Robert Bunter: This is what we were all afraid of when George (the biggest asshole of the Beatles) started flirting with bogus Eastern musical trappings during the Revolver sessions. Oh yeah, great idea, creepy Harrison. Record a bloated five-minute side-opening drone that combines the murky, dreary excesses of Indian raga baloney with your own irritating tendency towards preachy self-righteousness. Brilliant. I can just smell the shit-flavored incense stinking up the stuffy room over-decorated with Persian rugs and Bombay knick-knacks at Kinfauns where you wrote this zingy-boingy sounding garbage. The only thing that salvages this non-song is the transcendently beautiful string work of Peter Beavan, Erich Gruenberg and Alan Leveday.
Richard Furnstein: To be fair, I think we were more afraid of "The Inner Light." George delivers the only real groovy on Sgt. Pepper's; an album overrun with glimpses of English suburbia--a clear retreat from the flirting with urban subcultures on Revolver. George doesn't give a shit about meter maids, boring housewives, or a man catching his morning bus. Big deal, says George, you smoked some ganja in the work bathroom, but can you see inside your own self righteous aura like I can? George opens the dorky Pepper's concept to the whole world. Paul is walking with a tea cup through his childhood memories, but George comes riding in on an elephant decked out in spring blossoms. He's not looking for some hip kids to get on his level, he's going to create a batch of degenerates that can see his indulgent inner visions. It's a few quick steps from Fabian to snorting opium in a park with a blonde girl with terrifying eyes. George gave everyone a road map that smelled a bit too much like dal makhani.
Robert Bunter: You hear that spooky raucous laughter they dubbed onto the end? That's the sound of relieved listeners who are about to be swept away by the unstoppable charm of "When I'm 64."
Richard Furnstein: Stop hiding yourself behind the wall of illusion. George tried to warn you, dip.