hat happens to classic artists? I caught a bit of a Paul McCartney concert on TV the other night, and though, in some ways, it had all the same elements as the Beatles once did, it still seemed subtly wrong— too overdone, too unconvincing, too lacking in that special something that separates divine popcraft from merely workmanlike paint-by-numbers. I can’t really say what that “special something” might be, but it definitely exists. It’s the unique element that elevated the Beatles into the upper reaches of music history, and the same element (lacking, this time) that transformed McCartney into an unbearable hack.


In other words, it’s a fine line between genius and crap, and no artist can successfully walk it forever. Like his ex-bandmate Paul, George Harrison has seen both sides of that line. Post-Beatles, he immediately turned out the sublimely folky All Things Must Pass before descending into pleasant commercial rock territory.


Of course, George’s recent passing focused some brief attention on his career, rightfully reawakening interest in the now appropriately-named All Things Must Pass, and causing some revisionist critics (um, VH1) to dub radio dross like “When We Was Fab” clever and ingenious. And now Brainwashed must stand as a capstone to that career. Harrison’s first studio album since 1988, and his best since his first one, Brainwashed was unfinished at the time of the ex-Beatle’s death, and was completed by Harrison’s son Dhani and his longtime guitar foil Jeff Lynne (of ELO).


The album certainly holds enough strong melodies and well-written songs to elevate it above the majority of Harrison’s uneven solo career, but is somewhat brought down by Lynne’s posthumous production. Though Lynne mostly refrains from excessively polishing these songs, he apparently missed the memo where George himself stated he wanted Brainwashed to be a collection of rough, virtually unproduced demos. The album clearly would have benefited from rougher fidelity, but Lynne’s tinkering isn’t completely to blame for this slick, accessible rock record that’s often pleasant, occasionally excellent, but mostly just flies by without making an impression.


Some of the best songs on the album, as on All Things Must Pass, are those that are most reminiscent of Harrison’s friend Bob Dylan. In many ways, parts of the album can be read as a companion to Dylan’s own recent effort, Love and Theft: bluesy, intimate, highly introspective songwriting that explores the very roots of the artist’s music and life. When Harrison reaches these highs— as he does on “Rising Sun,” the country-ish “Rocking Chair in Hawaii,” and the rollicking opener “Any Road”— you can’t help but be moved. Unfortunately, it’s also on these songs that Lynne’s production sounds most unnatural, as these songs would have been much better suited to a demo treatment, or even the kind of ragged bar band sound that Love and Theft boasted.


Elsewhere, Harrison re-explores Beatles territory with some surprisingly enjoyable results. “(Can Only) Run So Far” is a nice song with a rambling feel to suit its title and lyrics, and it would’ve made a nice b-side to some lost Let It Be-era single. And “P2 Vatican Blues (Last Saturday Night)” is the kind of upbeat rocker that Paul McCartney only wishes he could write these days. Even Lynne and Dhani’s occasional outbursts of overdubbed guitar can’t distract, as hard as they try, from the songs’ greatness.


But unfortunately, such great moments are equaled by the less inspiring ones. An unexpected instrumental led by Harrison’s distinctive slide guitar, “Marwa Blues” strangely reminds me of Pink Floyd’s The Division Bell—it’s nice enough, but ultimately doesn’t do much, and I certainly could have done without the cheesy strings in the background. “Never Get Over You” is everything you’d expect to go wrong with a project like this. Lynne overproduces the guitars until they practically sound like synths, and it doesn’t help that the song itself is a sappy ballad that packs in every lovey-dovey cliché you’ve ever heard.


There’s also a few missteps that can’t be blamed on a sloppy posthumous production job. The kitschy, vaudevillian “Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea” might have made a better cover choice for Ringo, and here it stands out ridiculously from the surrounding mid-tempo rock. The closer, “Brainwashed,” though buoyed by some pretty nice acoustic guitar work and a strong melody on the verses, is virtually ruined by the “God! God! God!” background vocals and some rather bizarre lyrical conceits that draw connections between the Catholic Church and Wall Street. An intriguing midway bridge of tabla and shimmering guitars is the song’s highlight.


Ultimately, Brainwashed is neither a work of genius nor a failure—and Harrison was certainly capable of both. This album has some of the best work he’s done in years, and the rest ranges from pleasant to merely not so good. And perhaps that is the best way to close such an admittedly flawed career—by pointing out that Harrison has walked the line between greatness and mediocrity, and come out frequently on both sides, which is really all we can expect of any significant artist.