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A Tribute to George Harrison

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George Harrison died last Thursday. Trying to write a tribute to one of the biggest rock stars ever is difficult, but this is my best shot.

For my money, the best thing he ever did was on Carl Perkins’ all-star “Rockabilly Session” HBO special which aired in the mid-1980s. This was right in the middle of Harrison’s self-imposed retirement, and it had been four years since anyone had heard a new note from him.

He walked onto the circular stage, looking sharp in a tailored suit and high pompadour, strapped on a semi-hollow-body electric guitar, and ripped, lordy-mercy-sakes-alive, through “Everybody’s Trying To Be My Baby,” the Perkins classic that the Beatles had included on one of their albums.

His voice sounded fresh, like he’d never used it before, and the piercing sting of his guitar lines slipped into the thunderous backbeat of the house band (which included Dave Edmunds and two Stray Cats) with a perfect fit.

Later, he traded licks and verses with Perkins and Edmunds on several other rockabilly classics. The quiet mystic had been born again as the ultimate in rocker — cool, smiling and smirking through songs that he grew up with. As Perkins himself said at one point, “God’s gonna love you for that one, George.”

I imagine that God has plenty for which to love George Harrison. There was that opening dissonant chord on “A Hard Day’s Night,” the subtle, jangling ache of “I Need You,” the anger and bite of “Taxman,” the song-making sitar on “Norwegian Wood,” the ardent frustration in “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” the brilliance of “Something,” and the simple, hopeful beauty of “Here Comes The Sun.”

And that was just during his time with the Beatles. Harrison made a lot more great music, music so intelligent and spiritual that it wasn’t often clear in what universe George was living. Whatever universe it was, it was one that seemed really appealing. His gentle spirit shone through nearly every note of music he made, from “My Sweet Lord” on.

He actually didn’t make that much music after the Beatles split. When he did, though, it was usually blessed with success. His first solo release, the triple-record set All Things Must Pass, was both a critical and commercial success, and is hailed by some (though not your humble correspondent) as the best solo album by any of the Fab Four.

The Concert For Bangladesh, which he organized, was one of the first of the major rock charity events. The concert, which featured Harrison, Ravi Shankar, Leon Russell, Eric Clapton and Bob Dylan, spawned a feature film and album that raised millions for the starving in Bangladesh.

Near the end of the 1970s, Harrison had a top 40 hit with “Blow Away,” a peaceful and gentle paean to simplicity.

He then went into retirement, living quietly in his mansion near London, producing movies and making only isolated appearances until 1987, when he came roaring back out of the gate with Cloud Nine, the album that featured the chart-topping and oddly brilliant “Got My Mind Set On You,” plus the top-40 hits “When We Was Fab” and “This Is Love.”

It was during the recording of Cloud Nine that The Traveling Wilburys were born. Originally envisioned as a one-off collaboration to create the flipside for the latest single, the recording session for “Handle With Care” went so well that Harrison, Bob Dylan, Tom Petty, Roy Orbison and Jeff Lynne decided to write and record more.

The two albums that the Wilburys produced stand as minor miracles in that they seem neither pretentious nor completely tossed-off, as if these giants were shaking off their shoes and actually having fun for a change. The two hits, “Handle With Care” and “End of the Line,” are brilliant, minor masterpieces that rank among the best that any of the five, except maybe Dylan, has produced.

The last time we heard from George Harrison was on “Free As A Bird,” the Beatles’ “reunion” single, when he uttered the heartbreaking phrase “Whatever happened to/ the life that we once knew?/ It always made me feel so free.” When he died last week, maybe this freedom that he always seemed to be searching for finally came to him.

But I don’t want to wallow in sentimentality for too long, because I keep thinking of the rocker, the George Harrison whose meaty guitar lines held up the head-shaking “ooohs,” and later the artsy-fartsy experimentation, of his songwriting partners. The rocker, who could play like Perkins or Chuck Berry. He was a rocker, goshdammit, and this was at the essence.

So put on Revolver, wait for Lennon’s count-off, hear Harrison lead the boys through the vicious and delicious “Taxman,” wish George well, and send him off into the next world. Happy trails.