See yourself: George’s album covers, from worst to best

Rating album cover artwork is, in some ways, more difficult that explaining why you like music. Both are wholly subjective, of course, but at least with a song you can say, “I like the guitar solo”, “the melody sticks in my head” or “I can really relate to the words”. But the image on the front of a record? I guess you either like it or you don’t. You could argue that, in these digital days where even the concept of an album carries less and less weight, cover art doesn’t even matter anymore. It’s importance has probably been shrinking – quite literally – since the arrival of the CD. But the lasting iconography of The Beatles’ album covers (along with many others, from David Bowie and Pink Floyd to Fleetwood Mac and The Smiths) shows they can really make an impact if you get them right.

For me, I guess I’m looking for a striking image (it doesn’t have to feature the artist, though I tend to like ones that do) and/or something that somehow captures the mood of the music in some way. If it doesn’t have a photo of its creator(s), then the image needs to grab my attention in its own right. I know you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover (after all, what could you possibly glean from the White Album?), but it can put some people off. How many times have you listened to a duff album and then thought: “even the cover’s crap”? Did the lousy cover help to plant negative thoughts in the first place? And how often have you been pumped to hear an album because you thought the artwork was really cool? A strong cover won’t necessarily make an album sell more, but it won’t hurt. Or at least it didn’t, in the old days.

Beatle solo album covers are a pretty mixed bag (partly, I suspect, because there have been so many of them over such a long period of time), and George’s are no exception to that. He didn’t consistently hit the heights that John did, for example, but his artwork choices were generally solid. Crucially, they were identifiably him, mixing splashes of humour with spiritual earnestness – sometimes both at the same time. For the purposes of this list, I’m not counting his experimental  Wonderwall and Electronic Sounds albums, nor his live or compilation discs (which is just as well in the case of the dreadful Live in Japan and Best of Dark Horse covers, which seem to be designed to make it as difficult as possible for any potential buyers to make out that they are George Harrison records). I’m not sure he even had any say over the 1976 Best of George Harrison release, in any case. And I doubt he’d have been thrilled at the use of a Beatles-era photo to adorn 2007’s Let It Roll solo compilation, either. So what follows is just my ranking of the covers for his studio albums, from least to best.

10. Extra Texture

Some original versions of this 1975 album cut out the letters of the album title, allowing you to see a photo of George on the inner sleeve; others had an embossed design on the cardboard sleeve (‘extra texture’, get it?). They probably worked a little better than the later, ‘flat’ copies – like the one I have. But even so, considering this came out at a time when LP covers were approached as intricate and often grandiose works of art ( think Tales from Topographic Oceans by Yes or Led Zepplin’s Houses of the Holy), this just comes over as drab, cheap and uninspired. At a time when George’s output was starting to take a critical battering and his sales were falling, I doubt this did much to generate public interest, and it certainly isn’t worthy of the fine music contained inside.

 9. Brainwashed

I believe George left notes about his ideas for the cover of this album, which came out in 2002, a year after his death. And I get the point he was trying to make, reflected in the title track, about many people having their ideas and opinions dictated to them by the mainstream media (very prescient, considering where we are today). But I think this image of a family of crash test dummies clustered around a TV set is a little clunky and heavy-handed, to say the least. Nor was the less-than-subtle message it conveyed likely to endear itself to potential buyers. The song features a mixture of contempt and hope of spiritual salvation, but the cover leans much more towards the former. It’s interesting to note that EMI soon put a slipcase around the CD, featuring a nice photo of George taken in Hawaii during the 1990s, instead.

8. Gone Troppo

This one, from 1982, is better. Colourful and playful, it’s also based on the title track and reflects George’s decision to effectively step away from the maelstrom of the rock world and go on semi-permanent vacation. Hence the sand, sea, sun and sombrero imagery, and various tropical paraphenalia. However, from a visual point of view, it’s also a bit messy and unfocused – your eye doesn’t quite know where to look. The (slightly odd) photo of George, his name and even the title of the album tend to get lost in the mix. I’m not sure the cartoonish quality of it all entirely works, either, but it does have a certain charm.

 7. Dark Horse

I’m in two minds about this one, from 1974. On the one hand, the simplistic artwork and pallid colours make it look like a tatty ‘70s religious painting you might find gathering dust in a charity shop. But it is clever how the designers managed to take an old school photograph and frame it in a spiritual, vaguely-Himalyan setting. Adorning the stiff, buttoned-up 1950s teachers (or masters, as they would’ve been known) with funky 1970s logos (including the record labels of Apple and George’s own soon-to-launched Dark Horse Records) is a fun touch too. However, I’m not sure that having the youthful George (coloured in Krishna blue) above everyone else and nearest the godhead figure sends out a very likeable message to his former classmates, or the rest of the world for that matter

6. Living in the Material World

Sometimes less is more, and that is the case here. Perhaps reflecting a shift to a more pared-down sound after the heavily-layered glories of its predecessor, All Things Must Pass, or perhaps just another nod to his religious beliefs, this 1973 album featured just an eerie photograph of George’s hand, apparently holding a Hindu medallion. The image was obtained using Kirlian photography (the technique which captures something’s electrical, coronal aura), and was taken at UCLA’s parapsychology department. I must say the end result is more creepy than spiritual, looking like something you’d find in a book about weird paranormal phenomena, but – accompanied by George’s signature – it makes for striking, unusual cover art.

5. Somewhere in England

The original 1981 sleeve…
…and the one first intended, later restored on the 2004 reissue

This 1981 collection famously had its original cover (showing George’s head merging with an image of the UK) rejected by his record label, Warner Brothers, along with some of its songs. It was later replaced by a photo of George in front of a painting at the Tate Gallery in London, only to be swapped out again in favour of the first choice artwork when the album was re-issued in 2004. I like both, but actually feel the Tate gallery shot which adorned the record on its first release is the better one. It’s a more memorable image (and what could be more English than a curb-side yellow line?), and is nicely supplemented on the back cover as a grinning George reveals he wasn’t lying down on the pavement at all.

4. George Harrison

The self-titled 1979 album features George as his most relaxed and laid-back, and the cover shot perfectly captures that mood. It’s a beautifully executed photograph, from the out-of-focus flora in the foreground to the mottled sunlight effect on George’s face. He looks contemplative, absorbed, like his thoughts focused are on a far horizon. The effect is spoiled slightly by his less-than-transcendental ‘70s curly perm but, nonetheless, it’s a very elegant, easy-on-the-eye cover which reflects the warmth and depth of the music within. And, perm aside, it doesn’t look dated at all.

3. All Things Must Pass

The most famous of all his albums, the austere cover photograph taken in the expansive grounds of George’s (then new) Friar Park home in Surrey has become a classic rock image, and deservedly so. Capturing him at the height of his landed gentry hippy look in 1970, he again seems to be staring slightly off-camera, with a serious, sage-like expression. But the grandeur of his surroundings and pose is nicely undercut by the Wellington boots he’s wearing and, particularly, the gently mocking garden gnomes placed around him. It didn’t occur to me for a long time that the four figures might be representing The Beatles, which many believe. Certainly, their close proximity to him, and the wide open spaces beyond, may be sending a message about his break for freedom a solo act. When the album was reissued in 2001, the cover was coloured in, and its CD sleeves and booklet pictured an imaginary encroachment of the modern concrete world which George so disliked, adding high rise flats, a motorway flyover and jumbo jet to the scene. They were good, but the chilly, monochrome beauty of the original was rightly restored on all releases since.

2. Cloud Nine

I love this cover. After a five-year, self-imposed hiatus, George returned to the music scene in 1987 with a set of sparkling, upbeat – and undeniably commercial – songs, and this photograph shows a happy, revitalised man in step with the times and in touch with his muse. He’s starting straight at the camera this time (albeit from behind shades) and smiling, a far cry from the slightly bitter, almost grumpy figure we had seen at the start of the decade. Clutching the Gretch guitar he played during his early Beatles days, it also reflected someone at ease with his illustrious past (as did his thanks to John, Paul and Ringo on the inner sleeve), but the dreamy clouds in the background also signified the search for heavenly enlightenment hadn’t gone away.

  1. Thirty Three & 13

I’m not exactly sure what it is about this sleek 1976 cover I like so much, but it works on every level for me. A little like Cloud Nine, it shows George in cool, confident mood following a couple of difficult years when his critical and commercial standing had slumped. I love the double exposure on the photo – it’s colourful and dynamic, portraying forward movement. There’s the oligatory religious reference (the album title actually reads as Thirty Three & 1/ॐ, the final letter a spiritual symbol in Indian religions) but it’s a light, clever artistic touch which doesn’t come off as preachy. And any remotely serious tone is nicely dispelled by his silly sunglasses. All in all, one of the very best solo Beatle album covers.

‘The Long and Winding Road: A History of The Beatles on Record’ (1982)

When I first began devouring all things Beatles, back in the mid-1980s, discographies were must-haves. With no internet to rely on, any Beatles book worth its salt would have a list of the group’s records. It might simply be a basic run-down of their singles and albums, tucked away at the back, or the whole book itself might be given over to an in-depth exploration of their catalogue. In these days of streaming it must seem rather quaint to some younger fans, but release dates, chart positions, sales figures, running times and (to some) even catalogue numbers really mattered back then. These were the nooks and crannies of the Beatles story, the material manifestations of their other-worldly music. And one of my favourite books of this type from those days is Neville Stannard’s The Long and Winding Road.

The UK edition of the book

Subtitled The History of The Beatles on Record, this is a book for proper record geeks. An ardent fan, Stannard began work on the book in the ‘70s because he felt there wasn’t a single volume which had all the facts and figures in one place. The bulk of the 240 pages is given over to a chronological list of all the band’s official releases, starting off with ‘Love Me Do’ in 1962 and ending in the very murky (and increasingly exploitative) waters of picture discs, rehashed compilations, audiophile editions and mail-order box sets of the early 1980s. The book was published just ahead of the CD boom and the belated legal agreement between EMI and Apple which finally gave the surviving Fabs (and Yoko) more control over how their work was repackaged and sold – leading to a much more considered and ordered series of releases which continue to this day. On that level, it’s an interesting time capsule reflecting just how much the management of The Beatles’ legacy has changed over the last three decades or so. As if to emphasise that, the book is chiefly divided into distinct sections covering UK and US releases, illustrating how differently the band’s output was handled on either side of the Atlantic, particularly during  the Beatlemania period. The group began to exercise much more control over American releases from 1967 onwards, but even then you had anomalies like the Magical Mystery Tour and Hey Jude albums.

Stannard lists all the singles, EPs, albums and compilations in the order they were released, along with details of their chart performances and estimated sales (though his estimates become a little vague towards the end of the ‘60s, with a few “probably sold…” and “sales must be around….” references). The story in the UK becomes a little complicated once EMI started seriously milking the Beatle cash cow in the mid-’70s, but in the US section it’s just confusing from the start. Different record labels had rights to different songs, which meant the American market was flooded with endlessly repackaged versions of the same material in 1964 (Jolly What! England’s Greatest Recording Stars: The Beatles and Frank Ifield on Stage has always been a favourite of mine). And even when it wrestled back full control the following year, Capitol continued to hack up the band’s UK catalogue to produce as many different LPs and singles as it could get away with, and squeeze every last dollar out of the English phenomenon it’s bosses had smugly dismissed throughout 1963. Stannard does a good job of guiding you through how the songs were recycled in different configurations, but your head will still be spinning at the barefaced cheek of the record companies.

One of the print ads featured in the book. How cool do they look here?

If all this sounds a bit dry, it really isn’t. Stannard doesn’t pass judgement on the songs or attempt to analyse them – you need to look elsewhere for that. He does go into who plays what on some tracks (with very varying degrees of detail, it has to be said) and even attempts to pin down recording dates, some years before Mark Lewisohn’s ground-breaking The Complete Beatles Recording Sessions book lit up that particular corner of the band’s story. What he excels on is the chart facts and figures, even though for the UK he relies heavily on the NME and Melody Maker hit parades rather than the BMRG chart which is now viewed as the definitive one (though some would argue the music paper listings were the ones people really cared about in the 1960s). The level of research and attention to detail is impressive, and – unusual for books at that time, when some authors tended to operate on hearsay and guesswork – there are very few obvious errors. The only real howler is his claim that the band re-recorded ‘Across The Universe’ in 1969 for Let It Be, when in fact Phil Spector simply slowed down and overdubbed the original 1968 version. But we didn’t have anywhere near the wealth of knowledge about their output in 1982 that we have now, so it’s forgivable.

One really good aspect of the book is that Stannard doesn’t just give you The Beatles’ chart performances, he also digs a little bit into the artists whose songs they recorded, and the people who subsequently covered the Fabs’ own material. So, for example, you get to learn about how the relatively little-known (at least in the UK) Larry Williams, composer of ‘Dizzy Miss Lizzy’, actually had two million-selling global hits, one of which was the gloriously titled ‘Short Fat Fanny’. And how the release of Rubber Soul in 1965 triggered a slew of cover versions targeting the UK singles chart, ranging from total flops by the likes of Three Good Reasons (‘Nowhere Man’) to now long-forgotten hits by the St Louis Union (‘Girl’) and The Overlanders (‘Michelle’). And I’d certainly forgotten about later hit covers by the likes of Rod Stewart (‘Get Back’) and Earth Wind and Fire (‘Got To Get You Into My Life’). Okay, it’s footnote stuff in the greater scheme of things, but it’s yet another illustration of how the Fabs’ influence permeated the music world like nothing else, as well as the deathless nature of their songs. And it continues even today, as recent covers of ‘Yesterday’ and ‘Something’ by current pop sensation Billie Eilish demonstrate.

Original ‘Sgt Pepper’ press ad

The mind-boggling sales figures and chart performances in the book provide another way of gauging their meteoric impact, as you see records tumbling one after the other (no pun intended). Please Please Me, for example, became the longest reigning #1 album ever in the NME charts (29 weeks). Twist and Shout was the first EP ever to crack the UK Top Ten singles chart, achieving an unprecedented placing of #4….until that was topped by the Magical Mystery Tour EP four years later. With The Beatles was the first British album to sell a million copies in the UK. In the US, Rubber Soul became the fastest selling album in history, shifting 1.2 million copies in nine days – a record later smashed by Let It Be. In the US singles charts, ‘Hey Jude’ and ‘Get Back’ became the first records ever to debut in the Top Ten, but then their record-busting entries at #10 was soon beaten by ‘Let It Be’, which crashed in at #6. And so on. Even sub-standard cast-off songs, given to the likes of Peter and Gordon or Billy J. Kramer, often yielded million-selling number one hits. Remarkable.

A knowing old-school ad for ‘Lady Madonna’ in 1968

It is interesting to note, however, that 1966 – often regarded as their creative peak – actually saw a slight dip in The Beatles’ commercial tidal wave. While their releases remained hugely successful, ‘Paperback Writer’ was their first single in three years not to go straight to #1 in the UK, while neither ‘Eleanor Rigby’ nor ‘Yellow Submarine’ reached the top spot in the US. And Stannard lists Revolver as selling ‘only’ 500,000 copies in the UK, slightly fewer than any of their previous albums. I would hazard a guess this was due to increased competition from the likes of the Stones, the Who, the Kinks and the Beach Boys (who actually claimed the Fabs’ crown as Best World Vocal Group in the 1966 NME Readers Poll), together with falling interest from teeny-boppers who were probably put off by the more ‘far out’ sounds coming out of Abbey Road at that point (and thus creating a vacuum that would soon be filled by The Monkees). But normal service was resumed with the arrival of Sgt Pepper the following year, restoring the band’s unquestioned pre-eminence which would continue for the rest of the decade (and beyond).

Another thing I really liked about the book when I picked it up in 1987 was the reproduction of original music press ads for their releases, many of which I’d never seen before. The ones for ‘Eleanor Rigby’ and Sgt Pepper, in particular, stood out, but the artwork used for promoting post-split releases was also intriguing and, in some cases (1976’s ‘Yesterday’ UK single and the Rock ‘n’ Roll Music compilation album), downright bizarre. I also loved the book’s cover, with its photos reflecting the band’s visual transformation from clean-cut pop cherubs to hirsute hippy demigods in just seven short years.

1976’s ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll Music’ album ad – any reference to The Beatles is purely accidental

Stannard finishes things off with a lengthy appendices section, which fills in the gaps left by their ‘official’ canon. It looks at songs they gave away, non-EMI recordings, bootlegs, the Christmas fan club releases and (curiously, for a book predicated on facts) the story behind the ‘Paul is Dead’ rumour. It’s amusing to note his reporting that talks were underway between EMI and Apple to release an album of The Beatles’ BBC radio recordings, negotiations which wouldn’t reach fruition for another decade. Like many authors of the time, he accepts without question the existence of many more unreleased studio tracks than there actually were, citing such phantom titles as ‘Peace of Mind’ (apparently laid down during the Sgt Pepper sessions) and ‘Four Nights in Moscow’, allegedly a lost gem from Abbey Road. But, on the whole, his forensic approach continues to serve him well in this part of the book, particularly in unpicking the tangled, never-ending release history of the 1961 Hamburg material backing Tony Sheridan and the live set taped at the city’s Star Club in December the following year. It even makes Capitol’s handling of the EMI catalogue look restrained.

On the whole, Stannard achieved what he set out to do, and put together a very comprehensive and reliable discography. It did so well, there was a reprint in 1983 (the version I have) and he followed it up with an equally impressive volume on their solo careers, entitled Working Class Heroes. Of course, the problem with any book of this kind is that it rapidly becomes out of date. And with the internet now at our disposal, together with much deeper detail about The Beatles’ studio work, you could argue it is totally redundant. But I still enjoyed revisiting it, and if you want a book which rounds up the band’s release history before the CD era, this is among the best. It still rates a 7.

Memories of December 1980

It’s become something of a cliché that people can always remember where they were when they heard news of a major historical event. When I was growing up, people always talked about President Kennedy’s assassination, or the Moon landing. And, as I got older, I realised that – as with a lot of clichés – there was some truth in it. For my generation, learning about Princess Diana’s fatal car crash or the 9/11 attacks were occasions that remain burned in the memory. And I think they stay with you more as an adult, as you are more aware of the import of what has happened. You feel the shockwave that (metaphorically, at least) rolls under your feet and resonates in the world around you. Yet the first time it happened to me was as a child – and years before I became interested in The Beatles – with the death of John Lennon.

One of the final photos, December 1980

I hadn’t long turned 11 when 9 December, 1980 dawned. Then, as now, I would’ve been reluctant to get out of bed on a cold, gloomy morning (I don’t like getting out of bed any morning, in truth) and trudge my way to school. But Christmas was coming, so my spirits would’ve been high, nonetheless. My brother and sister had long since left home, so it was just my parents and I by that point. As usual, my Dad was first up and had called several times to raise me from my slumber. I eventually made my way downstairs to join him in the kitchen, where the radio was on, as usual (breakfast television in the UK was still more than two years away). It was invariably tuned to the cosy banter and easy listening tunes of Terry Wogan on BBC Radio 2, but it sounded very different today. There was a lot of very serious talking, involving a man on a very crackly phone line. Still, I carried on oblivious, prattling away as I stood at the sink getting a glass of water or sorting out a bowl of cornflakes. Until my Dad said: “Ssshush! I’m listening.”

“Why? What’s happened?” I said, as obedient and selfless as ever.

“John Lennon’s been shot. He’s dead.”

“Who’s he?” I asked.

“He was one of The Beatles.”

“Oh. Right.”

Contrary to what some people will tell you now, The Beatles were already a cultural touchstone. I can’t really compare their status then as opposed to now, as I wasn’t old enough to fully understand it, but I certainly knew who they were, even though music didn’t really play a big part in my life at that time. I probably knew they had been the biggest pop group there ever was, were from Liverpool and had funny haircuts, and was almost certainly familiar with some of their songs, even then. But I was less clear on the individual components. I knew Paul, of course – then, as now, everyone knew who Paul was. I can vividly remember hearing on John Craven’s Newsround in 1978 that ‘Mull of Kintyre’ had become the biggest selling UK single of all time, and Paul remained a fixture in the charts, in the newspapers and on TV, though his fame already transcended any of that. Although he was no longer a regular in the charts, Ringo also had a high public profile, and I was well aware of him. George, on the other hand, hadn’t registered in my consciousness. He’d released only one album since 1976, and done precious little to promote it. And John was even less visible. He’d been in semi-retirement and out of the public eye altogether since early 1975 – half my life at that point. And I certainly had no idea he’d just embarked on a comeback. I had only a passing interest in pop music, dipping in and out of Top of the Pops once a week and the chart run-down on Sundays. My main musical memory from that period is the release of Abba’s ‘Super Trouper’ (we were big Abba fans in our house). I have no recollection of John’s ‘(Just Like) Starting Over’ single, it just wouldn’t have been on my radar.

Nonetheless, when my Dad explained what they were talking about on the radio, I shut up and listened. From his reaction, and that of my Mum when she came downstairs a few moments later, I knew John Lennon was someone important. My parents weren’t Beatles fans, per se, but I could tell he meant something to them. I don’t recall any of details of what was said on the radio, beyond the emerging facts of his murder and the reaction to it. Certainly, having grown up on a TV diet of Kojak and other New York cop shows, I wouldn’t have been remotely surprised that someone had been gunned down in the city. It seemed like the Wild West to me (and, compared to the crime rates there today, probably was). Still, this was a real person. A pop star. Why would anyone want to shoot a pop star?

A BBC-TV news report from 9 December

When I got home from school later in the day, it dominated the TV news, obviously. The BBC screened Help! that evening as a tribute. Although intrigued, I was still more preoccupied by playing with Star Wars action figures or reading my latest Marvel comics to watch much of it. Still, I have vague memories of the scene in the pub, and the climactic silliness on the beach. And I noted that my parents did watch some of it, which – again – was unusual. They weren’t normally interested much in pop stars, at all. What was it about this guy? The newspapers were full of nothing else for the next week or so. The Daily Mirror was our paper of choice, for some reason, and it was around this time that I’d started reading it in detail once my parents had done with it. The main thing I remember from the coverage was the reaction of the other Beatles, and speculation over what would happen next. I can’t be sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if people were already touting some sort of band reunion in John’s memory.

The newspaper I would have read on 10 December

I was in my last year at primary school and, by sheer coincidence, our class project that term was for each of us to produce our own newspaper. I enjoyed doing it so much (and won a pen for my efforts), it planted the seeds which eventually led me into a career in journalism. I was just putting the finishing touches to it when the news came through of John’s death, and it ended up being the final story in my publication – following on from the likes of Steve McQueen’s death, the Iran-Iraq War and the latest Yorkshire Ripper murder. Gruesome times, though I did try to lighten things up with football scores, some jokes, a report on Miss Germany winning the Miss World competition and a fictional story about rats (no, I’ve no idea why). I probably plundered the Mirror for most of the facts about John, though I do remember asking my Dad when The Beatles had broken up. He was never very good on dates, much to my chagrin. I plumped for 1971, which wasn’t too far off.

My hot-off-the-press report. I’d give myself marks for use of apostrophes and spelling Hawaii correctly, but missing the ‘C’ in McCartney and the second ‘r’ in Starr is unforgivable

I can recall bits and pieces from the weeks that followed. My family talked about it over Christmas lunch. My Mum reiterated her view (shared by many in the UK, I’m sure) that John had “gone crazy” after meeting Yoko and embarking on his peace bed-ins, nude album covers, avant garde musical excursions, political protests and the like. Think she also may have commented on how thin he looked during his last days (though that may have been something she said years later) – I don’t think she saw Yoko as a particularly positive influence. In the new year, ‘Imagine’ was at #1 in the charts for what seemed like forever. I don’t think I had a strong opinion about it as a song, but do remember watching the video on Top of the Pops and thinking there was something very sad about it, in light of what had happened to him. Bizarrely, I also thought that – at the beginning of the clip, when you see John and Yoko strolling through the gardens at Tittenhurst Park – John still had his long hair from 1969 (probably the shadow cast by his hat), but then had it chopped off before they filmed him at the piano. The vagaries of an 11-year-old mind.

A still from the ‘Imagine’ clip, which came to define John in early 1981

I guess my curiosity started to fade after that. I have no recollection of ‘Woman’ topping the charts soon afterwards, though it’s now one of my favourite Lennon songs. Like I say, music wasn’t high on my list of priorities back then. But I do wonder if my interest in The Beatles – as a modern myth, perhaps, rather as creators of dazzling music – first began to germinate at that time. We had a taped copy of The Beatles’ 1962-66 compilation album in the house, and I may have started playing it from time to time in the months that followed. It would be a few more years before the love affair with the band really began to take root, but the memories of that horrible (and for my young self, horribly fascinating) day in 1980 never left me. It’s strange to think that John’s now been gone for as long as he was here. And for me, it’s almost as strange to realise that 40 years after I first wrote about him and The Beatles, I’m here doing it again (hopefully in a slightly more informed way). As he once sang: “You know the more it change/The more it stays the same.” He was a pretty cool fella, John Lennon. It’s such a pity we lost him so soon.