Imagine crafting a heartfelt song that's rejected not once, not twice, but three times by your own legendary band—and then it blossoms into an emotional masterpiece that outshines the rest. This is the captivating tale of George Harrison's 'Isn't It A Pity,' a track that became the beating heart of his groundbreaking solo album All Things Must Pass. But here's where it gets controversial: could this repeated dismissal by The Beatles have been a blessing in disguise, or did it reveal deeper tensions in the group's dynamics? Let's dive in and uncover the story behind this overlooked gem that redefined Harrison's legacy.
It wasn't easy for George Harrison to shine as a songwriter amid the towering presence of his Beatles bandmates, John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Their creative dominance often overshadowed his contributions, making it a real challenge for Harrison to get his ideas noticed. To truly grasp this, take a look at Peter Jackson's 2021 documentary Get Back, which captures the subtle ways Harrison had to nudge and persist just to have his songs considered during those intense recording sessions. It's a fascinating peek into the interpersonal dynamics of one of the world's most iconic groups—and the part most people miss is how these quiet struggles shaped Harrison's solo path later on.
One such song that Harrison pitched to the band was 'Isn't It A Pity,' a beautifully melancholic tune reflecting on fractured relationships and the absence of widespread compassion. Yet, amazingly, it was turned down for Beatles albums three separate times. According to Beatles historian Mark Lewisohn, Harrison first introduced it during the 1966 Revolver sessions. Then, Beatles engineer Geoff Emerick recalled it being proposed for 1967's Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, only to face rejection again. Fast-forward to 1968, and Harrison tried once more, hoping to include it on the double album The Beatles, famously dubbed 'The White Album.'
A recorded chat reveals Harrison gently reminding Lennon that he'd vetoed the song three years prior, adding that he'd even contemplated offering it to the legendary crooner Frank Sinatra. But neither The Beatles nor Sinatra ever recorded it. The world finally got to hear 'Isn't It A Pity' on All Things Must Pass, Harrison's expansive triple-album triumph co-produced with Phil Spector and released in November 1970. In the end, what was a loss for The Beatles turned into a massive win for Harrison. 'Isn't It A Pity' stands as one of his finest works, hailed by writer Simon Leng as the emotional and musical cornerstone of the album. It's a piece rooted in themes of humanitarian love, celebrated for its poignant lyrics, sophisticated melodies, and profound emotional layers.
For those new to music analysis, the song's structure might seem a bit tricky at first, but it's what gives it its unique power. It starts with a mantra-like quality from its mysterious, descending chords that build tension without following a typical up-and-down progression. Instead, its strength comes from a sweeping, intense melody—the ascending chords of G-Em6-Cmaj7-G-Ddim-C-G layered over descending strings—and the straightforward, heartfelt lyrics that hit home: 'Isn't it a pity? Now isn't it a shame? How we break each other's hearts and cause each other pain.' To put it simply, imagine a musical scale climbing up like hope, only to descend like sorrow, creating a hypnotic loop that mirrors life's emotional ups and downs.
In his 1980 autobiography I Me Mine, Harrison explained that 'Isn't It A Pity' delves into those low points in relationships, where 'we all tend to break each other's hearts, taking and not giving back.' He added a profound insight: 'It was a chance to realise that if I felt somebody had let me down, then there's a good chance I was letting someone else down.' This self-reflection adds even more depth, encouraging listeners to think about empathy and reciprocity in their own lives—something that's especially relevant today in our often disconnected world.
Interestingly, two distinct versions of the song made it onto the album, showcasing Harrison's versatility. The first version wraps up the first side and runs a full 7:11, featuring an epic, Spector-style production with a star-studded lineup including bassist Klaus Voormann, keyboardist Billy Preston, and multiple percussionists. Drummers Ringo Starr and session player Bobby Whitlock contributed to both versions, while classical composer and arranger John Barham handled the orchestral and choral elements for the first take and woodwind for the second.
One standout element is Harrison's slide guitar work, which became a signature of the album. Beatles historian Bruce Spizer pointed out that the opening slide solo mirrors almost exactly the melody Harrison hummed while demoing the song to the band during the January 1969 Get Back sessions. This continuity highlights how Harrison evolved his sound post-Beatles, blending rock with Indian influences for a fresh, global feel.
The first version begins subtly and grows majestically, reflecting Harrison and Barham's vision to weave classical orchestration into rock music. Barham even stayed at Harrison's Friar Park home to compose scores, basing them on melodies Harrison sang or played on piano and guitar. The lush sound builds with added layers—like the tambourine kicking in at 0:47 alongside acoustic guitar, piano, and strings, followed by the rhythm section at 1:10. Harrison's vocals are wonderfully understated, delivered in a calm, wistful mid-to-high tenor that lets the lyrics speak for themselves: 'Some things take so long, but how do I explain when not too many people can see we're all the same?'
Musically, it escalates with piano at 1:40, soaked in reverb by Spector, then soaring strings at 2:07, and Harrison's slide guitar solo at 2:21. The cyclical chords persist for the next four and a half minutes, incorporating brass, timpani, more guitar work, and even a 'Hey Jude'-style 'Na-na-na-na' chorus. Harrison's slide guitar incorporates Indian raga-inspired patterns, balancing the song's underlying sadness with moments of beauty, as musicologist Ian Inglis described in his 2010 book The Words And Music Of George Harrison. Harrison played several guitars himself, and to amplify the 'Wall of Sound' effect, three members of the Beatles-affiliated band Badfinger handled rhythm guitar. Spector applied the same technique to keyboards, stacking players in different octaves for a fuller tone—keyboardist Billy Preston later admitted he wasn't always a fan, but it worked perfectly for Harrison's material.
In a refreshing contrast to his Beatles experience, Harrison gave musicians creative freedom. Badfinger guitarist Joey Molland recalled Harrison's patient approach: 'He’d come over, bring the guitar, and say, “Okay, this is Isn't It A Pity.” He'd play it once or twice, show us the changes—you know, George used all those diminished chords.' (For beginners, diminished chords are those tense, suspenseful notes that add emotional weight, like a musical cliffhanger.) The first version was recorded on June 3, 1970, across 19 takes, but Harrison tweaked it, leading to 30 more at a slower pace with emphasized organ and piano. The final take, at 4:48, became the second version.
Harrison himself explained in a 2001 interview for the album's 30th anniversary that the second version emerged accidentally 'weeks later' when a backing musician spontaneously played it. This take is slower, more intimate, and stripped-down, with a smaller group including Eric Clapton on guitar, Bobby Whitlock on keys, and Carl Radle on bass—the core of what would become Derek and the Dominos, famous for their album Layla and Assorted Other Love Songs later that year. It features similar string and guitar solos after a tom build-up at 2:22, but toned down, evoking the earthy vibe of The Band, a major influence on Harrison. Think of it as a tender, reflective echo of the first version, like rediscovering a raw demo that captures the song's true soul.
The first version hit as a double A-side single with 'My Sweet Lord' in the US on November 23, 1970, achieving massive success—both sides topped the Billboard Hot 100 for four weeks starting December 26. This propelled Harrison beyond Lennon and McCartney in the post-Beatles era, stunning the industry. The song's impact is further proven by its covers. Nina Simone's 1972 version, an 11-minute powerhouse, is often seen as even more profound and spiritually moving than the original, showcasing her soulful depth. Artists like Graham Nash, Jonathan Wilson, Annie Lennox, Cowboy Junkies, and Galaxie 500 have also reinterpreted it, each adding their unique twist.
One of the most touching renditions happened at the 2002 Concert for George, held a year after Harrison's passing. Eric Clapton and Billy Preston led a big band including Harrison's son Dhani and ELO's Jeff Lynne in a deeply emotional performance, with Preston's organ solo stealing the show. A decade earlier, during Harrison's final 1991 Japan tour with Clapton, keyboardist Chuck Leavell noted how 'Isn't It A Pity' stirred audiences nightly: 'The lyrics are just a great comment, anyway, but in performance the song had a wonderful way of building... culminating in the crescendo at the end. At this point, I always looked out at the audience... and could see how visibly moved they were.'
Upon release, critics raved. NME's Alan Smith called it 'the mood of aching tolerance of pain, which Harrison can do so well,' predicting it would endure. And this is the part most people miss: 'Isn't It A Pity' not only bridged Harrison's Beatles past with his solo future but also sparked debates about whether The Beatles' rejections stemmed from genuine creative differences or unspoken rivalries. Was it a mistake to reject such a timeless tune, or did it allow Harrison to craft it into something even greater under his own terms?
What do you think—was the Beatles' oversight a sign of their evolving dynamics, or just a missed opportunity? Do you prefer the orchestral first version or the intimate second? And here's a controversial angle: Could Harrison's themes of empathy and heartbreak apply to modern relationships, like online interactions that often lack genuine connection? Share your opinions in the comments—do you agree or disagree, and why? Let's keep the conversation going!
