Folksier than I imagined, but I guess the band’s sound was still closer to its roots at this stage? Ringo got to sing at least!

Not my bag. A few magical moments drowned out by stodgy self-indulgence.

If albums are an art form, they should frame this on a wall next to the Mona Lisa and make you queue up to listen to it.

Bar a couple of bland tracks, it’s a pretty great album. It’s romantic, wistful, jaded and sometimes cynical - a sort of Great American Novel of an album. Brings to mind a long, soul-searching road trip to god knows where.

I don’t much care for the “Great American Songbook”, but this was a lovely listen all the same.

Obscenely good from the first beat to the last.

Think this is still a bit pink in the middle, Paul.