Journeys with George

Once upon a time, I went looking for Krishna in the Montrose district near downtown Houston. It was 1973. I was 17 years old. I was oblivious. Yet off I went, in the name of high school journalism, accompanied by my friend Max, in search of love and peace and the Hare Krishna Temple.

Just look at me: a gawky, spoiled child of conservative Goldwater Republicans, sitting barefoot, legs crossed, on a hapless cement slab behind this curious Krishna house-temple. Max and I are eating some sort of vegetarian gruel out of a grimy little bowl -- and the taste is so foreign to my tongue that I want to gag. It‘s a hot day; I can feel the sweat pouring down my shirt.

Beside us, of course, sits a gentle young man with a shaved head, wearing a saffron robe. He tries to give us a crash course in Vishnu and Lord Krishna and the Bhagavad-Gita, referencing a book with illustrations. “So: That’s Vishnu? The guy with four arms?” The gauzy, ornate interpretations of Hindu deities in these pictures actually frighten me and my Western sensibilities.

“Now,” says our host, rising, a flash of drama in his voice. “It is time for me to bring out the sweet meats!”

What in the heck are sweet meats? Where is Krishna? Why in the world am I sitting here?

In retrospect, that last question was the easiest to answer. I was there because of George Harrison -- who had told everyone in our generation that it was OK to be there. Harrison, a devoted Hindu, had told us through song that Krishna Consciousness was cool and safe and enlightening. His first post-Beatles solo records -- “All Things Must Pass” and “Living in the Material World” -- were rich with Vedaic references.

Sure, I liked the music. I was intrigued by its call to faith. But I certainly didn‘t “get” the Hare Krishna Temple. I was still too young, and those Eastern flavors were still too foreign. George’s call was lost on me -- except, perhaps, the most important part. The part that says: “It‘s OK to seek. It’s OK stretch. It‘s OK to go to those places that are foreign to you, beyond the bounds of familiarity, and consider the idea that there’s more than one way to experience joy, or peace, or hope . . .”

Who was George Harrison? He was the Quiet Beatle. The earnest, introspective one. The man who wrote what are arguably the two most beautiful songs on “Abbey Road,” the Beatles‘ final album: “Something” and “Here Comes the Sun.” Friend of Dylan and Clapton. The young one. The second Beatle to die before his time.

All true, of course. But I’d submit George‘s creative legacy is simpler and more substantial than that. He was the Beatle who stretched the most, who embarked on the most exotic journeys. He ventured inward. He ventured eastward. And it was no fab fad: George stayed true to the quest his entire life.

Certainly, all of us are free to embark upon such journeys. But George Harrison was a Beatle -- and these four men held an enormous sway over the generation who grew up with them. We followed the Beatles through innocence and idealism, rebellion and experimentation. So when George -- the son of a ship’s steward -- took sitar lessons and studied Indian music, he held the door open for us (and the other Beatles, especially John Lennon) to consider the East. Musically. Politically. Philosophically. Spiritually.

The Beat writers knew the Bhagavad-Gita. It was not foreign to the West. But not many mainstream baby boomers -- kids like me who listened to Beatles records -- considered the Eastern themes before George sneaked “Within You, Without You” onto “Sgt. Pepper‘s Lonely Hearts Club Band” in 1967. The song was a universe removed from, say, “Surfin’ USA” by the Beach Boys:

Consider all the “outlandish” things the Beatles did, collectively and individually, in the 1960s and 1970s. They challenged authority, experimented with drugs, grew their hair, held fast to the notions of idealism and peace. None of it seems too revolutionary in the context of today. But there was nothing mainstream about George’s breakthrough solo album, 1970‘s “All Things Must Pass.”

It wasn’t just that “All Things Must Pass” was a three-record set -- the first boxed set ever by a solo artist. Rather: It was a boxed set devoted primarily to themes of Eastern religion and philosophy, rich with joyful love songs to God and ruminations about spiritual discipline, with a distinctly “Indian” musical echo. Keep in mind, there was not even such a thing as “Christian” rock in 1970. And here comes George Harrison chanting “Hare Rama, Rama Rama” and singing “beware of maya” in the same studio with Eric Clapton!

“The best thing anyone can give to humanity is God consciousness,” Harrison said years later. “I figured this is the space age, with airplanes and everything. If everyone can go around the world on their holidays, there‘s no reason why a mantra can’t go a few miles as well. So the idea was to try to spiritually infiltrate society, so to speak.”

As a writer of lyrics, Beatle John was creative, ethereal, impressionistic: “Listen to the color of your dreams.” Beatle George was calculatingly earnest. On the chorus of “My Sweet Lord,” he went out of his way to chant “Hallelujah, Hallelujah” before drifting into “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna.” In doing so, he conveyed the subtle message that faith had more than one face.

Were you alive then? Do you remember? Within our generation, it was less of a stretch for someone to light up a joint than to chant “Hare Rama,” much less engage in a serious conversation about God. Ultimately, it didn‘t matter whether we agreed with George or not. But he certainly put the subject on the table -- and inspired a lot of us think.

So here I am, listening to “Within You Without You” in these first days after George Harrison’s death -- considering the man‘s musical legacy and the earnestness of his life’s journey. It is no surprise to learn that he was working on an album related to the theme of spirituality in the context of his own passing. Still, I can‘t help but think that the words of his youth were with him at his death:

Through his songs, it is clear that George knew he was a man, not a Beatle. He understood that he was fallible, small, prone to selfishness and want, as we all are. After all, the man lived in a mansion. He had a weakness for sports cars. But as an artist, George made sure the songs were about the ideal -- the quest for a more substantial life -- and not about himself.

As one who grew up with those songs I’m grateful, though I‘m pretty certain that I won’t be visiting the Hare Krishna Temple again in my lifetime. But you know what? Those sweet meats didn‘t kill me. And those Eastern flavors: Well, they do not seem so foreign or preposterous any longer.

George Harrison didn’t take me to Krishna -- but the power of those songs lingered, and helped open up my mind as an adult. When the time came for me to discover the Upanishads, I felt that I at least had some basis of understanding. I felt a special magic in Forster‘s “A Passage to India.” The spiritual cry of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan makes my heart sing. I keep a volume of poems by the Sufi mystic Rumi on my bed stand. None of that happens, I think, without “All Things Must Pass.”

The late author Ken Kesey, who knew the Beatles, once remarked that the great creative lesson of the 1960s was this: “There is room. We don’t all have to be the same. We don‘t have to have Baptists coast to coast, we can throw in some Buddhists and some Christians and . . . Irish leprechauns. There is room, spiritually, for everybody in this universe.”

George Harrison taught us all about the notion of room -- spiritually, musically, philosophically. It’s not so important if he failed to convert us. It‘s more important that he expanded our capacity to see and feel, to consider a new way to experience the world. Can any artist ask to achieve anything more meaningful?

Brad Buchholzhas worked as a feature writer for the Austin-American Statesman since late 1999 following a 15-year stint as an independent writer and teacher in Austin. As a free-lance writer, his work appeared in such publications as Sports Illustrated and Texas Monthly. He contributed regularly to the Dallas Morning News-- arts, features, Op-Ed, High Profile,-- from 1989 to 1994. He was also a senior writer for Inside Sports Magazine. Born in Los Angeles, Brad graduated with a degree in journalism from the University of Texas at Austin.