Новый выпуск журнала Time посвящен Харрисону (2001)

А я, кстати, храню декабрьский Time 1980. На обложке живописный портрет Джона и крупная надпись THE DAY WHEN THE MUSIC HAS DIED.

Григорий

PS Вроде заработало. Спасибо.

Ребята! Я купила новый TIME и расстроилась...
Думала весь номер Джорджу посвящен, а там всего лишь статья в разделе music :-(...
И обложка совсем не похожа на ту, которая на сайте журнала размещена...Может это разные издания? Хотя наверное, нет...

Elmiruel

Напрасно расстраиваешься.Это нормально, ведь не каждого Time даже выводит на обложку.

В декабре 1980 года Time посвятил Джону 10 страниц. Сейчас о Джордже 9 страниц.

Объяснение оказалось простым. Европейское и американское издания журнала Time имеют разные обложки.

см.

http://www.time.com/time/europe/

Спасибо Григорию и Corvin-у за сканы!

В Тайме достаточно хороший материал. Информативно, достаточно глубоко, компетентно и с некоторой толикой вполне свежей информации (для меня по крайней мере). Да ещё на 9 страниц. Все бы так бы.
Что-то в Роллинг Стоуне и Моджо будет?..
А насчёт странного обмена мнениями в "одном радиоэфире" о кошках, которые в день смерти Джорджа вдруг перестали просить кота и пр... ну что же, такие у нас битловские эфиры. То ли о Джордже, а то ли о себе.

Вот материал из Time - спасибо Деду

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PART ONE
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ALL THINGS MUST PASS

Ex-Beatle George Harrison was often overshadowed by the legends of John and Paul. But he left a rich musical legacy

By ROBERT SULLIVAN

HE WAS THE QUIET BEATLE ONLY IN THAT HE WAS standing alongside two louder-than-life characters and in front of a guy playing drums. He held many strong opinions—on Beatlemania, on global want, on his fluctuating emotions regarding his former bandmates, on his right to privacy, on his God—and gave firm voice to most of them. He was a man of paradoxes and contradictions, a sitar-playing gardener with a fierce passion for hot cars and Formula One racing, a seeming stoic with a Monty Pythonesque sense of humor.

He was certainly the most reluctant Beatle, wanting out almost as soon as he was in. He often said that his luckiest break was joining the band and his second luckiest was leaving it, and he said once: "Being a Beatle was a nightmare, a horror story. I don't even like to think about it." He never really looked comfortable in his tight suit and pudding-basin haircut, not even in the funfest A Hard Day's Night, and in this he was perhaps the most honest Beatle, the one least convincing when wearing the mask. The standard line is that? George Harrison was an unknowable enigma, but perhaps he was transparent: a terrific guitarist, a fine songwriter, a wonderer, a seeker and, overriding all, a celebrity who hated and feared celebrity.

On Thursday Harrison, 58, died at a friend's home in Los Angeles after his latest battle with cancer. His passing leaves only Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr as surviving members of the Fab Four—John Lennon was murdered in New York City in 1980—and ends a late-in-life string of trouble suffered by Harrison. In 1997 he had a cancerous lump removed from his neck; in late 1999 he survived a stabbing by an intruder; earlier this year he was operated on for a cancer found on his lung, and subsequently he was treated for a tumor on his brain. Harrison's wife Olivia and his 23-year-old son Dhani were at his bedside when he died, and as word spread from Los Angeles, Harrison was eulogized by royalty both rock and real. "I love him... he was like my baby brother to me," said McCartney to reporters outside his London home. Queen Elizabeth, said Buckingham Palace, was "very sad" to hear of Harrison's death, and the band at the Changing of the Guard played a Beatles medley.

By early Friday evening, crowds of fans had gathered outside the famous Abbey Road studios in London. The fence on the sidewalk was filled up with the now-familiar bouquets, votive candles and scribbled tributes—so many of which contained the words thank you. Up north in Liverpool, the Beatles' hometown, the flags flew at half-mast.

That such hosannas would be sung for George Harrison, born the son of a Liverpool bus driver during the darkest days of World War II, seems remarkable. It seems a miracle of fate. But then, the history of popular music is littered with miracles of fate. Robert Johnson bumps into the devil at a crossroads and trades his soul for a sound; Frank Sinatra, needing a comeback, is assigned a young arranger named Nelson Riddle; Elvis Presley is precisely the black-sounding white boy that producer Sam Phillips has been waiting for.

The most famous of the Beatles' fated hookups involves McCartney wandering by a summer fete at St. Peter's Parish Church in Liverpool's Woolton district on a hot day in 1957, and being transfixed by a skiffle band called the Quarry Men. Paul happens to have brought his guitar and impresses the band's leader, a cocky lad named Lennon, with raucous renderings of Eddie Cochran and Little Richard songs.

That's the big one, but in official Beatles lore there's an even earlier bit of cosmic predestination. It is 1955, and George Harrison, just 12, is a miserable student, putting in an hour's commute on his dad's bus, traveling from the family home in Speke to the Liverpool Institute. He is engaged in conversation by a boy a year above at school, the son of a cotton salesman from Allerton. Paul McCartney is just as crazy about guitars and American rockabilly stars as is Harrison, and soon he is joining young George in the evenings to practice their distinctive versions of Don't You Rock Me Daddy-0 and Besame Mucho.

Without rehashing the many permutations of the evolving Quarry Men of the late '50s—Johnny and the Moondogs, the Silver Beatles, the endless series of exploding drummers—we arrive on the Reeperbahn, the legendary cabaret district in Hamburg, Germany, in the early '60s with a band whose front line is Lennon-McCartney-Harrison because Lennon, in his wisdom, has decided he will put at risk his dominance in order to build the | strongest group. The way to think of those early Beatles is as one of the grittiest, nastiest, best punk bands ever, getting tighter by the night during sets that might last eight hours. It was a neon-lit scene of toughs and whores, and the hard-drinking, pill-popping English teenagers relished it. "We were frothing at the mouth," Harrison remembered in The Beatles Anthology, published last year. "Because we had all these hours to play, and the club owners were giving us preludins, which were slimming tablets. I don't think they were amphetamine, but they were uppers. So we used to be up there foaming, stomping away." Every night they played hard, then harder. In 1998 Harrison persuaded a judge to halt the sale of a recording made in Hamburg back in 1962 by arguing, "One drunk person recording another bunch of drunks does not constitute a business deal." But on many another occasion he said that the best Beatles shows ever were in the clubs of Hamburg.

Harrison was the baby of the band and. if the inner dynamic of the Beatles had been different, his age might have cost him his place in history. During the group's first five-month gig in Germany, authorities discovered that Harrison, at 17, was too youngs to be working in the Reeperbahn nightclubs. They had him deported. Guitarist1 can be replaced, but by then McCartney) and Lennon were protective of their little brother—the Beatles were as much a fiercely insular family as they were a ferocious* rock band—and a few weeks later the boy; were playing together again in England. Sounding better than ever, and much better than other Liverpool pop bands, the Beatles became local legends through their shows at the Cavern Club. They got a record contract, replaced their drummer with the talented Starr and were on their way. After five years a-forming, everything started to happen very, very fast.

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PART 2
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For Harrison, much more quickly than for the others, the magic of the moment flickered and died. "At first we all thought we wanted the fame and that," he said in 1988. "After a bit we realized that fame wasn't really what we were after at all, just the fruits of it. After the initial excitement and thrill had worn off, I, for one, became depressed. Is this all we have to look forward to in life? Being chased around by a crowd of hooting lunatics from one crappy hotel room to the next?"

During the Beatles' grand conquest of America in 1964, when their initial appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show drew an astonishing 73 million viewers and made them an overnight sensation, Harrison spent his days holed up in the Plaza Hotel with a high fever while the fab other three paraded around town, wowing the press with their vitality and wit. Then it was on to Washington, D.C. for a concert at the Coliseum before more than 7,000 screaming fans. "It was bloody awful," Harrison told biographer Geoffrey Giuliano. "Some journalist had apparently dug up an old quote of John's that I was fond of jelly babies and had written about it in his column. That night we were absolutely pelted... Imagine waves of rock-hard little bullets raining down on you from the sky. Every now and then one would hit a string on my guitar and plonk off a bad note as I was trying to play. From then on, everywhere we went it was exactly the same."
Harrison's guitar idols had included not only rocker Carl Perkins but also Andres Segovia, and he had worked hard to master an intricate, precise technique. (His later experiments with 12-string guitars, not to mention his sitar playing, would be vastly influential.) Now, concertgoers couldn't even hear him and, worse, didn't care. Harrison, who turned 21 just after that first brief American tour, lamented on the flight home, "All that big hassle to make it, only to end up as performing fleas."

It wasn't long before the other Beatles shared the opinion, and the band's last public concert was at San Francisco's Candlestick Park on Aug. 29, 1966. (The city had wanted to give the boys a ticker tape parade, but the group, mindful not only of John F. Kennedy's 1963 assassination but also of death threats they had received in the wake of Lennon's recent "We're more popular than Jesus" comment, nixed the idea.) With the end of live performances, the band, and Harrison in particular, moved on to what he considered more serious endeavor. His marriage to Patti Boyd in early 1966 had altered his perspective, as had what he called "the dental experience," which, he said, "made us see life in a different light."

The dental experience happened in 1964. Hamburg club managers had introduced the Beatles to uppers and Bob Dylan had turned them on to marijuana. Now, at a dinner party at George's dentist's house in London, somebody slipped sugar cubes laced with LSD into the after-dinner coffee of George and Patti, John and his wife Cynthia. Within months, all of the Beatles were experimenting with acid, and eventually Paul was into cocaine, John into heroin and George a fan of hashish (for which he would be busted in March 1969). The music they continued to make in the studio got denser, trippier. The single Strawberry Fields was followed by the seminal album Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, and the Beatles led their generation into a psychedelic world. As Harrison began to emerge as a songwriter, his exquisitely arranged compositions—Within You Without You, Love You Too, Blue Jay Way—were informed not only by drug use but also, in their melody and message, by his increasing interest in Eastern religion, culture and music.

He came by this interest, which would become the driving force in his life, through a classically Beatles bit of wackiness. The script of the second Beatles film. Help!, called for chase scenes involving cartoonish Hindu villains. To provide some zippy chase music, Indian sitar players were brought in. George started noodling on a sitar and asking questions. This led to exotic instrumentation on the Lennon ballad Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown), and led further to master sitarist Ravi Shankar giving Harrison lessons on the instrument and in life. Harrison had found a path that he would travel the rest of his days.

The Beatles' famous 1968 trip to India, where they meditated under the guidance of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, was largely Hamson's show. He and Patti had become devotees of the religious leader and arranged for the entire band to spend some time meditating and learning at the Maharishi's ashram, Rishikesh, in the Himalayan foothills. Other celebrities—Mia Farrow, the singer Donovan, Mike Love of the Beach Boys—went on retreat as well, and the episode is remembered as one of the pivotal, if oddest, events of the Flower Power '60s.

Ringo and his wife left first, put off by the bugs and the food. George and John started hearing rumors about the holy man—that he was planning a guru-and-Beatles film, that he had made a pass at Farrow—and grew disillusioned. John told the Maharishi they were checking out and, asked why, responded in Lennonesque style: "If you're so bloody cosmic, you'll know why." George later defended the Maharishi: "It's probably even in the history books that Maharishi 'tried to attack Mia Farrow,'" Harrison said in Anthology. "It's bullshit, total bullshit. Just go and ask Mia Farrow."

Indisputably beautiful fruits of the strange retreat were the songs composed there. John said he wrote "hundreds," Paul came up with at least 15 and most of the Beatles' "White Album" and Abbey Road were conceived in Rishikesh. George contributed four songs, including the anti-carnivore screed Piggies, to the former set and Here Comes the Sun and Something to the latter. Something, with more than 150 versions recorded, is the second most-covered Beatles song after Yesterday, but a measure of Harrison's relative obscurity within the band is that Sinatra used to introduce Something as his favorite Lennon-McCartney tune.

Such confusion would end with the band's acrimonious breakup, announced in 1970. For Harrison, the split amounted to artistic liberation. For years he had been piling up songs that couldn't be squeezed onto Beatles albums, brimful as they were with Lennon and McCartne/s efforts. Now, in a work that is the very definition of magnum opus, Harrison disgorged the three-disc set All Things Must Pass.

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PART 3
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The bulky boxed set went to No. 1, propelled by hits such as My Sweet Lord and What Is Life. Harrison had found a new spiritual mentor, Srila Prabhupada of the International Society for Krishna Consciousness, and Hindu sounds and sentiments permeated the record. This did little to diminish its success in the U.S. but, rather, spurred sitar sales and caused many listeners to investigate Eastern religions.

Strange as it seems now, in the early aftermath of the Beatles' demise, Harrison, fear the revelation, rivaled Lennon or McCartney as a pop icon. Ravi Shankar realized his friend might be the perfect front man for a good and crucial cause. In August 1971, Harrison, Dylan, Starr, Leon Russell and Eric Clapton staged two concerts at New York's Madison Square Garden to raise money for the flood- and famine-ravaged Indian subcontinent. The Concerts for Bangladesh established Harrison as a pioneering rock philanthropist and set a model for future musical fund-raising efforts.

With George now front-and-center, his fans got to know him better. It became evident that the erstwhile quiet Beatle was, in fact, possessed of the same dry, sarcastic Liverpudlian wit for which Lennon was known. (When asked by producer George Martin during the Beatles' first recording session back in 1962, "Is there anything you're not happy about?" it was George, not John, who famously answered, "Well, there's your tie, for starters.") Harrison, with individual success, seemed more at ease, and his geniality throughout the '70s saw his image evolve to that of the happy mystic.

Clapton, along with Dylan, became one of Harrison's best friends. Astonishingly, this friendship was not destroyed when Patti became Mrs. Clapton in 1979, two years after she and George divorced and a year after George remarried the American Olivia Arias. (A footnote to rock-'n'-roll history: Patti, the same woman who inspired the lyric, "Something in the way she moves ..." was also Layla, she who brought Clapton to his knees.) By the late '70s Harrison was as much entrepreneur as musician. He had started his own record label. Dark Horse, in 1974 and his own movie production company, Hand-'' Made Films. He and a partner had set up HandMade to help Harrison's pal Eric Idle finish his Monty Python film Life of Brian. That religious satire, though controversial, was a big success, as were other Hand-Made productions ranging from the 1981 fantasy Time Bandits to the 1986 noirish drama Mono Lisa. Harrison's cinema dabblings in this period included a cameo role in Idle's faux rockumentary All You Need Is Cash, about a band called the Rut-les—the "Prefab Four." George thought the parody told the Beatles' story "much better than the usual boring documentary." (Of course, in the 1990s George, along with Paul and Ringo, took part in one of the biggest documentary projects ever with the Anthology film-disc-book series.)

Harrison's records weren't selling in great numbers during this time, but it seemed to matter little to a man who wasn't touring in support of them anyway, taking the stage only occasionally at charity events. Harrison, veteran of Beatlemania, had been spooked into near reclusion by Mark David Chapman's killing of Lennon in December 1980. In a statement of sympathy issued after Lennon was gunned down, there was a sentence that acutely reflected Harrison's state of mind: "This perpetual encroachment on other people's space is taken to the limit with the use of a gun." Protection of Harrison's space at Friar Park, his extraordinary estate in Henley-on-Thames, as well as his hideaway on the Hawaiian island of Maui was increased. Harrison ventured beyond the gates less and less frequently.

What he did behind walls and razor wire included regular sessions of meditation, music making, gardening and watching Formula One on the telly. Harrison now got his kicks not from hallucinogens but fast cars, and he found a new pack of friends in race drivers such as the Scottish champion Jackie Stew-art. In the garage at Friar Park a collection of sports cars, including several Porsches and a McLaren Fl, grew ever larger.

And like so many aging rockers, Harrison also built up an impressive collection of lawsuits, as both claimant and defendant. In 1976 he had to pay $587,000 for "subconsciously plagiarizing" the old Chiffons hit He's So Fine in his melody for My Sweet Lord. In 1996 he won an $11.6 million judgment against his former business partner in HandMade films, Denis O'Brien. That same year Harrison asked authorities to investigate a series of death threats. None of those threats was proved to have come from Michael Abram, but it was Abram, a 33-year-old Beatle obsessive from a Liverpool suburb, who in the dead of night on Dec. 30,1999 got past the burglar alarms and razor wire at Friar Park and broke into the Harrisons' mansion. George suffered a 2.5-cm-deep stab wound to his chest before Olivia knocked Abram out cold with a bedside lamp. Harrison recovered, Abram was found not guilty of attempted murder on the grounds of insanity, and life returned to what passes for normal with an ex-Beatle.

There might have been more great records from Harrison in the years ahead, perhaps further volumes from the Traveling Wilburys, his sideline supergroup that included Dylan, Tom Petty and others. There might have been more strange-ness to come, or perhaps just a serene old age in the garden. We'll never know, for while Harrison was able to survive the pressures of being a Beatle and a stabbing by a stranger, he couldn't beat cancer.

His family and many friends take solace in knowing that he is where he has long been heading, to a life after this one. Harrison once said that John, Paul, George and Ringo were who they were because of something each of them had done—or earned—in a previous life. The Beatles were not, then, an accident or a miracle. God only knows what's next for George Harrison.

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PART 4
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A Little Help From His Friends

George was one of the very early Monty Python fans. He always says that he sent a note to the BBC the night after the first Python show went up on TV. He congratulated us on it, and signed it George Harrison. We never got the note. I have the feeling the BBC desk got this thing signed 'George Harrison' of the Beatles and thought it was highly unlikely. In the film AllYou Need Is Cash, I played the Rutles' publicist and George played my interviewer. That was the first time I spent any time talking to George. I realized he was mortal, not a dazzling god, just an abundantly


talented man, very accessible and very approachable. He had good humor and a good wit. He seemed to know every line of all the Python sketches, which is better than anything I could ever do.

George had no particular charisma that got in the way. You forgot you were talking to one of the Beatles. He had a vast amount of interest, and not just in music. It was always stimulating being with him, sometimes wearing, actually. He was known as the quiet one, but I've never known someone to talk as much as George did. ??

- Michael Palin, former member of Monty Python's Flying Circus comedy troupe

My best memory of George is one day when I went into the studio and accidentally walked in on George, who had laid out a carpet on the floor and was recording Within You Without You with three Indian musicians. I was sure he'd be angry, I'd just, accidentally walked in on him in the middle of a recording, but he wasn't angry at all. In fact, he just got up and started introducing me around to everyone. It was wonderful, and it shows exactly who George was.
— Peter Blake, artist who designed the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band cover


I met George just before the formation of the Natural Law Party [which espoused the teachings of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi]. I asked him if he'd consider doing a concert to kick it off, and he agreed on the spot. It turned out to be the first time he had performed live in Britain for 22 years. The tickets sold out in 22 minutes. Right before the concert, we were chatting in the green room and although I wouldn't say he was nervous, he was definitely keen on beginning the performance. He broke the mold for pop musicians because he wanted to look more deeply into the meaning of life.??

— Geoffrey Clements, chairman of the Maharishi Foundation

Time - December 10, 2001

Спасибо Григорию Бегларяну за предоставленный журнал Time 1980 года.
https://www.beatles.ru/postman/forum_messages.asp?cfrom=1&msg_id=16214&cpage=1&forum_id=1

Да, лежит с тех самых пор где-то такой экземпляр.
И сюда тогда же забрёл впервые - но об этом уже, кажется, сообщал.
Чувство большой потери было...
Мир праху.