This album is so vast in its scope, so intimate in its detail, and so skillful in its approach, that even the flaws add to its flavor. The scope and license of the White Album has permitted everyone from OutKast to Radiohead to Green Day to Joanna Newsom to roll their picture out on a broader, bolder canvas. |
The Beatles (The White Album) - The Beatles
Including a Beatles album among one's favorite records is something akin to including oxygen on a list of your favorite kinds of air. What the Beatles meant to music, culture, even society as a whole simply cannot be overstated. Most everyone on the planet has been impacted by the career of this band – a career that actually lasted only about six years once they broke out – whether directly, as those who know the catalog and have life events attached to it, or indirectly, as those who love artists who themselves were shaped directly or indirectly by the Fab Four. No matter how many books are written, no matter what accolades are trumpeted, no matter how much time is devoted to them, it simply is not enough.
And while no one need argue the necessary inclusion of multiple Beatles albums on any kind of list, the debate shall rage feverishly as to which one should be placed in the highest spot. I cannot tell you what the #1 Beatles album should be. No one can, so don’t let anyone try to pin you down. They are truly the only artist whose entire recorded output is essential. To be able to pick a #1, you must have additional criteria.
Their most important or influential album? Probably “Sgt. Pepper…,” but even that can scarcely be seen as a slam dunk selection. “Rubber Soul” spread its influence around so thoroughly that other artists were driven to higher peaks because of it (See The Beach Boys' “Pet Sounds”).
Their best all-around work as a cohesive unit working together to create a masterpiece? That has to be “Revolver.” And yet there sits “A Hard Day’s Night,” its all-original pop perfection standing pretty much without peer.
But this list is not about their most important, most influential, or their best. It is about the author’s favorite. We love to pick our favorites. We use our favorites to define who we are to a new friend or during that first get-to-know-you date. Favorite color. Favorite sport. Favorite friend. Favorite food. We roll through them easily because it is what makes up a good portion of who we are – the things we enjoy.
Though the Beatles had officially broken up 5 years before I was born, meaning that first-hand knowledge of their importance would have to be gleaned from the writings and experiences of others, intimacy with their music holds no enslavement to time. Even today, over fifty years since Beatlemania officially broke through, young children are beginning a love affair with the music of the Beatles.
I have no consciousness of a life without the Beatles. They have been here with me since memories began to form, and should I live long enough, their music will still be there as memories begin to fade away.
So when I think about rattling off that list of favorites, it should be easy to pick a Beatles album. I know their catalog better than anyone else’s. Every note, every beat, every word. I have spent over 30 years trying to answer that question, and the best I have been able to do is narrow it down to two. How can I not say “Abbey Road” is my favorite Beatles record? It is a glorious achievement that stands unparalleled in rock and popular music. On a five-star scale, “Abbey Road” rates ten stars. It is unquestionably perfect.
“The Beatles” – a title by which no one has referred to the “White Album” in over 40 years – is absolutely NOT perfect. In fact, it is the most imperfect and flawed record they ever made. It grabs the listener and forces engagement. It occasionally reaches for a level of comfort, but keeps you there only a short time before jarring the ear with something that doesn’t even sound like it was recorded by the same band as the previous song, let alone on the same album.
The White Album is disjointed. Uneven. At times, ragged. It is ridiculous. Maddening. Infuriating. Even frustrating. It contains fewer songs performed by all four members of the group as a whole per capita than any other record they made. Oh yeah, it is also weird.
And it is my favorite Beatles album, and depending on the day, quite possibly my favorite album of all time.
When the Beatles returned from India in 1968 (in shifts), they brought back a treasure trove of new songs. John, Paul and George convened at George’s Surry home (Kinfauns) in late May to lay down acoustic demos. The three committed 27 songs to tape on George’s four track, copies of which he mixed in mono and gave to each Beatle.
The demos have been widely bootlegged, both unofficially and officially (“The Lost Lennon Tapes” or “Anthology”). These are readily available and offer a fascinating glimpse into the 1968 Beatles. (Check them out here: https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=the+beatles+white+album+kinfauns+demos&nohtml5=False)
Some of the songs ended up on the White Album almost unchanged, such as Lennon’s “Cry Baby Cry.” Some were significantly reworked and included, chief among them Harrison’s “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” which changed from a beautiful acoustic ballad into a bloated piece of revered "classic rock."
Others still were reserved for future solo projects, with McCartney’s “Junk” coming along just two years later, Lennon’s “Child of Nature” morphing into a much better set of lyrics in “Jealous Guy” three years later, or Harrison’s “Circles,” which wouldn’t show up for over 15 years. Some were even given away, most notably Harrison’s “Sour Mill Sea,” a great record released by Jackie Lomax soon after. And then there’s “What’s the New Mary Jane,” about which one writer said, “It was released on Anthology 3 where good people who have done nothing wrong can hear it.”
Anxious to meet their contractual requirements, the Beatles erroneously thought that a double album would speed up that process. George Martin famously begged them to pare down their excess and release “a single very good album.” Ever since, fans have tried to assemble what the single great album might have included. You can see some people’s efforts here: http://www.beatlesbible.com/forum/white-album/white-album-as-a-single-disc/
Some still think that would have been a good idea, although no one can seem to figure out how to cull down the list. The majority seem to think it is just fine the way it is, Revolution 9 notwithstanding. I belong to a distinctly tiny minority. I think it should have been expanded. “Not Guilty” should be there. So should “Junk,” and the great “Sour Milk Sea.” Even “What’s the New Mary Jane.” The only improvement I would make to the indulgent, insane White Album would be to make it even more so on both counts. You could even add the songs from “Yellow Submarine” and have a more complete document of the time. (See * at end)
Side note: Locate and listen to Jackie Lomax’s “Sour Milk Sea.” It is more of a Beatles record than many of the tracks on the White Album. It features Lomax on vocals, Paul on bass, George on guitar, Ringo on drums – a great performance by him I might add – Eric Clapton on guitar, and the wonderful Nicky Hopkins on piano and organ. What a group!
This is not the place for an in depth discussion on the relative merits of the Beatles in mono vs. stereo. A quick summary is that stereo was considered to be something akin to a gimmick in those days (as few people owned a stereo phonograph) and the Beatles’ direct involvement was usually on the more widely used mono mixes of the songs, at least prior to this record. “Abbey Road” and the maligned "Let it Be" were the only LPs released exclusively in stereo. In most cases, the mono mixes usually sound better to most listeners, with words like “punchier” and “warmer” being used quite a bit. A larger reason has to do with the very dated wide separation used on so many of the stereo mixes (vocals way over on one side, instruments way over on the other). Some of the earlier albums’ stereo mixes sound downright awful. (The 2009 remasters correct this and are preferred to the 1987 CD mixes.)
The White Album is an exception to the “mono preferred” rule, not because the stereo is better, but because both versions are a must. Some songs are better in mono, others in stereo. You can check out an exhaustive discussion of the differences in the two here: http://www.thewhitealbumproject.com/the-album/mono-vs-stereo/. But the bottom line is that you NEED both a stereo and a mono White Album in your collection.
Another side note: Owning an original mono White Album (which was not released in the US) in excellent condition and spinning it on my turntable in all its glory is a lifelong dream I hope to fulfill one day. Unfortunately, a good one will probably cost me upwards of $1000, so that is a dream likely to go unrealized.
With the White Album, the Beatles were not only interested in the stereo mixes for the first time, but actively involved specifically because they wanted them to be different. Numerous sources report that the band received a lot of correspondence noting differences between previous mono and stereo recordings and that a certain segment of the fan base wanted to have both copies. Therefore, by making them different, more albums could be sold. Fascinating!
On to the album itself...
There remains a quality about the White Album I cannot put into words. Similar to our struggles to describe the sounds of particular instruments (how can one explain what a guitar sounds like, let alone what different guitars sound like?), I cannot find any way to describe what it is about this record that is different from every other record ever produced in the history of music. It just sounds different. It is on a different plane.
There's the White Album, and then there's everything else.
And that is the best I can do. The White Album is not a collection of songs; rather, it is an all-encompassing life experience, its origins seemingly not quite of this planet. To say there is something cosmic and surreal about it doesn’t do adequate justice. It cannot be explained, and that frustrates me just as the continual genre jumping of the contents did upon the White Album’s 1968 release.
Following the Summer of Love and Sgt. Pepper, when flowers and slogans and hippie communes were all the rage, 1968 arrived with violence, assassinations, shattered dreams and unrest. The Beatles had gone from lovable pop mop-tops, to possibly dangerous drug taking alleged-subversives to this. The four who used to look identical, now looked completely different from one another. The vibrant colors of 1967 faded into distant memory as people reached for a thick, plain white cover embossed simply, “The Beatles.”
And while no one need argue the necessary inclusion of multiple Beatles albums on any kind of list, the debate shall rage feverishly as to which one should be placed in the highest spot. I cannot tell you what the #1 Beatles album should be. No one can, so don’t let anyone try to pin you down. They are truly the only artist whose entire recorded output is essential. To be able to pick a #1, you must have additional criteria.
Their most important or influential album? Probably “Sgt. Pepper…,” but even that can scarcely be seen as a slam dunk selection. “Rubber Soul” spread its influence around so thoroughly that other artists were driven to higher peaks because of it (See The Beach Boys' “Pet Sounds”).
Their best all-around work as a cohesive unit working together to create a masterpiece? That has to be “Revolver.” And yet there sits “A Hard Day’s Night,” its all-original pop perfection standing pretty much without peer.
But this list is not about their most important, most influential, or their best. It is about the author’s favorite. We love to pick our favorites. We use our favorites to define who we are to a new friend or during that first get-to-know-you date. Favorite color. Favorite sport. Favorite friend. Favorite food. We roll through them easily because it is what makes up a good portion of who we are – the things we enjoy.
Though the Beatles had officially broken up 5 years before I was born, meaning that first-hand knowledge of their importance would have to be gleaned from the writings and experiences of others, intimacy with their music holds no enslavement to time. Even today, over fifty years since Beatlemania officially broke through, young children are beginning a love affair with the music of the Beatles.
I have no consciousness of a life without the Beatles. They have been here with me since memories began to form, and should I live long enough, their music will still be there as memories begin to fade away.
So when I think about rattling off that list of favorites, it should be easy to pick a Beatles album. I know their catalog better than anyone else’s. Every note, every beat, every word. I have spent over 30 years trying to answer that question, and the best I have been able to do is narrow it down to two. How can I not say “Abbey Road” is my favorite Beatles record? It is a glorious achievement that stands unparalleled in rock and popular music. On a five-star scale, “Abbey Road” rates ten stars. It is unquestionably perfect.
“The Beatles” – a title by which no one has referred to the “White Album” in over 40 years – is absolutely NOT perfect. In fact, it is the most imperfect and flawed record they ever made. It grabs the listener and forces engagement. It occasionally reaches for a level of comfort, but keeps you there only a short time before jarring the ear with something that doesn’t even sound like it was recorded by the same band as the previous song, let alone on the same album.
The White Album is disjointed. Uneven. At times, ragged. It is ridiculous. Maddening. Infuriating. Even frustrating. It contains fewer songs performed by all four members of the group as a whole per capita than any other record they made. Oh yeah, it is also weird.
And it is my favorite Beatles album, and depending on the day, quite possibly my favorite album of all time.
When the Beatles returned from India in 1968 (in shifts), they brought back a treasure trove of new songs. John, Paul and George convened at George’s Surry home (Kinfauns) in late May to lay down acoustic demos. The three committed 27 songs to tape on George’s four track, copies of which he mixed in mono and gave to each Beatle.
The demos have been widely bootlegged, both unofficially and officially (“The Lost Lennon Tapes” or “Anthology”). These are readily available and offer a fascinating glimpse into the 1968 Beatles. (Check them out here: https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=the+beatles+white+album+kinfauns+demos&nohtml5=False)
Some of the songs ended up on the White Album almost unchanged, such as Lennon’s “Cry Baby Cry.” Some were significantly reworked and included, chief among them Harrison’s “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” which changed from a beautiful acoustic ballad into a bloated piece of revered "classic rock."
Others still were reserved for future solo projects, with McCartney’s “Junk” coming along just two years later, Lennon’s “Child of Nature” morphing into a much better set of lyrics in “Jealous Guy” three years later, or Harrison’s “Circles,” which wouldn’t show up for over 15 years. Some were even given away, most notably Harrison’s “Sour Mill Sea,” a great record released by Jackie Lomax soon after. And then there’s “What’s the New Mary Jane,” about which one writer said, “It was released on Anthology 3 where good people who have done nothing wrong can hear it.”
Anxious to meet their contractual requirements, the Beatles erroneously thought that a double album would speed up that process. George Martin famously begged them to pare down their excess and release “a single very good album.” Ever since, fans have tried to assemble what the single great album might have included. You can see some people’s efforts here: http://www.beatlesbible.com/forum/white-album/white-album-as-a-single-disc/
Some still think that would have been a good idea, although no one can seem to figure out how to cull down the list. The majority seem to think it is just fine the way it is, Revolution 9 notwithstanding. I belong to a distinctly tiny minority. I think it should have been expanded. “Not Guilty” should be there. So should “Junk,” and the great “Sour Milk Sea.” Even “What’s the New Mary Jane.” The only improvement I would make to the indulgent, insane White Album would be to make it even more so on both counts. You could even add the songs from “Yellow Submarine” and have a more complete document of the time. (See * at end)
Side note: Locate and listen to Jackie Lomax’s “Sour Milk Sea.” It is more of a Beatles record than many of the tracks on the White Album. It features Lomax on vocals, Paul on bass, George on guitar, Ringo on drums – a great performance by him I might add – Eric Clapton on guitar, and the wonderful Nicky Hopkins on piano and organ. What a group!
This is not the place for an in depth discussion on the relative merits of the Beatles in mono vs. stereo. A quick summary is that stereo was considered to be something akin to a gimmick in those days (as few people owned a stereo phonograph) and the Beatles’ direct involvement was usually on the more widely used mono mixes of the songs, at least prior to this record. “Abbey Road” and the maligned "Let it Be" were the only LPs released exclusively in stereo. In most cases, the mono mixes usually sound better to most listeners, with words like “punchier” and “warmer” being used quite a bit. A larger reason has to do with the very dated wide separation used on so many of the stereo mixes (vocals way over on one side, instruments way over on the other). Some of the earlier albums’ stereo mixes sound downright awful. (The 2009 remasters correct this and are preferred to the 1987 CD mixes.)
The White Album is an exception to the “mono preferred” rule, not because the stereo is better, but because both versions are a must. Some songs are better in mono, others in stereo. You can check out an exhaustive discussion of the differences in the two here: http://www.thewhitealbumproject.com/the-album/mono-vs-stereo/. But the bottom line is that you NEED both a stereo and a mono White Album in your collection.
Another side note: Owning an original mono White Album (which was not released in the US) in excellent condition and spinning it on my turntable in all its glory is a lifelong dream I hope to fulfill one day. Unfortunately, a good one will probably cost me upwards of $1000, so that is a dream likely to go unrealized.
With the White Album, the Beatles were not only interested in the stereo mixes for the first time, but actively involved specifically because they wanted them to be different. Numerous sources report that the band received a lot of correspondence noting differences between previous mono and stereo recordings and that a certain segment of the fan base wanted to have both copies. Therefore, by making them different, more albums could be sold. Fascinating!
On to the album itself...
There remains a quality about the White Album I cannot put into words. Similar to our struggles to describe the sounds of particular instruments (how can one explain what a guitar sounds like, let alone what different guitars sound like?), I cannot find any way to describe what it is about this record that is different from every other record ever produced in the history of music. It just sounds different. It is on a different plane.
There's the White Album, and then there's everything else.
And that is the best I can do. The White Album is not a collection of songs; rather, it is an all-encompassing life experience, its origins seemingly not quite of this planet. To say there is something cosmic and surreal about it doesn’t do adequate justice. It cannot be explained, and that frustrates me just as the continual genre jumping of the contents did upon the White Album’s 1968 release.
Following the Summer of Love and Sgt. Pepper, when flowers and slogans and hippie communes were all the rage, 1968 arrived with violence, assassinations, shattered dreams and unrest. The Beatles had gone from lovable pop mop-tops, to possibly dangerous drug taking alleged-subversives to this. The four who used to look identical, now looked completely different from one another. The vibrant colors of 1967 faded into distant memory as people reached for a thick, plain white cover embossed simply, “The Beatles.”
The four faces that spilled out in individual portraits must have been as striking at the time as they are familiar now. Once all sporting the same styles and looks, even the mustaches and wild colored clothing of the past year still being unified in their disparity, these did not even appear to be the same four men. I can’t imagine what viewing these large photos for the first time must have been like. If the last image one had in his head was the joyous vibrancy of Sgt. Pepper, saying this look was shocking represents a vast understatement.
And yet these are my four favorite pictures of the Beatles. These photos are burned into my memory – when I think of the Beatles, I think of these images.
There’s John in a denim jacket, donning the granny glasses he adopted the previous year that would become his trademark. In this shot, they sit slightly crooked on his long thin nose, the left side of his face disappearing into shadows that echo the famous “With the Beatles” cover shot. It was Paul that was rumored to be dead, but it was John who was unrecognizable. His hair cascaded to near shoulder length, a sandy brown frame around an expressionless face with eyes that speak apathy. Only the slight tilting of his head to the right conveys any kind of emotion as you look at the photo. “This is me now,” he seems to say. It would be frightening were it not so emotionless.
George’s portrait is most similar to John’s, taken at roughly the same distance and angle. His hair is still dark, and he retains the mustache, but his beard is gone and the top of his head hasn’t seen a barber all year. The shadow is from the right side, but not nearly as pronounced as the one on John’s face. This shows George’s emergence, the arrival of an accomplished songwriter and more confident player just one year away. He’s almost there, his four songs on the record containing this photo representing his very best work so far. His eyes communicate only slight satisfaction, however, as if to tell the story: two songs better than some of the rest of the contents of the album lay unused on the cutting room floor. He’s here, he’s a force, but there is more to him that we do not yet see. He remains tight-lipped, the enigma among the most famous faces in the world, and he has more to say and to offer than he is being allowed.
While taken from the same distance, Ringo’s picture shows a tilted head coming from an ornate scarf (or possibly a collar). His trademark nose dominates the middle of the photo and he is presented in full lighting so the pronounced ridge on the front of his face doesn’t cast a shadow. It’s a full color photo, but there is really only brown and white. The exuberance that made him so popular in the days of Beatlemania seems to be completely gone. The sepia tones come not from a filter, or really even from his clothing choice. The blandness represents a two year journey from beloved, head-shaking, touring drummer to the man who spent most of his studio time waiting to play while the others worked on their songs. (He spent most of Sgt. Pepper's recording playing cards with Mal Evans). Things were dark enough for Ringo to leave for two weeks during the recording of the album. His photo tells us he wants to be here, but he is not sure of himself, or even of his value to the band of which he is a vital part. His interview on the Anthology project about his time away from the group confirms this.
And then there’s Paul. His photograph says the most, and the statement cannot be missed. Those big brown Macca eyes dominate the frame, but they are the only reminder of the days when he was just “the cute one.” He’s not clean shaven like John; neither does he have the sculpted mustache like George and Ringo. Instead he sports scruffy whiskers. There’s no time to bother with shaving, and no time to worry about appearance – because that sort of superficial thing doesn’t matter anymore like it did in 1967. There’s something more happening with Paul, and that something is made clear by his proximity to the camera lens. He is much closer than the other three – he’s in your face. The closeness and unkempt appearance demonstrate what is happening with the band. Paul is carrying the burden of keeping everything together, and those eyes are telling that weary story. Since Brian Epstein’s death the previous year, it has been he who kept them soldiering on. The “Magical Mystery Tour” project was completely his concept – just think of the great songs from that time that would never have happened had he not insisted they get back to business right away. His workmanlike passion for the craft, which continues almost 50 years later, thrust him into the limelight as the one who would most respect the importance of carrying on and also of just being The Beatles. The others would all quit the band on one occasion or another over the next two years, but the Beatles would not be officially finished until he said so in 1970. This photo conveys a clear message: It used to be John’s band, but now it is Paul’s band. There’s a lot more to him than he has been given credit for, and he is ready for everyone to know it. In fact, he deeply yearns for everyone to know it. It’s a message he would carry with him long past the need to do so, even to the point of being irksome.
These photos comprise the centerpiece of an unexpectedly elaborate packaging scheme belied by the plain white cover. On the heels of the elaborate Sgt. Pepper design, the group now took the opposite approach. No more fake band names. No more colorful designs. When the original title (“A Doll’s House”) turned out to have too much resemblance to the new album from prog-rock outfit Family (“Music from a Doll’s House”), they decided to just call the record “The Beatles” and be done with it. They considered a coffee cup stain on the white cover, but decided to have serial numbers printed instead, creating the illusion that it was a rare, numbered piece. A laugh, considering the millions upon millions of copies this magnum opus would sell.
There is much controversy about the numbering system – to the point that answers vary on whether there is a mono #0000001 and also a stereo #0000001. Most sources state that the Beatles received #1-4, and many report that John Lennon grabbed twenty or so additional low numbers. And even though serial numbers were sometimes duplicated to the point that no one really seems to know how many of each number there are, the fact remains that single digit copies are virtually unknown. I assume the Beatles themselves (or their estates) still have #1-4, but who knows? The lowest numbered original I have seen came up for auction in 2008. Some consider it the rarest album in the world. Read more about #0000005 here: http://www.musicradar.com/news/guitars/beatles-rare-white-album-for-sale-on-ebay-182874
In addition to the four individual portraits (an odd inclusion for a record named after the band as a whole), there was a collage poster with pictures submitted by the Beatles themselves. Full lyrics were included on the back. The gatefold sleeve opened to a track listing on the lower right quadrant of the left side and black and white versions of the portraits on the bottom of the right side. The package is another example of why vinyl will always be the best format for music. It is one thing to listen to the tunes – it is an entirely different experience to listen while pouring over those photos and that poster, taking it all in. It is a phenomenal presentation. Down to details such as the label on the record itself and the sleeve that holds it, the vinyl album was the original multimedia experience, and The White Album was a great one. More on that here: http://www.thewhitealbumproject.com/design/
There are so many other things to discuss about this record. There’s the history of the songwriting in India. There’s the exile of both George Martin and engineer Geoff Emerick during the recording when they both had simply had enough. There’s the individual nature of many of the tracks as individual Beatles worked on their own compositions in separate studios. There’s even a crazy man who thought the record was a message from God's four horsemen instructing him to start a race war, as Charles Manson used songs like “Piggies” and “Blackbird” and “Helter Skelter” to justify some of history’s most brutal murders. It would be ridiculous to say I am omitting discussion of these topics for the sake of brevity given the length of this review, but I suppose we have to draw the line somewhere and get to the point.
The White Album is great because of the music it contains. No one has ever released such a bizarre collection of songs that are as excellent as they are strange. Regardless of mystique, or history, or packaging, or culture, this is a transcendent album because of the collection of songs the band presented to the world in the fall of 1968.
“Back in the USSR” starts the record, jet engines panning in the stereo version and overwhelming in the mono. From my earliest memories that opening was gripping, and the single bent guitar note was the signal that things were about to take off. Part parody, part tribute, and part pure rock and roll, this will always be one of my favorite Beatles tracks. It was recorded while Ringo was away with Paul assuming the role of drummer. It’s a funny lyric over a tight rock verse, with a “Beatles doing the Beach Boys doing Chuck Berry” bridge (“middle eight” in the parlance), as our boys laud the motherland, taking the role of a commie coming home. It’s humorous and sounds so great that almost five decades later it still sounds fresh (even if I have to explain to the kids what the USSR was since they have no concept).
That same jet shows up again to give way to a song on the list of my favorite Lennon compositions. “Dear Prudence” is a top five Beatles song for me – it is absolutely perfect. From Lennon’s rolling guitar figures, to the equally beautifully written and sung lyric, to Paul’s exquisite bass line that no doubt makes the song, this is an accomplishment of epic proportions. Supposedly it again features Paul on drums, and I am with this through all the verses, but I have long wondered during the fade out if Ringo hadn’t returned. That playing doesn’t sound like Paul to me. No books corroborate this theory, but it sounds so much like Ringo that it gives me pause. Regardless, as the guitar fades out, and all lingering doubts of Prudence’s emergence dissipate, a serene feeling of total peace has descended upon the listener who has just experienced perfection. It is indeed a perfect song and recording. (As usual, I love how George's distinctive vocals can be heard clearly in the "Look around..." section, which also features the aforementioned Jackie Lomax).
The jolt of the drum beats that open “Glass Onion” shatter any serenity left from the previous song. John Lennon has a go at the fans that would be considered mean spirited if it weren’t so much fun to listen to. “Oh Yeah!” Everyone knew the fix was in when he sang “the Walrus was Paul,” and took it with good humor, certainly with more than intended by the author. The bizarre “It’s a goal! It’s a goal!” ending (which you can hear on Anthology 3) was wisely replaced with the string figure that brings things to a close. This is a sixties gem that achieves more than the writer ever intended.
Sick of playing another of Paul’s “granny music” songs (according to George), and following hours upon hours and days upon days of doing so, John came in and announced they were going to do “Ob-la-di Ob-la-da” and started banging the piano with ferocious intensity. That’s the take they would ultimately use, and even though Paul’s assertion that it should be a single would probably have resulted in a hit, the others vetoed the suggestion because they hated it. Had it been thrown together simply in an afternoon, it might have been more accepted, but Paul’s insistence on working it to death meant the others would never think highly of the tune. It’s exactly the kind of song that makes the tremendously talented McCartney such an enigma. It’s a banal, insipid lyric about “boring people doing boring things” (Lennon), and at the same time guaranteed to keep you singing it for hours afterwards. I hate it. I also love it.
And then there’s “Wild Honey Pie.” Paul’s weird guitars and repeatedly overdubbed screaming of “Honey Pie!” were supposedly included because “Patti [Harrison] liked it.” It seems pretty low to blame it on her, especially given her unquestioned place at the top of rock's muse list. It is at this point in the album that those listening for the first time in 1968 must have wondered what the heck was going on. It wouldn’t sink any lower over the remainder of the album, but it would definitely get weirder.
Were it not about killing animals, “The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill” would be a kids’ song. (What a great title, by the way. Still makes me smile.) For a throwaway tune, it’s pretty great. Funny and entertaining, it works, and children of all ages should celebrate it. If you don’t like it, you are wrong. How’s that for hard hitting juvenile journalism?
“While My Guitar Gently Weeps” is a rock classic, and with its bloated presentation and running time along with Eric Clapton guitar solos, it has been and will be played repeatedly on classic rock radio ad nauseum. And it is a great song (listen to the beautiful acoustic version from the Kinfauns demos to really hear the song itself before it became this monstrosity). But it is not a great recording. The organ drone becomes so piercing that I find the song hard to listen to, particularly during the bridge. Maybe it is just the mix, but the final recording causes a really nice song to collapse under its own weight. I wish I loved it. I want to love it. But I don’t.
“Happiness is a Warm Gun” features an almost entirely incomprehensible free-association lyric that Lennon pulled from a variety of people and materials. The title comes from a gun magazine, itself a parody of a Peanuts title, “Happiness is a Warm Puppy.” John considered the song to be “a sort of history of rock and roll,” and his point is taken when the different styles of the various sections are considered. The journey is accomplished in just 2:44.
The opening montage is a lyrical collage drawn from lines contributed by various people and news clippings and features the best music played by the group on the album. Again featuring John’s rolling electric riffs, this time buoyed by George’s sharp chord clips, and another signature bass performance by Paul that bounds in excitedly after the first set of line, it is a fascinating beginning. The “I need a fix” section is next in a minor-blues motif. John said it is not about drugs, despite his foray into heroin at the time. Next, the “mother superior” section blasts out of the speakers in hard rock fashion, the lyrics again being equal parts confounding and meaningless. The whole thing settles into a ‘50s doo-wap in standard I-vi-VI-V, complete with “bang, bang, shoot, shoot” backing vocals. The beat jumps all over the place and the whole thing would spiral out of control were it not for Ringo’s steady 4/4 drumming, which oddly never changes as Lennon leads the others through a barrage of different time signatures underneath his spoken word homage to Yoko. Despite the White Album’s being accurately described as a collection of solo artists with backing bands, this is ensemble playing at its finest.
Recorded in a small closet barely big enough for all four, this may be what Ringo had in mind when he somewhat erroneously claimed that they were “really playing as a group again” on the White Album. The fact remains they still had the magic when they played together, something that would remain no matter how fractured they became – just watch the rooftop concert recorded the following January for proof. “Happiness” should be lauded as a monumental achievement in rock music, a status it likely does not reach because it is so truly weird. Side one closes with this, the best song on the album, and the listener must wonder what more the guys could do with three more sides remaining after this one!
It is probably good there was a break to turn the vinyl over at this point because Paul’s jaunty piano exercise that begins “Martha My Dear” is an audio jolt. (It was a literal exercise – he created the intro to challenge his piano skills and did so in Eb to make sure it wouldn’t be easy to play.) Lyrics like “you silly girl” might have been taken as oddly misogynistic for the Beatles for those unaware that this is a song about a dog. Paul’s English Sheepdog to be exact. Ignore the silly words and pay attention the music. The song is a mini-symphony with three distinct sections (“Martha my dear…” followed by, “Hold your head up…” and then, “Take a good look around you…”)
These two songs (“Martha” and “Happiness”) starkly contrast what happens when Lennon and McCartney create using the same method. Both are the product of multiple selections of music seamlessly connected to create a whole. Lennon’s is dark and mysterious while McCartney’s is bright and lilting. Lennon creates something that challenges the listener whereas McCartney presents something approachable, though no less complex. It’s both men at their best, the usual outcome when each is challenged by the other, even if this instance is not as deliberate as it was some previous times – “Strawberry Fields Forever” and “Penny Lane,” for example.
The final Eb chord fades, sliding up a half step to a single note E-F#-G# run into the opening A chord of “I’m So Tired.” It would be a cheesy way to begin a song were it not so effective at bridging the gap between the two. (Don’t overlook the genius of the sequencing of this album – they labored over it for hours and in the end made something great even better by methodically ordering the tracks). Two years before, John sang “I’m Only Sleeping,” one of the finest tracks the group recorded. This song isn’t as strong, but is nevertheless one of my favorites. He’s gone from dreamy apathy to tortured insomnia, with catharsis not quite achieved in his cry of “Give you everything I’ve got for a little peace of mind!” The mono version of this track packs more punch than the stereo one and is preferred.
John’s muttered gibberish connects directly into one of the best tracks Paul ever wrote. Taken from an old Bach pattern he and George used to play on guitar as youngsters, McCartney transforms the figure into an all time classic with a stirring lyric and unforgettable melody. “Blackbird” is nothing short of gorgeous and perfect. There’s no hyperbole in my insistence that seeing Paul play and sing this song live is one of the highlights of my life, and I have been fortunate to experience it twice.
The author insists the song is about the civil rights movement in the US, and there’s no doubt the inspirational lyric fits the claim. But I remain unconvinced. As an avid reader of Beatles-related material, I have found no reference to this supposed connection prior to 1997’s “Many Years From Now,” by longtime Macca buddy Barry Miles. The work supposedly came together to “set the record straight” on a number of things, but actually comes across in more of a petty, history-altering light than anything else. Paul wants more credit, almost as if he is upset that his legacy didn’t have the “good fortune” to be assassinated and thus canonized like his bandmate. The book, his desire to change some song credits to “McCartney-Lennon” and his occasional “look at me” posturing are wholly unnecessary for someone of his stature. He’s the greatest writer-entertainer-musician of the last hundred years, period. No need to embellish. Maybe he did have “a black woman in the American south” in mind when he wrote it, but I strongly suspect that’s little more than revisionism (and the story becomes more elaborate each time he tells it on stage). It makes for a good narrative, but the song is so universal in its “freedom” spirit that it needs no such updating and stands on its own.
The “Blackbird” sings happily and freely but is silenced by the sound of a harpsichord, certainly an unexpected find on a rock record at the time. George’s “Piggies,” a blistering attack on the fat cats of society, is his second offering on the album. Sardonic and accusatory, it nevertheless comes across as fun and funny at the same time. The first couple of verses may be slightly obtuse, but by the time the “starched white shirts” make an appearance, the ones in Harrison’s sights are clear. The bridge is the key part of the song, with George’s distorted vocal taking center stage while the harpsichord pounds away in the background. “In their sties with all their backing they don’t care what goes on around.” After these words, we get a run of notes from a diminished chord to set the scene – it jars the ears with the discomfort it presents. Here’s where George brings it home. “In their lives there’s something lacking, what they need’s a damn good whacking!” It’s more of a self-fulfilling prophecy than it is a threat – in their own oblivious lives, they will get theirs.
Note: My favorite bit of trivia about this song is that it was George’s mother who came up with the “damn good whacking” line. Thanks, Ma! I would also be remiss not to point out the great counter-melody from the strings during the solo. This is an underrated composition and recording – if it had a different name, maybe more would see it that way. As it is, this song along with the next two from George actually serve as notice of the direction his solo career would take. “Piggies,” “Long Long Long,” and “Savoy Truffle” each have elements the writer would use as a sort of blueprint for years to come. The Harrisongs of the 1970s bear far more resemblance to these three tunes than they do to “Gently Weep” or even the classics “Here Comes the Sun” and “Something” he would pen less than a year later.
The pomposity of the “Piggies” comes across loud and clear in the way the last verse is sung, and as the piggies and their “piggie wives” are out for dinner, their Orwellian fates are clear. “Clutching forks and knives to eat their bacon” is one of the greatest lines in music history (and a vast improvement over the original lyric, “to eat their pork chops” – the bacon line was suggested by Lennon, again showing the Beatles were always better together than apart).
To this point the harpsichord has been mostly cheerful (save the aforementioned line in the bridge and the one leading up to it), but the Ab turns into an Abm after the final lyric, signaling the menacing end of the piggies themselves. “One more time,” George says, and strings return a half step higher with an A major that runs down to E major, the opposite of what occurred at the beginning of “I’m So Tired” two songs before. When listened to back-to-back-to-back the preceding three songs therefore have inverted musical bookends and create an odd suite – John’s personal torment, Paul’s eternal optimism, and George’s skeptical social commentary. It’s what each writer does best, and what made the whole of both the Beatles AND the White Album so much greater than the sum of their parts.
The good sequencing continues with a third “animal song" in a row, this one a cowboy western joke called “Rocky Raccoon.” The song is regularly cited as an example of one that could or should have been left on the cutting room floor, but it is harmless and even funny. Why deprive the world of a lyric like “the doctor came in stinking of gin and proceeded to lie on the table?” Its inclusion is justified for that line alone.
Ah, Ringo. He’s sad in his photo. He left because he felt he “wasn’t playing well” and the others were closer than he. In reality everyone loved Richard Starkey. No one else returned from group hiatus, after all, to flowers and warm welcome. So the drummer who had been singing songs written for him to great success for a few years now has written one of his own. (Actually, the composition's origins date back to as early as 1961 or 1962, but it only finally sees the light of day in 1968). It is a pretty straightforward I-IV-V composition with lyrics that appear to be about some kind of love affair, but really are a general cry from Ringo himself. Don’t forget about me! “Don’t Pass Me By!” The hokey fiddle plays to comic effect throughout the song, and for some reason the mono version is sped up and makes Ringo sound like he has been sucking helium. But that version also mixes his “one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, ayyyy-eeeeeight” count up before the last chorus loud enough to be heard clearly, which for some reason I find very satisfying. Nevertheless, the stereo version in the recorded speed and key is overall much better. The song is a throwaway to be sure, but it gives Starr his requisite one spotlight per two album sides.
NOTE: It’s not like someone couldn’t get something more out of this number. Check out the Georgia Satellites’ version of “Don’t Pass Me By.” I nominate it for one of the best covers Beatles songs. Their hard rocking approach some how makes the line “you were in a car crash and you lost your hair” a bit less bizarre. I have no idea why. But find it and listen to it.
“Why Don’t We Do it in the Road?” is next. Paul’s observation of two oblivious monkeys "in flagrante delicto" in a literal road in India was something he thought would make great symbolism for not caring what others think and doing your own thing. This message is completely lost in translation. The song rocks along, sure, but comes across as little more than juvenile blue humor. Still, one can’t imagine the White Album without this Paul and Ringo performance.
NOTE: It also stands as a prototype for McCartney’s first solo outing, an album you can credit (or blame) for finding its roots right here. “In the Road” would fit seamlessly on that record. (Full disclosure, I am in the distinct minority that loves the homegrown “McCartney” album, for what it's worth.)
After this lurid little number, a 180 degree turn finds the same singer giving us a lovely ballad, a true underrated gem. Lyrically, “I Will” is a prequel to Revolver’s “Here, There and Everywhere,” but musically it is that song’s offspring. It’s a lesser song than that Revolver classic, but sung with the same earnest voice and charm. McCartney can spit out these songs in his sleep – little nuggets that most any other musician would give his eye teeth to have. He just sings them and moves on.
NOTE: This brings us to the end of Paul’s record one contributions. He wrote eight of the seventeen songs on the first two sides of the White Album, played and recorded at least three of them by himself, and only one features all four Beatles (the internally maligned “Ob-la-di Ob-la-da”). As stated previously, McCartney is soldiering on, but at the same time he is alienating his bandmates. There’s irony that in keeping the group together when it possibly would have just quietly dissolved in the wake of Brian Epstein’s death, he actually created a very loud breakup that would never be fully overcome. Regardless, we might not have this record, or Let it Be, or the great Abbey Road were it not for Paul, and he deserves enormous credit for that. Each man would achieve success, even veneration, as solo artists. But nothing ever approached what they could do together, and that ultimately was reason enough to keep them going longer than circumstances dictated they should have.
Only one time during his career with Beatles did John Lennon record a song all by himself, and it is one of the key compositions (and moments) of his life. Never one to cope with a tragedy particularly well, Lennon confronts the two most significant events of his life in the lovely ballad “Julia.” The first is the death of his mother Julia when he was just a teen. Both he and McCartney lost their mothers around the same time and this was a unifying bond in the early days. Paul used the tragedy as inspiration toward success, whereas John did what he usually did – he lashed out. It wasn’t until the second event – the emergence of Yoko Ono – that he finally put the heartbreak to rest. Lyrically he reaches out to his mother to find peace and let her know that he will be OK now because “Ocean Child calls me.” Ocean Child is the English translation of Yoko’s name. The finger-picking guitar style he learned from Donovon in India is used again here, and it presented a great challenge to the author. He summoned a deep focus just to play it, and as you can hear on the Anthology 3 version when a take breaks down, didn’t respond in anger when it did. Just like the meaning of the song itself, he was determined to get it right, and thus was born a truly classic John Lennon masterpiece, his only solo work in the Beatles context.
Side three jumps to life with the drum beats that announce a bass and guitar doubled riff that create the bedrock for the classic “Birthday.” This famous session, which followed a movie screening at the McCartney residence, created exactly what the group had in mind: a birthday song that would become a near standard (likely inspired by "Sixteen Candles"). George commemorated the occasion by lighting an ashtray on fire, placing it on his head and dancing around the studio. The pounding riff drives the song along and the Beatles screech out the lyrics with the requisite enthusiasm. Following a brief drum interlude, the whole thing opens up after the “yes we’re going to a party, party,” section. Paul yells out, “I would like you to dance!” and the party is well under way. The solo repeats the riff of the verse, culminating in another bass-guitar doubling of which even Cream themselves must have been envious. Despite being what could be considered a throw away tune, the Beatles once again create an all-time classic that fans will play at least annually for the rest of their lives. It’s a rocking great time that creates the most fun to be found on the record.
A “Two! Three!” count-in signals the beginning of the Beatles attempt at the then en vogue British Blooze boom. Again, Cream is the likely impetus, and the Fabs acquit themselves nicely on "Yer Blues," John offering another painful lyric about death and depression. It’s a fine rock song and Lennon’s vocal is top notch. Following John’s repeated note solo, George soars in with a biting set of licks that compliment the lyric and tone perfectly. On the surface, the final verse sounds like an instrumental section, but a careful listen reveals a deeply embedded vocal – one that John yelled into a dead mic, the resulting lyrics bleeding through the drum mics as the whole suicidal mess culminates. Another fine effort, if not quite to the level of those that pioneered the craft. (Check out John's version with The Dirty Mac, a note I include here mostly just so I can refer to that wonderful group name - a one time lineup that included Lennon, Keith Richards, Eric Clapton and Mitch Mitchell. Here's your supergroup right here.)
One of the lasting effects of the India experience was a focus on the beauty of nature. John’s “Just a Child on Nature” was excised and later turned into “Jealous Guy,” a classic in its own right. But Paul’s “Mother Nature’s Son” made the cut. The pastoral lyric is sung in Paul’s most pensive voice, and the result is lovely. Surprisingly it was Lennon who suggested the addition of brass - on a song on which he does not appear, no less - which elevates the composition above being just another acoustic ballad.
The serenity of Paul’s “field of grass” is shattered by biting guitar chords that give way to some ferocious guitar playing and, eventually, a wild cow bell of which even Christopher Walken would give approval. “Everybody’s Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey,” a song supposedly based on an accusatory cartoon someone published that depicted Yoko Ono as a literal monkey on the author’s back digging the talent out of him, features John’s characteristic word play and is a fine example of the kind of rock the Beatles could play well. This contrasts Paul’s effort a couple of songs later (“Helter Skelter”), which isn’t nearly a great as this tune. For the title alone, not to mention the superb playing, this one remains a vastly underrated number in the group’s catalog. Play it loud, and you won’t be able to keep from smiling. A top notch album cut.
The piano that kicks off “Sexy Sadie” copies the half-step G to F# chord trick of “I’m So Tired.” The song is a tirade against the Maharishi, the name changed to avoid any potential legal ramifications. While it is likely that the Maharishi was unjustly accused, John nevertheless felt betrayed when rumors of the Yogi’s carnal ambitions surfaced and the remaining two Beatles left in outrage. (George later made his amends, but John never did). Supposedly there exists a recording in the Abbey Road vault where John sings a vulgar attack and uses the Maharishi’s name. Cooler heads prevailed, though, and it became “Sexy Sadie.” The coincidence of Charles Manson’s renaming of his right-hand woman “Sadie” served as proof for the mad man that the Beatles were addressing him, but in reality it was just an attack in song on someone who had disappointed John Lennon. He would later realize this same approach more fully with the Plastic Ono Band in “God,” where he dismissed virtually every single thing he ever knew, clearly expressing his disillusionment. But here, it is just one man in his sights, and the result is a fantastic song.
When Paul read Pete Townshed’s quote that The Who’s latest release was their loudest and most raucous yet (probably “Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere”), the Beatle decided he didn’t want to be outdone. Using a playground slide as his inspiration, Paul brought a song to the group meant to be played loud and trashy and "Helter Skelter" resulted. One recorded version lasted over 20 minutes! No wonder Ringo felt moved to yell his famous line, “I got blisters on my fingers!” Never a personal favorite of mine, the guitar runs are still an exciting moment on the record. Despite that good sound, this is not the Beatles at their strongest. Hard rock was never the band’s forte, and both the Stones and the Who could play harder and with more edge than the Fab Four. But when needing to show they could hold their own, the Beatles put in an admirable performance, even though they emphasize again (as with “Yer Blues”) that though they can do much, they can’t be the best at everything.
The maturity of George’s songwriting really comes to the forefront with “Long Long Long.” The least known of his songs on the White Album, it is certainly the most lovely and likely the best (and the most representative) of his work. Starting softly and building toward a bridge that soars as the centerpiece of the number (“So many years I was searching… So many tears I wasting…”), George offers another song that works as a template for his solo career. As he sings about love lost and the search to find it again, he likely has God in mind, but as with his better efforts at this subject matter, it could just as easily be about a woman. This gives the lyric universal appeal that doesn’t turn preachy, and Harrison turns in what should be considered a classic. As they approached the end of the song, an empty wine bottle on a speaker began to vibrate when a certain note was hit on the organ – an effect they liked and decided to keep on the record. But it is the creepy disembodied moan, possibly from Yoko, that sticks in the memory as the serenity of the song falls apart into chaos. It is an uncomfortable completion to the third side of the album, and an unexpected ending to the previously beautiful song. Indeed nothing is as it seems, least of all George's own confidence. It is truly a shame that he was so often relegated to second-class Beatle, as the inclusion of "Sour Milk Sea" and "Not Guilty" would have improved this album, had he been allowed more than one song per side.
A false start and an “OK” from John kick off what was actually the original version of “Revolution,” but was re-recorded as one of the band’s best rock numbers to back “Hey Jude.” This lesser known version (“Revolution I”), featuring doo-wop vocals and brass is every bit as great as the more well-known counterpart. In fact, I may prefer it depending on the day, as did the song's author. At the time of the recording, John showed his uncertainty with violence as a means to an end, singing “when you talk about destruction, don’t you know that you can count me out – IN!” Some have suggested that he had decided to come down on the “against” side by the time of the single version (where the “In” is omitted), but a quick peek at the promo film released by the band to accompany the single shows this is not the case. If you haven’t seen that version, check it out here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BGLGzRXY5Bw. It is an amusing blend of the two songs with a new live vocal mimed to the original single version backing track.
“Honey Pie” is next. John and George complained loudly and frequently about Paul’s “granny music,” but I don’t recall ever reading of a cross word about this period piece. Certainly not from John, who actually plays the guitar solo! This is the kind of song that many say would not have been included on the “one good album” idea, and that is a shame. Having followed up “When I’m 64” with “Your Mother Should Know,” Paul turns in another song for his father here, at it is lots of fun. He would do it again a decade later on “Venus and Mars” with “You Gave Me the Answer.” He’s good at this, proof again that McCartney can write whatever he wants, and he can write it well. It’s a great chord progression and melody – and the clarinet section behind the solo is superb. "I like this kind of hot kind of music..."
“Savoy Truffle,” George’s final number on the record, is actually an ode to Eric Clapton and his sweet tooth. A reworking of the contents of a box of “Good News” brand chocolates, Harrison sings about the guitar hero’s problems with cavities, an odd subject for a rock song to be sure. The compressed horns drive the song along, but it falls apart a bit on the bridge, where George resorts to clichés and referencing other songs. It’s not a bad number, but it is his weakest effort on the record and should have been skipped in favor of "Not Guilty."
John wrote “Cry Baby Cry” based on an ad he saw that said “Buy Baby Buy.” The result is an atypical song from him, a scant narrative about some unusual, if privileged, characters. It’s unusual for Lennon to do exactly what he complained about Paul doing - creating fictitious people. He believed art was only true if it were personal, so the inclusion of this song on the album would indicate it to be filler, but it is pleasant filler indeed. Paul’s “Can You Take Me Back” is tacked onto the end for no reason other than, apparently, that it existed. And I am OK with that, too.
There is no more maligned track on any multi-platinum album than “Revolution 9,” and even if you are still reading this ridiculous review, it is possible you have never listened through to this avant-garde offering from John, Yoko and George. It is important historically because it introduced the genre to a vast audience, or at least provided the opportunity for introduction. It is just that most people weren’t interested, and still aren’t. Yoko Ono, despite being a well-respected artist in the field, is after all still far better known for who she married than her own work. It is actually rather mesmerizing to follow the progress of “the sound of revolution happening,” as John put it. And though it will never be anyone’s idea of a great Beatles track, or even most people’s idea of a song at all, listening to it is more than a little unsettling and actually quite interesting. You won’t go away humming a melody (there isn’t one) and you won’t leave moved by the point (not sure what it is), but you will go away saying “number nine, number nine, number nine…” Madness will follow.
Surprisingly it was John who penned “Good Night,” a song for his son Julian. And though rumors persist that a recording exists deep in the vaults of the author taking the lead vocal, Lennon would never have consented to doing so on record. So Ringo was recruited for another showcase, with requisite Hollywood-strings as requested by the author. The album ends on a sticky-sweet note that contrasts sharply to the behemoth of insanity that came before it. As if the journey hadn’t been weird enough along the way, the album concludes with the point emphasized: what did I just listen to?
One of the best selling double albums of all time. A huge collection of songs, many of them classics. A stark contrast to the previous year’s release. Some head scratchers. An event.
“Shut up. It’s the bloody Beatles White Album.”
-Paul McCartney, to the detractors
Indeed.
The four faces that spilled out in individual portraits must have been as striking at the time as they are familiar now. Once all sporting the same styles and looks, even the mustaches and wild colored clothing of the past year still being unified in their disparity, these did not even appear to be the same four men. I can’t imagine what viewing these large photos for the first time must have been like. If the last image one had in his head was the joyous vibrancy of Sgt. Pepper, saying this look was shocking represents a vast understatement.
And yet these are my four favorite pictures of the Beatles. These photos are burned into my memory – when I think of the Beatles, I think of these images.
There’s John in a denim jacket, donning the granny glasses he adopted the previous year that would become his trademark. In this shot, they sit slightly crooked on his long thin nose, the left side of his face disappearing into shadows that echo the famous “With the Beatles” cover shot. It was Paul that was rumored to be dead, but it was John who was unrecognizable. His hair cascaded to near shoulder length, a sandy brown frame around an expressionless face with eyes that speak apathy. Only the slight tilting of his head to the right conveys any kind of emotion as you look at the photo. “This is me now,” he seems to say. It would be frightening were it not so emotionless.
George’s portrait is most similar to John’s, taken at roughly the same distance and angle. His hair is still dark, and he retains the mustache, but his beard is gone and the top of his head hasn’t seen a barber all year. The shadow is from the right side, but not nearly as pronounced as the one on John’s face. This shows George’s emergence, the arrival of an accomplished songwriter and more confident player just one year away. He’s almost there, his four songs on the record containing this photo representing his very best work so far. His eyes communicate only slight satisfaction, however, as if to tell the story: two songs better than some of the rest of the contents of the album lay unused on the cutting room floor. He’s here, he’s a force, but there is more to him that we do not yet see. He remains tight-lipped, the enigma among the most famous faces in the world, and he has more to say and to offer than he is being allowed.
While taken from the same distance, Ringo’s picture shows a tilted head coming from an ornate scarf (or possibly a collar). His trademark nose dominates the middle of the photo and he is presented in full lighting so the pronounced ridge on the front of his face doesn’t cast a shadow. It’s a full color photo, but there is really only brown and white. The exuberance that made him so popular in the days of Beatlemania seems to be completely gone. The sepia tones come not from a filter, or really even from his clothing choice. The blandness represents a two year journey from beloved, head-shaking, touring drummer to the man who spent most of his studio time waiting to play while the others worked on their songs. (He spent most of Sgt. Pepper's recording playing cards with Mal Evans). Things were dark enough for Ringo to leave for two weeks during the recording of the album. His photo tells us he wants to be here, but he is not sure of himself, or even of his value to the band of which he is a vital part. His interview on the Anthology project about his time away from the group confirms this.
And then there’s Paul. His photograph says the most, and the statement cannot be missed. Those big brown Macca eyes dominate the frame, but they are the only reminder of the days when he was just “the cute one.” He’s not clean shaven like John; neither does he have the sculpted mustache like George and Ringo. Instead he sports scruffy whiskers. There’s no time to bother with shaving, and no time to worry about appearance – because that sort of superficial thing doesn’t matter anymore like it did in 1967. There’s something more happening with Paul, and that something is made clear by his proximity to the camera lens. He is much closer than the other three – he’s in your face. The closeness and unkempt appearance demonstrate what is happening with the band. Paul is carrying the burden of keeping everything together, and those eyes are telling that weary story. Since Brian Epstein’s death the previous year, it has been he who kept them soldiering on. The “Magical Mystery Tour” project was completely his concept – just think of the great songs from that time that would never have happened had he not insisted they get back to business right away. His workmanlike passion for the craft, which continues almost 50 years later, thrust him into the limelight as the one who would most respect the importance of carrying on and also of just being The Beatles. The others would all quit the band on one occasion or another over the next two years, but the Beatles would not be officially finished until he said so in 1970. This photo conveys a clear message: It used to be John’s band, but now it is Paul’s band. There’s a lot more to him than he has been given credit for, and he is ready for everyone to know it. In fact, he deeply yearns for everyone to know it. It’s a message he would carry with him long past the need to do so, even to the point of being irksome.
These photos comprise the centerpiece of an unexpectedly elaborate packaging scheme belied by the plain white cover. On the heels of the elaborate Sgt. Pepper design, the group now took the opposite approach. No more fake band names. No more colorful designs. When the original title (“A Doll’s House”) turned out to have too much resemblance to the new album from prog-rock outfit Family (“Music from a Doll’s House”), they decided to just call the record “The Beatles” and be done with it. They considered a coffee cup stain on the white cover, but decided to have serial numbers printed instead, creating the illusion that it was a rare, numbered piece. A laugh, considering the millions upon millions of copies this magnum opus would sell.
There is much controversy about the numbering system – to the point that answers vary on whether there is a mono #0000001 and also a stereo #0000001. Most sources state that the Beatles received #1-4, and many report that John Lennon grabbed twenty or so additional low numbers. And even though serial numbers were sometimes duplicated to the point that no one really seems to know how many of each number there are, the fact remains that single digit copies are virtually unknown. I assume the Beatles themselves (or their estates) still have #1-4, but who knows? The lowest numbered original I have seen came up for auction in 2008. Some consider it the rarest album in the world. Read more about #0000005 here: http://www.musicradar.com/news/guitars/beatles-rare-white-album-for-sale-on-ebay-182874
In addition to the four individual portraits (an odd inclusion for a record named after the band as a whole), there was a collage poster with pictures submitted by the Beatles themselves. Full lyrics were included on the back. The gatefold sleeve opened to a track listing on the lower right quadrant of the left side and black and white versions of the portraits on the bottom of the right side. The package is another example of why vinyl will always be the best format for music. It is one thing to listen to the tunes – it is an entirely different experience to listen while pouring over those photos and that poster, taking it all in. It is a phenomenal presentation. Down to details such as the label on the record itself and the sleeve that holds it, the vinyl album was the original multimedia experience, and The White Album was a great one. More on that here: http://www.thewhitealbumproject.com/design/
There are so many other things to discuss about this record. There’s the history of the songwriting in India. There’s the exile of both George Martin and engineer Geoff Emerick during the recording when they both had simply had enough. There’s the individual nature of many of the tracks as individual Beatles worked on their own compositions in separate studios. There’s even a crazy man who thought the record was a message from God's four horsemen instructing him to start a race war, as Charles Manson used songs like “Piggies” and “Blackbird” and “Helter Skelter” to justify some of history’s most brutal murders. It would be ridiculous to say I am omitting discussion of these topics for the sake of brevity given the length of this review, but I suppose we have to draw the line somewhere and get to the point.
The White Album is great because of the music it contains. No one has ever released such a bizarre collection of songs that are as excellent as they are strange. Regardless of mystique, or history, or packaging, or culture, this is a transcendent album because of the collection of songs the band presented to the world in the fall of 1968.
“Back in the USSR” starts the record, jet engines panning in the stereo version and overwhelming in the mono. From my earliest memories that opening was gripping, and the single bent guitar note was the signal that things were about to take off. Part parody, part tribute, and part pure rock and roll, this will always be one of my favorite Beatles tracks. It was recorded while Ringo was away with Paul assuming the role of drummer. It’s a funny lyric over a tight rock verse, with a “Beatles doing the Beach Boys doing Chuck Berry” bridge (“middle eight” in the parlance), as our boys laud the motherland, taking the role of a commie coming home. It’s humorous and sounds so great that almost five decades later it still sounds fresh (even if I have to explain to the kids what the USSR was since they have no concept).
That same jet shows up again to give way to a song on the list of my favorite Lennon compositions. “Dear Prudence” is a top five Beatles song for me – it is absolutely perfect. From Lennon’s rolling guitar figures, to the equally beautifully written and sung lyric, to Paul’s exquisite bass line that no doubt makes the song, this is an accomplishment of epic proportions. Supposedly it again features Paul on drums, and I am with this through all the verses, but I have long wondered during the fade out if Ringo hadn’t returned. That playing doesn’t sound like Paul to me. No books corroborate this theory, but it sounds so much like Ringo that it gives me pause. Regardless, as the guitar fades out, and all lingering doubts of Prudence’s emergence dissipate, a serene feeling of total peace has descended upon the listener who has just experienced perfection. It is indeed a perfect song and recording. (As usual, I love how George's distinctive vocals can be heard clearly in the "Look around..." section, which also features the aforementioned Jackie Lomax).
The jolt of the drum beats that open “Glass Onion” shatter any serenity left from the previous song. John Lennon has a go at the fans that would be considered mean spirited if it weren’t so much fun to listen to. “Oh Yeah!” Everyone knew the fix was in when he sang “the Walrus was Paul,” and took it with good humor, certainly with more than intended by the author. The bizarre “It’s a goal! It’s a goal!” ending (which you can hear on Anthology 3) was wisely replaced with the string figure that brings things to a close. This is a sixties gem that achieves more than the writer ever intended.
Sick of playing another of Paul’s “granny music” songs (according to George), and following hours upon hours and days upon days of doing so, John came in and announced they were going to do “Ob-la-di Ob-la-da” and started banging the piano with ferocious intensity. That’s the take they would ultimately use, and even though Paul’s assertion that it should be a single would probably have resulted in a hit, the others vetoed the suggestion because they hated it. Had it been thrown together simply in an afternoon, it might have been more accepted, but Paul’s insistence on working it to death meant the others would never think highly of the tune. It’s exactly the kind of song that makes the tremendously talented McCartney such an enigma. It’s a banal, insipid lyric about “boring people doing boring things” (Lennon), and at the same time guaranteed to keep you singing it for hours afterwards. I hate it. I also love it.
And then there’s “Wild Honey Pie.” Paul’s weird guitars and repeatedly overdubbed screaming of “Honey Pie!” were supposedly included because “Patti [Harrison] liked it.” It seems pretty low to blame it on her, especially given her unquestioned place at the top of rock's muse list. It is at this point in the album that those listening for the first time in 1968 must have wondered what the heck was going on. It wouldn’t sink any lower over the remainder of the album, but it would definitely get weirder.
Were it not about killing animals, “The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill” would be a kids’ song. (What a great title, by the way. Still makes me smile.) For a throwaway tune, it’s pretty great. Funny and entertaining, it works, and children of all ages should celebrate it. If you don’t like it, you are wrong. How’s that for hard hitting juvenile journalism?
“While My Guitar Gently Weeps” is a rock classic, and with its bloated presentation and running time along with Eric Clapton guitar solos, it has been and will be played repeatedly on classic rock radio ad nauseum. And it is a great song (listen to the beautiful acoustic version from the Kinfauns demos to really hear the song itself before it became this monstrosity). But it is not a great recording. The organ drone becomes so piercing that I find the song hard to listen to, particularly during the bridge. Maybe it is just the mix, but the final recording causes a really nice song to collapse under its own weight. I wish I loved it. I want to love it. But I don’t.
“Happiness is a Warm Gun” features an almost entirely incomprehensible free-association lyric that Lennon pulled from a variety of people and materials. The title comes from a gun magazine, itself a parody of a Peanuts title, “Happiness is a Warm Puppy.” John considered the song to be “a sort of history of rock and roll,” and his point is taken when the different styles of the various sections are considered. The journey is accomplished in just 2:44.
The opening montage is a lyrical collage drawn from lines contributed by various people and news clippings and features the best music played by the group on the album. Again featuring John’s rolling electric riffs, this time buoyed by George’s sharp chord clips, and another signature bass performance by Paul that bounds in excitedly after the first set of line, it is a fascinating beginning. The “I need a fix” section is next in a minor-blues motif. John said it is not about drugs, despite his foray into heroin at the time. Next, the “mother superior” section blasts out of the speakers in hard rock fashion, the lyrics again being equal parts confounding and meaningless. The whole thing settles into a ‘50s doo-wap in standard I-vi-VI-V, complete with “bang, bang, shoot, shoot” backing vocals. The beat jumps all over the place and the whole thing would spiral out of control were it not for Ringo’s steady 4/4 drumming, which oddly never changes as Lennon leads the others through a barrage of different time signatures underneath his spoken word homage to Yoko. Despite the White Album’s being accurately described as a collection of solo artists with backing bands, this is ensemble playing at its finest.
Recorded in a small closet barely big enough for all four, this may be what Ringo had in mind when he somewhat erroneously claimed that they were “really playing as a group again” on the White Album. The fact remains they still had the magic when they played together, something that would remain no matter how fractured they became – just watch the rooftop concert recorded the following January for proof. “Happiness” should be lauded as a monumental achievement in rock music, a status it likely does not reach because it is so truly weird. Side one closes with this, the best song on the album, and the listener must wonder what more the guys could do with three more sides remaining after this one!
It is probably good there was a break to turn the vinyl over at this point because Paul’s jaunty piano exercise that begins “Martha My Dear” is an audio jolt. (It was a literal exercise – he created the intro to challenge his piano skills and did so in Eb to make sure it wouldn’t be easy to play.) Lyrics like “you silly girl” might have been taken as oddly misogynistic for the Beatles for those unaware that this is a song about a dog. Paul’s English Sheepdog to be exact. Ignore the silly words and pay attention the music. The song is a mini-symphony with three distinct sections (“Martha my dear…” followed by, “Hold your head up…” and then, “Take a good look around you…”)
These two songs (“Martha” and “Happiness”) starkly contrast what happens when Lennon and McCartney create using the same method. Both are the product of multiple selections of music seamlessly connected to create a whole. Lennon’s is dark and mysterious while McCartney’s is bright and lilting. Lennon creates something that challenges the listener whereas McCartney presents something approachable, though no less complex. It’s both men at their best, the usual outcome when each is challenged by the other, even if this instance is not as deliberate as it was some previous times – “Strawberry Fields Forever” and “Penny Lane,” for example.
The final Eb chord fades, sliding up a half step to a single note E-F#-G# run into the opening A chord of “I’m So Tired.” It would be a cheesy way to begin a song were it not so effective at bridging the gap between the two. (Don’t overlook the genius of the sequencing of this album – they labored over it for hours and in the end made something great even better by methodically ordering the tracks). Two years before, John sang “I’m Only Sleeping,” one of the finest tracks the group recorded. This song isn’t as strong, but is nevertheless one of my favorites. He’s gone from dreamy apathy to tortured insomnia, with catharsis not quite achieved in his cry of “Give you everything I’ve got for a little peace of mind!” The mono version of this track packs more punch than the stereo one and is preferred.
John’s muttered gibberish connects directly into one of the best tracks Paul ever wrote. Taken from an old Bach pattern he and George used to play on guitar as youngsters, McCartney transforms the figure into an all time classic with a stirring lyric and unforgettable melody. “Blackbird” is nothing short of gorgeous and perfect. There’s no hyperbole in my insistence that seeing Paul play and sing this song live is one of the highlights of my life, and I have been fortunate to experience it twice.
The author insists the song is about the civil rights movement in the US, and there’s no doubt the inspirational lyric fits the claim. But I remain unconvinced. As an avid reader of Beatles-related material, I have found no reference to this supposed connection prior to 1997’s “Many Years From Now,” by longtime Macca buddy Barry Miles. The work supposedly came together to “set the record straight” on a number of things, but actually comes across in more of a petty, history-altering light than anything else. Paul wants more credit, almost as if he is upset that his legacy didn’t have the “good fortune” to be assassinated and thus canonized like his bandmate. The book, his desire to change some song credits to “McCartney-Lennon” and his occasional “look at me” posturing are wholly unnecessary for someone of his stature. He’s the greatest writer-entertainer-musician of the last hundred years, period. No need to embellish. Maybe he did have “a black woman in the American south” in mind when he wrote it, but I strongly suspect that’s little more than revisionism (and the story becomes more elaborate each time he tells it on stage). It makes for a good narrative, but the song is so universal in its “freedom” spirit that it needs no such updating and stands on its own.
The “Blackbird” sings happily and freely but is silenced by the sound of a harpsichord, certainly an unexpected find on a rock record at the time. George’s “Piggies,” a blistering attack on the fat cats of society, is his second offering on the album. Sardonic and accusatory, it nevertheless comes across as fun and funny at the same time. The first couple of verses may be slightly obtuse, but by the time the “starched white shirts” make an appearance, the ones in Harrison’s sights are clear. The bridge is the key part of the song, with George’s distorted vocal taking center stage while the harpsichord pounds away in the background. “In their sties with all their backing they don’t care what goes on around.” After these words, we get a run of notes from a diminished chord to set the scene – it jars the ears with the discomfort it presents. Here’s where George brings it home. “In their lives there’s something lacking, what they need’s a damn good whacking!” It’s more of a self-fulfilling prophecy than it is a threat – in their own oblivious lives, they will get theirs.
Note: My favorite bit of trivia about this song is that it was George’s mother who came up with the “damn good whacking” line. Thanks, Ma! I would also be remiss not to point out the great counter-melody from the strings during the solo. This is an underrated composition and recording – if it had a different name, maybe more would see it that way. As it is, this song along with the next two from George actually serve as notice of the direction his solo career would take. “Piggies,” “Long Long Long,” and “Savoy Truffle” each have elements the writer would use as a sort of blueprint for years to come. The Harrisongs of the 1970s bear far more resemblance to these three tunes than they do to “Gently Weep” or even the classics “Here Comes the Sun” and “Something” he would pen less than a year later.
The pomposity of the “Piggies” comes across loud and clear in the way the last verse is sung, and as the piggies and their “piggie wives” are out for dinner, their Orwellian fates are clear. “Clutching forks and knives to eat their bacon” is one of the greatest lines in music history (and a vast improvement over the original lyric, “to eat their pork chops” – the bacon line was suggested by Lennon, again showing the Beatles were always better together than apart).
To this point the harpsichord has been mostly cheerful (save the aforementioned line in the bridge and the one leading up to it), but the Ab turns into an Abm after the final lyric, signaling the menacing end of the piggies themselves. “One more time,” George says, and strings return a half step higher with an A major that runs down to E major, the opposite of what occurred at the beginning of “I’m So Tired” two songs before. When listened to back-to-back-to-back the preceding three songs therefore have inverted musical bookends and create an odd suite – John’s personal torment, Paul’s eternal optimism, and George’s skeptical social commentary. It’s what each writer does best, and what made the whole of both the Beatles AND the White Album so much greater than the sum of their parts.
The good sequencing continues with a third “animal song" in a row, this one a cowboy western joke called “Rocky Raccoon.” The song is regularly cited as an example of one that could or should have been left on the cutting room floor, but it is harmless and even funny. Why deprive the world of a lyric like “the doctor came in stinking of gin and proceeded to lie on the table?” Its inclusion is justified for that line alone.
Ah, Ringo. He’s sad in his photo. He left because he felt he “wasn’t playing well” and the others were closer than he. In reality everyone loved Richard Starkey. No one else returned from group hiatus, after all, to flowers and warm welcome. So the drummer who had been singing songs written for him to great success for a few years now has written one of his own. (Actually, the composition's origins date back to as early as 1961 or 1962, but it only finally sees the light of day in 1968). It is a pretty straightforward I-IV-V composition with lyrics that appear to be about some kind of love affair, but really are a general cry from Ringo himself. Don’t forget about me! “Don’t Pass Me By!” The hokey fiddle plays to comic effect throughout the song, and for some reason the mono version is sped up and makes Ringo sound like he has been sucking helium. But that version also mixes his “one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, ayyyy-eeeeeight” count up before the last chorus loud enough to be heard clearly, which for some reason I find very satisfying. Nevertheless, the stereo version in the recorded speed and key is overall much better. The song is a throwaway to be sure, but it gives Starr his requisite one spotlight per two album sides.
NOTE: It’s not like someone couldn’t get something more out of this number. Check out the Georgia Satellites’ version of “Don’t Pass Me By.” I nominate it for one of the best covers Beatles songs. Their hard rocking approach some how makes the line “you were in a car crash and you lost your hair” a bit less bizarre. I have no idea why. But find it and listen to it.
“Why Don’t We Do it in the Road?” is next. Paul’s observation of two oblivious monkeys "in flagrante delicto" in a literal road in India was something he thought would make great symbolism for not caring what others think and doing your own thing. This message is completely lost in translation. The song rocks along, sure, but comes across as little more than juvenile blue humor. Still, one can’t imagine the White Album without this Paul and Ringo performance.
NOTE: It also stands as a prototype for McCartney’s first solo outing, an album you can credit (or blame) for finding its roots right here. “In the Road” would fit seamlessly on that record. (Full disclosure, I am in the distinct minority that loves the homegrown “McCartney” album, for what it's worth.)
After this lurid little number, a 180 degree turn finds the same singer giving us a lovely ballad, a true underrated gem. Lyrically, “I Will” is a prequel to Revolver’s “Here, There and Everywhere,” but musically it is that song’s offspring. It’s a lesser song than that Revolver classic, but sung with the same earnest voice and charm. McCartney can spit out these songs in his sleep – little nuggets that most any other musician would give his eye teeth to have. He just sings them and moves on.
NOTE: This brings us to the end of Paul’s record one contributions. He wrote eight of the seventeen songs on the first two sides of the White Album, played and recorded at least three of them by himself, and only one features all four Beatles (the internally maligned “Ob-la-di Ob-la-da”). As stated previously, McCartney is soldiering on, but at the same time he is alienating his bandmates. There’s irony that in keeping the group together when it possibly would have just quietly dissolved in the wake of Brian Epstein’s death, he actually created a very loud breakup that would never be fully overcome. Regardless, we might not have this record, or Let it Be, or the great Abbey Road were it not for Paul, and he deserves enormous credit for that. Each man would achieve success, even veneration, as solo artists. But nothing ever approached what they could do together, and that ultimately was reason enough to keep them going longer than circumstances dictated they should have.
Only one time during his career with Beatles did John Lennon record a song all by himself, and it is one of the key compositions (and moments) of his life. Never one to cope with a tragedy particularly well, Lennon confronts the two most significant events of his life in the lovely ballad “Julia.” The first is the death of his mother Julia when he was just a teen. Both he and McCartney lost their mothers around the same time and this was a unifying bond in the early days. Paul used the tragedy as inspiration toward success, whereas John did what he usually did – he lashed out. It wasn’t until the second event – the emergence of Yoko Ono – that he finally put the heartbreak to rest. Lyrically he reaches out to his mother to find peace and let her know that he will be OK now because “Ocean Child calls me.” Ocean Child is the English translation of Yoko’s name. The finger-picking guitar style he learned from Donovon in India is used again here, and it presented a great challenge to the author. He summoned a deep focus just to play it, and as you can hear on the Anthology 3 version when a take breaks down, didn’t respond in anger when it did. Just like the meaning of the song itself, he was determined to get it right, and thus was born a truly classic John Lennon masterpiece, his only solo work in the Beatles context.
Side three jumps to life with the drum beats that announce a bass and guitar doubled riff that create the bedrock for the classic “Birthday.” This famous session, which followed a movie screening at the McCartney residence, created exactly what the group had in mind: a birthday song that would become a near standard (likely inspired by "Sixteen Candles"). George commemorated the occasion by lighting an ashtray on fire, placing it on his head and dancing around the studio. The pounding riff drives the song along and the Beatles screech out the lyrics with the requisite enthusiasm. Following a brief drum interlude, the whole thing opens up after the “yes we’re going to a party, party,” section. Paul yells out, “I would like you to dance!” and the party is well under way. The solo repeats the riff of the verse, culminating in another bass-guitar doubling of which even Cream themselves must have been envious. Despite being what could be considered a throw away tune, the Beatles once again create an all-time classic that fans will play at least annually for the rest of their lives. It’s a rocking great time that creates the most fun to be found on the record.
A “Two! Three!” count-in signals the beginning of the Beatles attempt at the then en vogue British Blooze boom. Again, Cream is the likely impetus, and the Fabs acquit themselves nicely on "Yer Blues," John offering another painful lyric about death and depression. It’s a fine rock song and Lennon’s vocal is top notch. Following John’s repeated note solo, George soars in with a biting set of licks that compliment the lyric and tone perfectly. On the surface, the final verse sounds like an instrumental section, but a careful listen reveals a deeply embedded vocal – one that John yelled into a dead mic, the resulting lyrics bleeding through the drum mics as the whole suicidal mess culminates. Another fine effort, if not quite to the level of those that pioneered the craft. (Check out John's version with The Dirty Mac, a note I include here mostly just so I can refer to that wonderful group name - a one time lineup that included Lennon, Keith Richards, Eric Clapton and Mitch Mitchell. Here's your supergroup right here.)
One of the lasting effects of the India experience was a focus on the beauty of nature. John’s “Just a Child on Nature” was excised and later turned into “Jealous Guy,” a classic in its own right. But Paul’s “Mother Nature’s Son” made the cut. The pastoral lyric is sung in Paul’s most pensive voice, and the result is lovely. Surprisingly it was Lennon who suggested the addition of brass - on a song on which he does not appear, no less - which elevates the composition above being just another acoustic ballad.
The serenity of Paul’s “field of grass” is shattered by biting guitar chords that give way to some ferocious guitar playing and, eventually, a wild cow bell of which even Christopher Walken would give approval. “Everybody’s Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey,” a song supposedly based on an accusatory cartoon someone published that depicted Yoko Ono as a literal monkey on the author’s back digging the talent out of him, features John’s characteristic word play and is a fine example of the kind of rock the Beatles could play well. This contrasts Paul’s effort a couple of songs later (“Helter Skelter”), which isn’t nearly a great as this tune. For the title alone, not to mention the superb playing, this one remains a vastly underrated number in the group’s catalog. Play it loud, and you won’t be able to keep from smiling. A top notch album cut.
The piano that kicks off “Sexy Sadie” copies the half-step G to F# chord trick of “I’m So Tired.” The song is a tirade against the Maharishi, the name changed to avoid any potential legal ramifications. While it is likely that the Maharishi was unjustly accused, John nevertheless felt betrayed when rumors of the Yogi’s carnal ambitions surfaced and the remaining two Beatles left in outrage. (George later made his amends, but John never did). Supposedly there exists a recording in the Abbey Road vault where John sings a vulgar attack and uses the Maharishi’s name. Cooler heads prevailed, though, and it became “Sexy Sadie.” The coincidence of Charles Manson’s renaming of his right-hand woman “Sadie” served as proof for the mad man that the Beatles were addressing him, but in reality it was just an attack in song on someone who had disappointed John Lennon. He would later realize this same approach more fully with the Plastic Ono Band in “God,” where he dismissed virtually every single thing he ever knew, clearly expressing his disillusionment. But here, it is just one man in his sights, and the result is a fantastic song.
When Paul read Pete Townshed’s quote that The Who’s latest release was their loudest and most raucous yet (probably “Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere”), the Beatle decided he didn’t want to be outdone. Using a playground slide as his inspiration, Paul brought a song to the group meant to be played loud and trashy and "Helter Skelter" resulted. One recorded version lasted over 20 minutes! No wonder Ringo felt moved to yell his famous line, “I got blisters on my fingers!” Never a personal favorite of mine, the guitar runs are still an exciting moment on the record. Despite that good sound, this is not the Beatles at their strongest. Hard rock was never the band’s forte, and both the Stones and the Who could play harder and with more edge than the Fab Four. But when needing to show they could hold their own, the Beatles put in an admirable performance, even though they emphasize again (as with “Yer Blues”) that though they can do much, they can’t be the best at everything.
The maturity of George’s songwriting really comes to the forefront with “Long Long Long.” The least known of his songs on the White Album, it is certainly the most lovely and likely the best (and the most representative) of his work. Starting softly and building toward a bridge that soars as the centerpiece of the number (“So many years I was searching… So many tears I wasting…”), George offers another song that works as a template for his solo career. As he sings about love lost and the search to find it again, he likely has God in mind, but as with his better efforts at this subject matter, it could just as easily be about a woman. This gives the lyric universal appeal that doesn’t turn preachy, and Harrison turns in what should be considered a classic. As they approached the end of the song, an empty wine bottle on a speaker began to vibrate when a certain note was hit on the organ – an effect they liked and decided to keep on the record. But it is the creepy disembodied moan, possibly from Yoko, that sticks in the memory as the serenity of the song falls apart into chaos. It is an uncomfortable completion to the third side of the album, and an unexpected ending to the previously beautiful song. Indeed nothing is as it seems, least of all George's own confidence. It is truly a shame that he was so often relegated to second-class Beatle, as the inclusion of "Sour Milk Sea" and "Not Guilty" would have improved this album, had he been allowed more than one song per side.
A false start and an “OK” from John kick off what was actually the original version of “Revolution,” but was re-recorded as one of the band’s best rock numbers to back “Hey Jude.” This lesser known version (“Revolution I”), featuring doo-wop vocals and brass is every bit as great as the more well-known counterpart. In fact, I may prefer it depending on the day, as did the song's author. At the time of the recording, John showed his uncertainty with violence as a means to an end, singing “when you talk about destruction, don’t you know that you can count me out – IN!” Some have suggested that he had decided to come down on the “against” side by the time of the single version (where the “In” is omitted), but a quick peek at the promo film released by the band to accompany the single shows this is not the case. If you haven’t seen that version, check it out here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BGLGzRXY5Bw. It is an amusing blend of the two songs with a new live vocal mimed to the original single version backing track.
“Honey Pie” is next. John and George complained loudly and frequently about Paul’s “granny music,” but I don’t recall ever reading of a cross word about this period piece. Certainly not from John, who actually plays the guitar solo! This is the kind of song that many say would not have been included on the “one good album” idea, and that is a shame. Having followed up “When I’m 64” with “Your Mother Should Know,” Paul turns in another song for his father here, at it is lots of fun. He would do it again a decade later on “Venus and Mars” with “You Gave Me the Answer.” He’s good at this, proof again that McCartney can write whatever he wants, and he can write it well. It’s a great chord progression and melody – and the clarinet section behind the solo is superb. "I like this kind of hot kind of music..."
“Savoy Truffle,” George’s final number on the record, is actually an ode to Eric Clapton and his sweet tooth. A reworking of the contents of a box of “Good News” brand chocolates, Harrison sings about the guitar hero’s problems with cavities, an odd subject for a rock song to be sure. The compressed horns drive the song along, but it falls apart a bit on the bridge, where George resorts to clichés and referencing other songs. It’s not a bad number, but it is his weakest effort on the record and should have been skipped in favor of "Not Guilty."
John wrote “Cry Baby Cry” based on an ad he saw that said “Buy Baby Buy.” The result is an atypical song from him, a scant narrative about some unusual, if privileged, characters. It’s unusual for Lennon to do exactly what he complained about Paul doing - creating fictitious people. He believed art was only true if it were personal, so the inclusion of this song on the album would indicate it to be filler, but it is pleasant filler indeed. Paul’s “Can You Take Me Back” is tacked onto the end for no reason other than, apparently, that it existed. And I am OK with that, too.
There is no more maligned track on any multi-platinum album than “Revolution 9,” and even if you are still reading this ridiculous review, it is possible you have never listened through to this avant-garde offering from John, Yoko and George. It is important historically because it introduced the genre to a vast audience, or at least provided the opportunity for introduction. It is just that most people weren’t interested, and still aren’t. Yoko Ono, despite being a well-respected artist in the field, is after all still far better known for who she married than her own work. It is actually rather mesmerizing to follow the progress of “the sound of revolution happening,” as John put it. And though it will never be anyone’s idea of a great Beatles track, or even most people’s idea of a song at all, listening to it is more than a little unsettling and actually quite interesting. You won’t go away humming a melody (there isn’t one) and you won’t leave moved by the point (not sure what it is), but you will go away saying “number nine, number nine, number nine…” Madness will follow.
Surprisingly it was John who penned “Good Night,” a song for his son Julian. And though rumors persist that a recording exists deep in the vaults of the author taking the lead vocal, Lennon would never have consented to doing so on record. So Ringo was recruited for another showcase, with requisite Hollywood-strings as requested by the author. The album ends on a sticky-sweet note that contrasts sharply to the behemoth of insanity that came before it. As if the journey hadn’t been weird enough along the way, the album concludes with the point emphasized: what did I just listen to?
One of the best selling double albums of all time. A huge collection of songs, many of them classics. A stark contrast to the previous year’s release. Some head scratchers. An event.
“Shut up. It’s the bloody Beatles White Album.”
-Paul McCartney, to the detractors
Indeed.
*My “Very White Album”
Side One "Back in the U.S.S.R." "Dear Prudence" "Glass Onion" "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" "Wild Honey Pie" "The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill" "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" "Happiness Is a Warm Gun" Side Two "Martha My Dear" "I'm So Tired" "Blackbird" "Piggies" "Rocky Raccoon" "Don't Pass Me By" "Why Don't We Do It in the Road?" "I Will" "Julia" Side Three “Sour Milk Sea” “Junk” “Hey Bulldog” “All Together Now” “What’s the New Mary Jane” “Not Guilty” |
Side Four “It’s all too Much” “Not Guilty” “Child of Nature” “Circles” “Step Inside Love” “Only A Northern Song” Side Five "Birthday" "Yer Blues" "Mother Nature's Son" "Everybody's Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey" "Sexy Sadie" "Helter Skelter" "Long, Long, Long" Side Six "Revolution 1" "Honey Pie" "Savoy Truffle" "Cry Baby Cry" "Revolution 9" "Good Night" Obviously this is ridiculous. Who cares? |
“After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.”
Aldous Huxley
Aldous Huxley
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