influenced the band's creative dynamics. When album space translates directly into publishing income, the incentive to hoard songs becomes overwhelming. It's hardly surprising that Lennon and McCartney were reluctant to cede territory to their bandmates, particularly when they were producing material at such a prolific rate. From George's perspective, however, this must have felt like being permanently relegated to the reserve team whilst watching others take the glory.

The situation was further complicated by the fact that George's musical interests were becoming increasingly divergent from the pop mainstream. His fascination with Indian classical music, whilst artistically rewarding, was hardly likely to generate the sort of commercial returns that kept EMI executives happy. A nine-minute meditation on consciousness doesn't exactly scream "chart success" in the way that 'Love Me Do' or 'She Loves You' did. George was pursuing artistic integrity at a time when The Beatles were still, fundamentally, a commercial proposition.

Yet it's worth noting that George's contributions often provided The Beatles with their most distinctive and innovative moments. The backwards guitar solo on 'I'm Only Sleeping', the sitar flourishes throughout the mid-period albums, the slide guitar work on 'Something'—these weren't just decorative additions but integral parts of what made The Beatles sound unique. Without George's musical adventurousness, the band might have remained trapped in the admittedly lucrative but ultimately limiting world of straightforward pop music.

The recording sessions for various Beatles albums reveal telling glimpses of the creative hierarchy in action. During the making of Sgt. Pepper's, George Martin's production notes show that 'Within You Without You' was recorded largely separately from the other band members, with George working alongside Indian musicians whilst John, Paul, and Ringo focused on other tracks. This wasn't necessarily a slight—the song required specialist knowledge and instrumentation—but it does suggest that George's contributions were often seen as separate from the main Beatles project.

Similarly, the famous footage from the Let It Be sessions shows George attempting to demonstrate a song idea to Paul, only to be met with polite but dismissive responses. The body language alone speaks volumes about the established pecking order—George, tentative and slightly apologetic, Paul, distracted and clearly more interested in his own material. It's the kind of painful workplace dynamic that anyone who's ever had their suggestions overlooked in a meeting will recognise immediately.

The critical reception of George's solo work provides another fascinating perspective on his Beatles experience. When All Things Must Pass was released, many reviewers expressed genuine surprise at the quality of the material. The implication was clear: they hadn't expected this level of sophistication from the "quiet Beatle." Rolling Stone's review noted that "Harrison has emerged as a songwriter of genuine stature," as if his previous contributions had been mere warm-up exercises. The patronising tone is unmistakable—rather like expressing amazement that the office junior has successfully completed a crossword puzzle.

But perhaps the most revealing aspect of the All Things Must Pass phenomenon was how it recontextualised George's entire Beatles career. Songs like 'All Things Must Pass' itself, 'Apple Scruffs', and 'I'd Have You Anytime' (co-written with Bob Dylan, no less) revealed a songwriter who had been operating at a far higher level than his Beatles output suggested. The album didn't just announce George's arrival as a solo artist—it suggested that he'd been ready for recognition years earlier.

The production choices on All Things Must Pass were equally significant. Phil Spector's "Wall of Sound" treatment gave George's songs a grandeur and weight that matched anything in the Beatles catalogue. The lush orchestrations and layered vocals created a sonic landscape that was both expansive and intimate, providing the perfect showcase for George's melodic gifts. It was as if someone had finally given him access to the full orchestra after years of being restricted to a kazoo and a triangle.

The album's commercial success was equally vindictating. 'My Sweet Lord' became a number one hit in both Britain and America, whilst the album itself topped the charts and went multi-platinum. Here was concrete proof that George's songwriting could connect with audiences just as effectively as his former bandmates' work. The fact that he'd achieved this success whilst John and Paul were still finding their feet as solo artists must have provided considerable satisfaction.

Yet the triumph of All Things Must Pass raises uncomfortable questions about what might have been. If George had been writing material of this quality throughout the late 1960s, what might The Beatles have achieved with a more democratic approach to songwriting? The band's final albums might have been even more adventurous and diverse, incorporating George's spiritual explorations alongside John's avant-garde experiments and Paul's melodic sophistication.

The timing of George's breakthrough is particularly poignant. By 1970, when All Things Must Pass was released, The Beatles were already history. George had finally found his voice just as the platform for expressing it had disappeared. It's rather like discovering you're an excellent swimmer just as the pool is being drained—technically impressive but practically useless.

The influence of George's Indian music period on popular culture cannot be overstated. The sitar became a staple of psychedelic rock, Indian philosophy filtered into the counterculture movement, and Eastern spirituality became a permanent fixture in Western popular music. George didn't just introduce these elements to The Beatles—he helped introduce them to an entire generation. Yet at the time, this contribution was often viewed as a curious hobby rather than a serious artistic endeavour.

The other Beatles members' attitudes towards George's Indian period were revealing. John's initial enthusiasm quickly gave way to scepticism, particularly as George's involvement with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi deepened. Paul remained diplomatically supportive but clearly wasn't personally engaged with the philosophy. Ringo, characteristically, went along with it all whilst maintaining a healthy sense of humour about the whole business. The fact that George persisted with his studies despite lukewarm support from his bandmates suggests a level of commitment that went far beyond mere fashionable dabbling.

The legacy of George's struggle within The Beatles extends far beyond the confines of popular music history. His experience represents a universal dynamic found in countless creative partnerships where talent and recognition don't always align. The fact that his breakthrough came only after the band's dissolution serves as a cautionary tale about the importance of recognising and nurturing all voices within collaborative endeavours.

The subsequent careers of all four Beatles provide an interesting postscript to George's story. Whilst John's solo work was often politically charged and Paul's remained determinedly commercial, George carved out a unique niche that combined spiritual exploration with accessible songwriting. His later albums, whilst never matching the commercial impact of All Things Must Pass, consistently demonstrated the artistic maturity that had been simmering beneath the surface throughout the Beatles years.

Perhaps most tellingly, George's post-Beatles career was marked by a generous collaborative spirit that seemed conspicuously absent from his treatment within the band. His work with the Traveling Wilburys, alongside Bob Dylan, Tom Petty, Jeff Lynne, and Roy Orbison, showed him thriving in an environment where creative democracy was the norm rather than the exception. Here was a man who had learned the value of equal partnerships the hard way.

The critical re-evaluation of George's Beatles contributions has been ongoing for decades, with each new generation of listeners discovering the sophisticated songcraft that was always hiding in plain sight. Songs like 'Here Comes The Sun' and 'Something' have become as essential to the Beatles canon as any Lennon-McCartney composition, whilst his more experimental pieces like 'Within You Without You' are now recognised as pioneering examples of world music fusion.

All Things Must Pass remains the ultimate testament to George Harrison's patience and accumulated wisdom. Whilst his former bandmates struggled with the transition to solo careers, George had already prepared his masterpiece. Sometimes, it seems, the best revenge is simply being fabulous—and having a triple album to prove it. The quiet Beatle had been keeping his own counsel all along, stockpiling musical ammunition for the day when he would finally be free to fire both barrels. When that day came, the world was listening, and George Harrison was ready.