Imagine a Beatles legend turning his back on the very instrument that defined an era—what if the man who played "Something" for the world declared war on the shredding guitars that followed? George Harrison's take on the guitarist who reshaped music in the 1960s is a fascinating story of personal taste clashing with cultural shifts, and it might just challenge how you view rock history. Stick around, because this isn't just about guitars; it's about the soul of music and the debates it sparks.
The way we experience music underwent a seismic shift in the late 1960s, as the electric guitar emerged as a powerhouse of emotion in rock. This wasn't merely about the instruments themselves—think of those sleek electric guitars that amp up every note—but also advancements in amplification technology that made sounds louder and more immersive, plus innovative effects pedals that added distortion or echo for that extra edge. And of course, it was the virtuosos who pushed boundaries, like Jeff Beck with his fluid bends, Jimmy Page's intricate riffs, and Jimi Hendrix's explosive solos, who truly drove this evolution.
Before this revolution, rock 'n' roll was dominated by players like Keith Richards from the Rolling Stones and George Harrison himself. These guys bridged the gap between earlier styles, such as the straightforward rockabilly of the 1950s, and a more emotive, blues-infused approach that let the guitar tell a story. Harrison, especially, grew to admire the slower, more deliberate single-note leads exemplified by Robbie Robertson of The Band and his buddy Eric Clapton—think of it as the difference between a frantic outburst and a heartfelt whisper.
But here's where it gets controversial: Harrison wanted no part in the heavier, more intense rock that erupted afterward. In his eyes, Clapton had elevated the electric guitar to a bold new level with his trio Cream, infusing it with raw power and energy.
Yet, what came next? For Harrison, it was just too overwhelming.
'As a listener, I'd much prefer tunes from artists like Little Richard or Larry Williams,' he reflected in an interview with Rolling Stone. 'I couldn't stand all that late-'60s stuff after Cream dissolved—all those Les Paul guitars wailing and distorting wildly.' For beginners dipping into guitar history, Les Paul guitars are iconic for their warm, sustained tones that excel in blues and rock, but Harrison saw their misuse in heavy distortion as grating, like noise overpowering melody.
Clapton was central to the British blues revival after exiting The Yardbirds in 1965 to join John Mayall's Bluesbreakers. But when he stepped out to create his own high-energy power trio, inspired by a electrifying performance from Buddy Guy in London, he transformed blues into something fiercer and more aggressive. Cream blended blues with jazz elements—think improvisational solos and complex rhythms—and unknowingly laid the groundwork for hard rock and heavy metal that exploded later. Even Clapton later acknowledged this, saying, 'We were among the first heavy metal acts, though we didn't realize it at the time.' After Cream split, bands like Led Zeppelin stepped in to fill that void, amplifying the trend.
And this is the part most people miss: While hard rock produced incredible technical wizards, Harrison always gravitated toward the nuanced, expressive guitar work that came before. 'I appreciate finesse, like what Ry Cooder and Eric Clapton bring,' he shared. 'Eric is incredible—he could outplay anyone if he chose, but he opts for subtlety instead.'
'Personally, I'd take three perfectly struck notes that hit the sweet spot over a barrage of notes from a guitarist whose hearing is so damaged they can't distinguish between a flat and a sharp note,' he added. This preference highlights a debate in music: Is technical prowess and volume the ultimate expression, or does true artistry lie in restraint and emotion?
Harrison's admiration for Clapton came ironically soon after their infamous rivalry over Pattie Boyd, Harrison's wife back then. Clapton fell deeply for her in 1970, channeling that pain into the anguished ballad 'Layla' from Derek and the Dominos' album Layla & Other Assorted Love Songs. Interestingly, that song is now embroiled in plagiarism disputes, with claims that its melody echoes earlier works—a hot topic among music buffs wondering if borrowing inspiration crosses into theft.
Curiously, in that same Rolling Stone chat, Harrison didn't name the player he believed delivered the 'greatest guitar solo ever,' leaving fans to speculate who might top his list (perhaps someone unexpected like Bill Haley or Chuck Berry?).
Phil, a freelance writer passionate about eccentric music, contributes regularly to outlets like Prog, Guitar World, and Total Guitar, where he spotlights underrated talents. Beyond writing, he crafts progressive metal riffs in his band Prognosis, wielding an 8-string Strandberg Boden Original guitar through various alternate tunings. He's also a published author working on his first novel, blending fantasy, mythology, and human stories into an epic mix.
What do you think—did Harrison get it right in shunning heavy rock, or was he missing out on its raw energy? Is subtlety truly superior to showmanship in guitar playing? And on the Layla plagiarism angle, does inspiration ever turn into copying? Share your thoughts in the comments; I'd love to hear your take on this clash of musical eras!
