Albums

Play it straight through, every song

Posted on by brucehhackett

As I see it, 1969, 1970 and 1971 comprised the best three-year run in the history of album releases. So many iconic LPs came out during that period that, by the time 1972 arrived, there almost had to be a letdown coming.

By and large, 1972 turned out to be a pretty damn good year for new LPs, if not quite in the same league as its three immediate predecessors. It was a transitional year, perhaps the last one before rock and roll became Big Business, and music heroes became Rock Stars, with all the trappings and ridiculous excesses.

It was a diverse group of albums 50 years ago in 1972, representing a broad range of styles, from metal (Deep Purple) to country rock (Poco), from progressive (Genesis) to singer-songwriter (Cat Stevens), from soul (Al Green) to power pop (Raspberries), from syrupy ballads (Bread) to acoustic harmonies (America), from glam (Mott the Hoople) to blues rock (Joe Walsh).

In 1972, record companies signed scores of new artists to complement the existing bands, and the result was well over 500 studio albums of new material released in the calendar year, and another 50 or 60 live LPs and greatest hits collections.

Each year I’ve tried to whittle this huge list down to about 50 that I thought were worthy of further attention, and from that group, I selected 15 that I regard as the Best Albums of 1972. These are the ones where you never have to skip a song — just drop the needle and let it play. No doubt some of my choices will have you scratching your head, or you’ll wonder how I could have omitted a certain album or two. This is a very subjective exercise; my picks are personal, and if you beg to differ, well, you’re free to draw up your own list of the Top 15.

A note on the Spotify playlist at the end: Some of the albums I picked are by artists (Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, Stephen Stills) who have chosen to withdraw their music from the Spotify platform as a political statement due to recent events. Nothing I can do about that, so their music isn’t on the list.

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“The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars,” David Bowie

My hometown FM radio station, WMMS, was famous for giving airplay to bold new music, which exposed me to phenomenal albums like this one. “Suffragette City” was one of those relentless rockers that so impressed me that I felt compelled to buy the LP to hear more. I can’t say I was a big fan of the over-the-top “glam rock” genre, but “Ziggy Stardust” was a revelation, a truly extraordinary cycle of songs by one of the most inventive artists rock music has ever seen. Bowie created a captivating alter ego who sang lyrics that told a story of an androgynous rock star that comes to Earth as a sort of savior. He and his dynamite back-up band came through with memorable tracks like “Moonage Daydream,” “Lady Stardust,” “Starman” and “Rock and Roll Suicide,” leaving us all clamoring for more.

“Harvest,” Neil Young

I have this love-hate thing with Young. Some of his voluminous catalog over the decades has confounded and repulsed me, but a few albums have totally won me over, most notably this one, and its immediate predecessor, “After the Gold Rush.” I guess I prefer his acoustic side when his melodies and plaintive voice are front and center. On “Harvest,” by far his most commercially successful LP, Young offers deceptively simple songs full of memorable lyrics and hooks. Two hits — “Heart of Gold” and “Old Man” — feature harmonies by Linda Ronstadt and James Taylor; two others — “There’s a World” and “A Man Needs a Maid” — are embellished with splendid orchestration, and the tracks that feature Young on electric guitar (“Alabama,” “Words”) complement rather than detract from the album’s overall unplugged mood.

“Thick as a Brick,” Jethro Tull

Who would dare write, arrange and record an album that consisted of one 43-minute piece of rock music spread over two sides? Ian Anderson, that’s who. The leader, composer, singer, flautist and acoustic guitarist of Jethro Tull decided — since their previous LP, “Aqualung,” had been mislabeled as a concept album — that he would create “the mother of all concept albums.” Anderson wrote three- or four-minute sections each day for about two weeks, then brought them to the band to arrange and rehearse, building them into a continuous work with imaginative segues and creative reprises. Granted, “Thick as a Brick” took me a while to fully embrace, but repeated listenings paid off in a big way. I often cite it as my favorite album of all time, certainly in my top five. The ensemble playing is so tight and polished, and Anderson is at the peak of his powers.

“Toulouse Street,” The Doobie Brothers

I remember being knocked out the first time I heard the immaculate sound of guitars and three-part harmonies on The Doobies’ first hit, “Listen to the Music.” I bought the “Toulouse Street” album the next day and was equally impressed by the rest of the tracks: the pounding rock and roll of “Rockin’ Down the Highway,” the pretty acoustic melodies of “White Sun” and “Toulouse Street,” the jaunty island strains of “Mamaloi” and the bold covers of Art Reynolds’ “Jesus is Just Alright” and Sonny Boy Williamson’s blues stomp, “Don’t Start Me to Talkin’.” The two-drummer attack was almost as important to the band’s sound as the songwriting of founders Tom Johnston and Pat Simmons, who also provided the strong lead vocals and harmonies. This was the first of a string of solid Doobies albums in the ’70s.

“Talking Book,” Stevie Wonder

Stevland Morris became Little Stevie Wonder at age 12 with a #1 instrumental, “Fingertips,” then put together a string of classic Motown hits (“Uptight,” “I Was Made to Love Her,” “Signed, Sealed, Delivered”). Upon reaching 21, he was free to sign a new contract that gave him full control of his recorded work, and from 1972 through 1977, he gave us four of the best albums of the 1970s, beginning with “Talking Book.” With synthesizer and clavinet dominant in the arrangements, Wonder set out to merge funk with the emotional ballads he was famous for. “I was eager to express the fun of love, the joy of love and the pain of love in these songs,” he said at the time. “Superstition,” “You Are the Sunshine of My Life,” “I Believe When I Fall in Love” and others reinforced his standing as a serious artist with much to offer.

“Eat a Peach,” The Allman Brothers Band

Although their first two studio albums sold poorly, The Allman Brothers Band developed a reputation as a ferocious band in concert, emphatically displayed on their 1971 double live album “At Fillmore East.” Sadly, their spark plug, guitarist Duane Allman, died in a motorcycle accident at age 24, just as the group was really taking off. With brother Gregg and guitarist Dickey Betts singing and writing songs, the band soldiered on, coming up with another double LP, “Eat a Peach,” an exceptional combination of live and studio tracks, some recorded before Duane passed. So much tasty music to be found here, most notably the delightful Betts tune “Blue Sky,” Gregg’s acoustic “Melissa,” their stupendous live take on the blues classic “One Way Out” and the original instrumental, “Les Brers in B Minor.”

“Close to the Edge,” Yes

From the first time I heard “Yours is No Disgrace,” the spectacular opening track on 1971’s “The Yes Album,” I was a fan. Steve Howe’s fluid guitar and Jon Anderson’s ethereal vocals captured my attention, and Yes only got progressively more interesting when keyboardist Rick Wakeman joined the fold on their “Fragile” LP. The band liked to stretch out with ever-longer numbers, and by the time they released “Close to the Edge” in 1972, there was an 18-minute title track and two more weighing in at 10:12 and 8:56. This was complex, fascinating music, conceived in the studio through relentless rehearsing and recording. The lyrics, while admittedly impenetrable, added to the cosmic nature of their work, and just sounded so good when Anderson sang them.

“Bustin’ Out,” Pure Prairie League

From Cincinnati, Ohio, came this unassuming band of country rockers, who released both of their first two albums in 1972. The eponymous debut was a little too country for my tastes, but “Bustin’ Out” was a marvelous blend of folk, rock and country that really grew on me. Pure Prairie League struggled for recognition, which ended up first coming three years after the fact when “Amie” was re-released as a single and became a country rock staple of both AM and FM radio. But there’s much more to this album than that. Note how “Falling In and Out of Love” combines seamlessly with “Amie” in a mini-suite. Craig Fuller was the singer-songwriter behind the group’s artistry, with such excellent songs as “Call Me, Tell Me,” “Jazzman,” “Early Morning Riser” and “Boulder Skies.” This is a quintessential feel-good album.

“Can’t Buy a Thrill,” Steely Dan

I’ve made it abundantly clear in this blog how much I adore Steely Dan’s music, so it should come as no surprise that their wildly entertaining debut LP made my list for 1972. Songwriters Donald Fagen and Walter Becker had intended to write tunes for other artists, but their work was so unusual that they decided it best to form a band and record the songs themselves. The ten songs on “Can’t Buy a Thrill” seemed so fresh and inviting, from the salsa-infused hit “Do It Again” to the terrific rock of “Reelin’ in the Years.” They went on to produce six more LPs over the next eight years, but I have always been fondest of this one. “Kings,” “Dirty Work,” “Change of the Guard,” “Brooklyn,” “Only a Fool Would Say That” — these all have infectious melodies with fun, quirky lyrics. Don’t overlook this album when you think of Steely Dan.

“Living in the Past,” Jethro Tull

Really? Two Tull albums made the list? Well, yes. After absorbing “Thick as a Brick,” I was stunned when the band’s record label put out “Living in the Past,” which was technically a compilation of early recordings and EP tracks that hadn’t been released in the US until packaged in this expansive double album. The title track, which put Tull at #11 on US pop charts in ’72, had been a UK hit in 1969. Other gems from the early Tull catalog included “Sweet Dream,” “Christmas Song,” “Singing All Day” and “The Witch’s Promise,” all of which show off Ian Anderson’s deft songwriting, superb flute and strong singing. Add to that another six tunes from 1971 (especially “Life’s a Long Song” and “Dr. Bogenbroom”), and two live tracks from a 1970 Carnegie Hall concert, and you’ve got a stellar collection (which peaked at #3 on US album charts).

“Paul Simon,” Paul Simon

Columbia Records honcho Clive Davis told Simon in 1971 he was “committing professional suicide” when he announced the breakup of Simon and Garfunkel, one of the biggest-selling acts in pop music at the time. Simon insisted he was interested in expanding his palette beyond the somewhat limited S&G musical motifs, and although some of the songs that showed up on his 1972 solo debut might’ve worked for the duo, he was indeed heading in another direction. The reggae influences in “Mother and Child Reunion,” the Hispanic street beat of “Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard,” the South American strains heard in “Duncan” and the defiant moan of “Paranoia Blues” announced a new chapter in the life of one of our two or three most gifted musical artists of the past 50 years.

“For the Roses,” Joni Mitchell

Everyone these days fawns all over the confessional songwriting of Joni’s 1971 album “Blue,” which is certainly a very fine set of songs, but I’ve always been partial to her largely overlooked follow-up, 1972’s “For the Roses.” Lyrically, the songs on this one are every bit as introspective and thoughtful, and musically, I think they’re way more sophisticated and polished. “Banquet” explores the inequality of the haves and have-nots; “Cold Blue Steel and Sweet Fire” harrowingly describes the life of the hard drug user; “See You Sometime” captures the pain and longing after a romantic breakup; and “For the Roses” lays bare the brutal realities of success in the music business. Joni again accompanies herself expertly on piano or guitar, but this time with some gentle additional instrumentation from guest players as well.

“Batdorf & Rodney,” Batdorf & Rodney

It was late in 1972 when I turned on to this incredibly talented duo, first via their 1971 debut LP, “Off the Shelf,” and its acoustic tour-de-force “Can You See Him.” I still rank their debut among my Top 25 of all time, but the second one, entitled simply “Batdorf & Rodney,” is a very strong album in its own right. John Batdorf, who has continued to write and self-release new music to the current day, penned some real beauties on this collection, recorded with the able collaboration of Mark Rodney’s jazzy lead guitar and sweet harmonies. “Poor Man’s Dream,” “By Today,” “All I Need” and especially “Home Again” are magnificent acoustic entrees that still make me smile all these years later. If you’re not familiar with these guys, now is the time for a welcome discovery.

“Manassas,” Stephen Stills and Band

Confession: I was woefully late (around 2005!) in finally recognizing how great this album is. I loved Stills for his songs, his guitar playing and his producing skills on the “Crosby, Stills & Nash” and “Deja Vu” albums, and on his “Stephen Stills” solo debut, but for some reason, I never gave this double album a chance when it was released in April 1972. Holy smokes, what a delicious smorgasbord of great music! Multiple musical styles are represented here, performed by a terrific band that included former Byrd Chris Hillman, pedal steel wizard Al Perkins, percussionist Joe Lala and pianist Paul Harris. There’s country (“Fallen Eagle,” “Hide It So Deep”), rock (“The Love Gangster,” “Right Now”), blues (“Jet Set,” “Blues Man”) and acoustic gems (“Johnny’s Garden,” “Both Of Us”). Get on it, folks!

“Kongos,” John Kongos

There was a guy in my college dorm who turned me on to this captivating musician, and I really need to find him to thank him. John Kongos, a South African singer-songwriter living in London, created this excellent LP with the help of Elton John’s former bandmates and production team. His songs on “Kongos” are full of galloping rhythms, sweet melodies and alternately growling and delicate vocals. “Tokoloshe Man,” “Jubilee Cloud” and “He’s Gonna Step on You Again” (a hit single in the UK) grab the listener immediately, while “Try to Touch Just One” and “Gold” grow on you. One song, the lovely “I Would Have Had a Good Time,” sounds eerily like it could’ve been a lost track from Elton’s “Tumbleweed Connection.” This is another artist largely unknown in the US who I heartily recommend to you all.

“Big Bambu,” Cheech & Chong  and “Class Clown,” George Carlin

I had to mention these two seminal comedy albums because I listened to them so much that I had the routines memorized. Cheech & Chong’s drug humor is dated now, and a bit sophomoric, but it was pretty daring in 1972. Carlin’s stuff, especially “Seven Words You Can’t Say on Television,” was even more provocative, pushing boundaries of what could be broadcast on public airwaves. Times were changing…

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Honorable mention:

“Something/Anything?,” Todd Rundgren; “Exile on Main Street,” The Rolling Stones; “Saint Dominic’s Preview,” Van Morrison; “Loggins and Messina,” Loggins and Messina; “Sail Away,” Randy Newman; “Summer Breeze,” Seals and Crofts; “Bare Trees,” Fleetwood Mac; “Let’s Stay Together,” Al Green; “Saturate Before Using,” Jackson Browne; “Honky Chateau,” Elton John; “Lady Sings the Blues,” Diana Ross; “Eagles,” The Eagles; “Machine Head,” Deep Purple; “Superfly,” Curtis Mayfield; “Foxtrot,” Genesis; “Caravanserai,” Santana; “Barnstorm,” Joe Walsh; “Catch Bull at Four,” Cat Stevens; “No Secrets,” Carly Simon; “Smokin’,” Humble Pie; “Burgers,” Hot Tuna; “Back Stabbers,” The O’Jays; “A Good Feelin’ to Know,” Poco; “Never a Dull Moment,” Rod Stewart; “Give It Up,” Bonnie Raitt; “Seventh Sojourn,” The Moody Blues; “One Man Dog,” James Taylor; “Raspberries,” The Raspberries; “All the Young Dudes,” Mott the Hoople, “Aztec Two-Step,” Aztec Two-Step.

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Two playlists for you: Three songs each from my Top 15 Albums of 1972, and one song each from my honorable mention list.

There is still a light that shines on me

Posted on by brucehhackett

When Apple Records released The Beatles’ “Let It Be” album in May 1970, the world was still reeling from Paul McCartney’s public announcement the previous month that the band had broken up. (John Lennon had told the group privately six months earlier that he “wanted a divorce,” and George Harrison had already begun sessions for his solo debut, but the public had only just learned that the end had come.)

As a loyal fan, I bought the LP right away, but not with the excitement and eager anticipation I’d had with “The White Album” in late 1968 or “Abbey Road” in autumn 1969. “Let It Be,” apparently, would be The Beatles’ last album, which forever tainted it in the minds of many.

It was a strange record. Two of the songs (“Get Back” and “Let It Be”) had already been released as singles; four others seemed to have been recorded in some sort of live setting; two tracks (“Dig It” and “Maggie Mae”) were pretty much inconsequential filler; one tune (“One After 909”) was a Lennon-McCartney chestnut resurrected from their teen years; and sprinkled throughout were weird tidbits of verbal outbursts (mostly from Lennon). The album’s ragged nature seemed a letdown after the astonishing, polished work on “Abbey Road.”

There was mention of a “Let It Be” film that documented the making of the album, but it saw only limited release and was soon pulled from distribution, evidently because it was roundly panned and The Beatles themselves didn’t much care for it either. So I never saw it until years later. In fact, I went with my friend Barney one day in 1978 to a small Cleveland theater that was showing “Let It Be” in a double feature with “Magical Mystery Tour,” another neglected Beatle film project. (We never saw either film that day because theater personnel threw us out after I mischievously fired up a joint as the movie was just beginning!)

When I finally saw “Let It Be” a couple days later, I agreed with the critics who found it to be a dreary, uncomfortable, ultimately depressing look at my favorite band on the verge of dissolution. They all looked so glum and serious, with no sense of fun or even shared creativity. They sat in silence or bickered, and there was a clear sense that things were collapsing, and no one seemed to care. Sure there were a few entertaining moments, mostly the rooftop concert sequences, but I concluded they were right to bury the film in the archives.

What I never knew until about a year ago is that the film’s director, Michael Lindsay-Hogg, had shot nearly 60 hours of film, and sound crews had captured 150 hours of music and conversational recordings. Peter Jackson, the award-winning filmmaker behind “Lord of the Rings” and a huge Beatles fan himself, had always wished for the opportunity to review those source materials to see what was there, and four years ago, Apple Records gave him the green light to delve into them.

Beatles fans worldwide should thank their lucky stars that a talent like Jackson was selected for the task. In “Get Back,” his triumphant, seven-hour documentary released on Thanksgiving on Disney+, his efforts paid off handsomely, with grainy film images digitally restored and enhanced, and the sometimes unintelligible audio cleaned up to such a degree that what we see and hear is a thrilling revelation. True, it may be a bit long and sometimes tedious for the casual fan, but for rabid Beatles fans and professional musicians, it’s Shangri-La.

Most notably, we learn that the prevailing myth advanced by the “Let It Be” movie — that the sessions were nothing but ugliness and toxicity — is simply untrue. Granted, things started off shakily when they first convened in the cavernous Twickenham film studio, a cold environment hardly conducive to conviviality or productivity. The guys seemed understandably self-conscious about the cameras and microphones recording their every move, and they often showed up late, or not at all. However, once they moved the proceedings to the new studio set-up in the basement of the Apple Records office, the mood improved significantly, thanks in large part to the arrival of their old friend Billy Preston, who had only stopped by to say hello while in London but ended up staying for a week and contributing enormously to the vibe and the musical recordings.

It was mesmerizing to me to be a fly on the wall, witnessing the resilience and raw talent of John, Paul, George and Ringo, these four men I had idolized my whole life, as they coped with the absurd circumstances: They had reluctantly agreed to be filmed writing, rehearsing and recording an album’s worth of new songs in preparation for a live performance three weeks ahead, location still undecided. Talk about pressure.

We get to see several of The Beatles’ classic tunes transformed from rudimentary sketches to finished product, particularly “Get Back” and “Don’t Let Me Down.” It’s the arduous process of songwriting and track recording, and while it may go on all the time for rock bands everywhere, it rarely happens with cameras rolling, and here it’s the bloody Beatles, for crying out loud!

As one young songwriter put it in a Washington Post article the other day: “You never get to see someone in that moment of making something up, especially a song like ‘Get Back’ that you know so well. That was totally incredible… Watching Paul do it that way, where he’s just plugging and plugging and plugging until he gets it, that’s how it actually happens.”

Said another musician: “This whole endeavor — writing songs — is filled with failure. Most people think, ‘Oh, the Beatles, everything they did turned to gold.’ Wrong. You’re always trying and discarding things and searching for the right thing. There’s a lot of sitting around, a lot of screwing around, a lot of playing nonsense music. Then there’s also a lot of slogging away, trying to get what you’re actually working on to be great. The reality is it often has to sound bad before it sounds good. These eight hours reaffirm that.”

“Get Back” offered many other discoveries, most of them pleasant, even exhilarating. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that McCartney, Harrison and Lennon seemed to have new songs just pouring out of them at this stage. (Even Ringo Starr debuted the beginning of his song “Octopus’s Garden” during these sessions.) In addition to the amazing McCartney songs that would end up on the “Let It Be” album, including “Two of Us” and “The Long and Winding Road,” we also hear him toying with early drafts of tunes that would end up on “Abbey Road” (“She Came in Through the Bathroom Window,” “Oh Darling,” “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer,” “Carry That Weight”) or his first solo albums (“Teddy Boy,” “The Back Seat of My Car”).

Lennon’s output included “Dig a Pony” (then known as “All I Want is You”) and “Across the Universe”; early previews of “Mean Mr. Mustard,” “Polythene Pam,” “I Want You (She’s So Heavy),” destined for “Abbey Road”; and “Gimme Some Truth” and a tune known as “Child of Nature,” which would later be recast as “Jealous Guy” on his “Imagine” album.

Harrison, meanwhile, brought “All Things Must Pass,” which The Beatles seriously considered but ultimately set aside, and it ended up the title track of his solo LP nearly two years later. In addition to his songs “I Me Mine” and “For You Blue,” which made the cut for the “Let It Be” album, Harrison also presented the rollicking “Old Brown Shoe” and perhaps his finest ever composition, “Something,” which Lennon later called “the best song on ‘Abbey Road.'”

How fabulous it is that we’re given the opportunity to watch and listen to all these eventual masterpieces played in their earliest forms. It makes me appreciate the finished recordings all the more.

The best part of the original film was, without question, The Beatles performing live on the rooftop. The same holds true in Jackson’s documentary, where we get to watch, for the first time, the entire 43-minute performance uncut, during which they play “Get Back,” “Don’t Let Me Down,” “One After 909,” “Dig a Pony” and “I’ve Got a Feeling,” some more than once. Running parallel to this excellent footage is the hilarious storyline of the ineffectual London bobbies trying to shut it all down and being stymied by clever Apple staff who hold them at bay as long as they can.

I mustn’t forget to mention how much I really enjoyed the moments in the studio when, as a way of cutting through the lethargy, the band broke into vintage rock oldies like “Blue Suede Shoes,” “Shake, Rattle and Roll” and “Kansas City,” reminding us that, down deep, The Beatles were just a great little rock ‘n’ roll band who became larger-than-life icons — icons that we’re still interested in watching and learning more about, 50-plus years later.

A few other observations:

Paul still comes across as the true workaholic of the group, continually pushing the others to get to work in order to meet deadlines. He acknowledges that he could be overly controlling, but without the late Brian Epstein around to be “the Daddy figure,” someone had to step up. It seems likely the project would’ve fallen apart without his “C’mon, boys” approach, and he deserves credit for that.

John was a listless, unenthusiastic, even disruptive presence at first, clearly showing the effects of his recent dabbling with heroin in the off hours. In the later sections of the documentary, he seems far more engaged, performing the material with renewed purpose, and even joking around with the others.

Yoko Ono, whose influence on John has been widely accused of breaking up the band, rarely left his side, but in her defense, she barely said a word in the sessions, at least in the film sequences we see. (Well, there’s one bit where the band is jamming chaotically, and she pitches in with her signature caterwauling, but that’s an isolated instance.) Paul, George and Ringo may have been less than welcoming to her, overall, but Paul is on record here at one point saying basically, hey guys, they’re in love, give them a break. “If we force him to pick between Yoko and us, he’ll pick Yoko,” he warned. And he was probably right.

George, let’s face it, was tired of being disrespected by Paul and John, and was tired of being a Beatle in general at this point, which led to his five-day departure that caused no small amount of concern among the others. But they coaxed him back, and he showed a more professional, congenial attitude and some fine musical chops on the ensuing recordings, both in the studio and on the rooftop.

Ringo? Well, frankly, he looked bored, tired and unhappy through most of the documentary. I imagine he was thinking, “This used to be so much fun. What the hell happened?” But he still offered occasional moments of levity as well, and was always ready to play when the time came. He had a well-deserved reputation for being a drummer who played to the song, contributing exactly what the arrangement called for. The chugging train beat he came up with for “Get Back” is a perfect case in point, as is the understated work on “The Long and Winding Road.”

The other important characters who show up in the documentary show their true nature, good or bad:

Billy Preston, as mentioned earlier, was a godsend, bringing a calming amiability precisely when it was needed, especially in the studio.

Producer George Martin, so pivotal to The Beatles’ recorded legacy since their beginning in 1962, is reduced almost to a bit player here, but he handles it with aplomb as the cool professional we’ve known him to be.

Engineer/producer Glyn Johns, who would build his own legacy working with The Rolling Stones, The Who, The Kinks, The Eagles and many others, seemed to be grateful just to be asked to participate, sitting amongst the band during playbacks and even during tense conversations. It was Johns, evidently, who solved the problem of where the band should perform the new songs to conclude the film by suggesting the rooftop of the Apple building.

Mal Evans — personal assistant, roadie, friend, all-around good guy — was all of those things for the band before, during and after these sessions. What a hoot to see him procure and then bang on an anvil for a run-through of “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.”

My impression of Director Michael Lindsay-Hogg is that he was a rather annoying presence throughout. He chastised the band when they needed nurturing instead, and he kept pushing to stage the performance in Egypt or Libya when it was clear they weren’t interested. Perhaps he was just trying to do his job in a very trying situation, but I’m guessing The Beatles wondered if they’d made the right decision in bringing him in to direct the project.

Lastly, a heartfelt thanks to Peter Jackson for the time and tender-loving care he put into this extravagant undertaking. Beatles fans around the globe are eternally grateful.

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Here’s a Spotify playlist of the songs that comprise The Beatles’ “Let It Be” 1970 album, and a few of the early drafts heard in Jackson’s documentary.