The Echo of Betrayal: How George Harrison’s ‘My Sweet Lord’ Sparked the Ultimate Music Copyright War and a Manager’s Shocking Treachery

The year 1970 was supposed to be a moment of personal triumph and spiritual rebirth. The mighty Beatles had imploded, and George Harrison, the “quiet Beatle” often overshadowed by the colossal songwriting partnership of Lennon and McCartney, was the first to emerge with a solo declaration of independence. That declaration was a transcendent, spiritual siren song titled “My Sweet Lord.” It fused Western pop sensibility with an Eastern devotional chant, an accessible prayer that perfectly captured the burgeoning counter-cultural yearning for something deeper. It was a global smash, topping charts worldwide, and cementing Harrison’s status as a formidable solo artist.

Yet, lurking beneath the song’s uplifting power was a familiar echo, a nagging whisper from the past that would soon spiral into the most famous, studied, and financially devastating music copyright battle in history. The whisper belonged to a catchy 1963 hit by the girl group The Chiffons, titled “He’s So Fine.”

When the two songs were compared, the resemblance was uncanny. While the lyrics and tone were worlds apart—a devotional plea versus a playful teen crush—the core melodic and rhythmic structure was nearly indistinguishable. The question that arose was not one of critical comparison, but of legal consequence: Had the spiritual seeker committed the ultimate creative sin? Did George Harrison truly steal the song?

The Context of the Creative Unconscious

To understand the emotional magnitude of the case, one must appreciate Harrison’s state of mind in the wake of the Beatles’ acrimonious split. After a decade of suppressing a backlog of his own material, Harrison was finally free. He was on a new path, driven by Eastern philosophy and a genuine quest for enlightenment. “My Sweet Lord” was not a calculated pop hit; it was, in his own words, an attempt to make God an “everyday experience,” a joyful offering to the world.

This sincerity formed the bedrock of his defense. When Bright Tunes Music, who owned the rights to “He’s So Fine,” filed a lawsuit in February 1971, Harrison did not consciously deny the similarity, but he vehemently denied deliberate theft. He maintained that the melody had simply come to him, an inspiration—a dream or an ethereal download—from a place he wasn’t aware of. To George Harrison, melodies were like dreams, fleeting and often born of unconscious recollection.

The case, which dragged on for years, finally went to trial in 1976 and became a high-stakes, theatrical battlefield of musicology. Experts dissected the songs, note by note, chord change by chord change, analyzing the melodic phrasing and rhythmic structure. They argued that the two tracks shared an almost identical musical DNA, a structure so alike that to dismiss it as coincidence would be absurd. Harrison himself was forced to stand in court with his guitar, subjected to a grilling about the abstract process of songwriting, a process he felt was being crudely reduced to lines on a legal pad.

The Shocking Verdict: Subconscious Plagiarism

The eventual verdict sent a profound shockwave through the entire creative community. Judge Richard Owen agreed with Harrison on one crucial point: he likely did not intend to plagiarize “He’s So Fine.” However, the judge introduced and upheld a terrifying concept that would forever haunt artists: subconscious plagiarism.

The ruling essentially stated that even if the copying was unintentional, if a melody you had heard before was lodged in the back of your mind and emerged through your pen in a form nearly identical to the original, it was still a violation of copyright. The judge reportedly confessed, “I like both of the songs,” before clarifying his judgment to mean he liked the same song with two sets of lyrics.

For Harrison, a man who built his solo career on sincerity and spiritual exploration, the ruling was a deep psychological blow. He was not just found guilty; he was branded a thief, a title that contradicted his very nature. The primary wound wasn’t the financial penalty; it was the chilling realization that one’s own creativity, the very wellspring of one’s artistic life, could be deemed a liability, a vehicle for betrayal by one’s own unconscious mind. The quiet Beatle, who sought peace and stillness in a chaotic world, was suddenly saddled with a courtroom scar.

The Ruthless Hand of the Manager

As devastating as the musical verdict was, the legal drama took a darker, more venomous turn that transformed it from a simple copyright dispute into a shocking corporate ambush. In the midst of the ongoing lawsuit, the rights to “He’s So Fine” were suddenly sold. The buyer was a figure already notorious in Beatles lore: Alan Klein.

Klein was a manager, a “ruthless agitator” known for both his financial genius in rescuing the Beatles from mid-60s chaos and for his ultimate role in deepening the hostilities that led to the band’s demise. Crucially, Klein was not just the Beatles’ former manager; he was also George Harrison’s manager at the time the lawsuit began.

Imagine the grotesque scenario: Harrison confided his deepest insecurities, his legal strategies, and his emotional turmoil regarding the case to his manager. He trusted this man with his career and his private anxieties. Then, with the knowledge gained through this sacred trust, Klein bought the very piece of intellectual property that was being used to sue his client, placing him directly across the courtroom aisle. He now possessed all the confidential information necessary to dismantle Harrison’s defense.

This was a profound breach of fiduciary duty—the legal and ethical obligation of a manager to act solely in the client’s best interest. It was a calculated act of professional and personal treachery, a cynical move designed to maximize personal gain at the expense of a client’s career and peace of mind. Harrison’s attempts to settle the matter were repeatedly rebuffed because Klein, now holding all the cards, was relentlessly dissatisfied.

The irony reached its peak when the court, while still upholding the finding of “subconscious plagiarism,” dramatically reduced the initial multi-million-dollar payment Harrison was ordered to make. The reduction was a direct result of Judge Owen recognizing Klein’s grotesque breach of fiduciary duty. The court ruled that the amount Harrison was to pay—$587,000—should be the exact amount Klein had paid for the song a few years earlier. In a twist of fate, the payment settled the issue, and Harrison was awarded the full rights to “He’s So Fine.”

A Legacy of Distrust and Documentation

Though Harrison eventually gained full ownership of both songs, the damage was irreversible. The manager’s betrayal left a deep, enduring scar, instilling a profound loss of trust in the music industry and, more tragically, a loss of innocence regarding his own artistic instincts. The episode underscored a cruel reality: a song written from the heart could still be legally defined as theft, and a trusted professional could be your greatest corporate enemy.

Yet, out of this adversity came a form of artistic redemption. In 1976, Harrison released the song “This Song,” a tongue-in-cheek mockery of the entire absurd legal circus. The music video, featuring a playful cameo from Eric Idle of Monty Python, was a public act of therapeutic satire, allowing him to cope with the frustration of being misunderstood and penalized for his honesty.

The legacy of the Bright Tunes Music v. George Harrison case, however, extends far beyond the emotional life of one Beatle. It became the defining landmark in music copyright law, establishing “subconscious plagiarism” as a legitimate legal concept. The case serves as a dark mirror to every musician, lawyer, and songwriter today, asking the terrifying question of whether true originality is even possible in an age where art is a cumulative product of everything we have ever consumed.

Its ripple effects are still being felt. The controversial 2015 “Blurred Lines” case, where a jury ruled in favor of Marvin Gaye’s estate against Robin Thicke and Pharrell Williams, drew heavily on the precedent set by Harrison’s ordeal. The specter of unintentional theft has become so pervasive that modern artists, such as Ed Sheeran, have been forced to adopt extreme defensive measures, now filming every single songwriting and studio session to create irrefutable evidence of independent creation, should they ever face a similar charge.

George Harrison’s spiritual anthem ultimately cost him a fortune and a piece of his soul. But in doing so, he provided the music world with an invaluable, albeit painful, lesson: in the corporate-legal battlefield of the music industry, inspiration is inevitable, but awareness—and documentation—is a matter of survival. The $587,000 melody remains a permanent, haunting reminder that even the purest creative impulse can be weaponized.