George Harisson Truly Hated Him More Than Anyone

George Harrison was often called the quiet Beatle, the introspective one whose deep spiritual journey stood in contrast to the louder, more dominant personas of John Lennon and Paul McCartney.

While the public adored the Lennon-McCartney songwriting duo and marveled at their command of the spotlight, Harrison remained on the fringes—crafting his own melodies, studying Indian music, and slowly building a catalog of deeply personal, often overlooked songs.

Yet beneath that calm, almost serene surface was a storm that very few people ever truly saw.

Though many assumed Harrison’s grievances would naturally be aimed at Lennon or McCartney for overshadowing his contributions, the person he reportedly held the deepest resentment toward was actually Paul.

Not because of Paul’s fame or success, but because of the way Paul treated him—especially in the studio.

As the Beatles’ musical dynamic shifted in the late 1960s, Harrison grew increasingly frustrated with what he perceived as Paul’s overbearing nature.

Paul, ever the perfectionist, would often dictate arrangements, dismiss ideas, and take the reins on projects even when Harrison had his own clear vision. George felt stifled, creatively ignored, and at times, disrespected.

This tension boiled over during the infamous “Let It Be” sessions, with cameras rolling as Harrison tersely told Paul, “I’ll play whatever you want me to play.

Or I won’t play at all.” It was more than just a moment of friction—it was a symptom of years of built-up frustration.

Harrison’s resentment wasn’t theatrical. It was quiet, enduring, and rooted in feeling like a junior partner in a band where he had grown into a mature and formidable artist.

While Lennon could be cruel and unpredictable, and Ringo Starr largely stayed neutral, it was Paul’s consistent undermining of his musical ideas that reportedly left the deepest scar.

Even after the Beatles split, this tension lingered. In interviews, Harrison often spoke with a subtle but unmistakable edge when discussing Paul, sometimes laughing off his quirks, other times offering thinly veiled criticisms.

Their post-Beatles collaborations were minimal and, by most accounts, strained.

While they never had a public feud, the emotional distance between them was felt by those who knew them best.

In the end, Harrison’s quiet fury wasn’t about fame, money, or power—it was about respect. He didn’t want to be the frontman. He didn’t crave control.

But he wanted to be heard, to be treated as an equal. And in Paul McCartney, the bandmate he once admired, he saw a wall that never fully came down.

Harrison may have been the quiet one, but the silence he kept was louder than anyone imagined.