A wildly difficult album to remove from its context: nobody liked this when it came out, if you believe the stories. Beatles breaking up, everyone expecting a trajectory towards the important and serious, John doubling down on some unattainable, mostly unlistenable revolution, and taking all the piss on the way up.
And here comes this small, pleasant, strange thing.
It's rather beautiful. An olive branch back to Brian Wilson, burbling with lushness and harmonies and quirky asides, every song so modest, turning on itself, light changing on the same old scene, not one passes without some metamorphosis, some complication that elevates. The artfulness is understated, but there's richness to spare. It gets uneven in the second half, and it's a little bit oversweet in spots, sure, but it's too packed with interesting little angles to dare to ignore. It never succumbs to formula, never get predictable, lulling you to lean into each of its gentle curves.
That old test: if this had come from a non-ex-Beatle it would be at worst, a cult classic of massive proportions.
4.5/5
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