The Beatles' White Album, 40 years old this November, may have been self-indulgent and silly in parts, but it is still a masterpiece of collective genius that few have equalled, writes Tony Clayton-Lea
FOLLOWING UP an album (Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band) that by general consensus was their finest (and which, retrospectively, has not only influenced countless artists but has also been voted one of the best ever released) promised to be a thankless, difficult task. But The Beatles' White Album (aka The Beatles) proved the band's willingness to take perhaps even greater creative risks than before. With risk, however, comes the possibility of failure, and if there is one latter period Beatles album that divided listeners and brought them from one good mood to another via a series of troublesome troughs and vaulting peaks, then the White Album was it.
Released in November 1968, almost 18 months after Sergeant Pepper (described resoundingly by Kenneth Tynan in the London Times as "a decisive moment in the history of western civilisation"), the White Album was conceived following a restful and fertile transcendental meditation holiday in India under the guidance of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.
In February 1968, the four Beatles, their wives and a retinue which included Scottish singer Donovan and Mia Farrow's sister, Prudence, were staying in the Himalayan retreat of Rishikesh. Feeling bored and sensing that there was something not-quite-right about the enterprise, Ringo Starr soon left the fold, followed not long afterwards by Paul McCartney. John Lennon and George Harrison, who were more enamoured with Hinduism than their two hastily departed friends, hung around until April, but also became dubious about their tutor's ability to impart higher awareness when they discovered that he was giving private lessons of a less spiritual nature to female members of the entourage.
And so, come May of that year, all four members convened at Kinfauns, George Harrison's Hindu-decorated bungalow in Esher. The collective task was to record demos for the next album, and there was no shortage of songs to choose from, as India had provided, if nothing else, a well of inspiration from which to draw. McCartney had written seven songs, Harrison five, and Lennon a highly productive 14 (perhaps due to the fact that he had stopped his intake of LSD).
From the demo sessions at Esher, the band went into Abbey Road studios, where, over the course of several months, they produced 30 songs for official release as well as some that would remain in the vaults (for later, reworked, inclusion on solo albums and anthologies).
Deciding not to take the advice of their producer/mentor, George Martin, to trim the excess and make a superb single album, the band decided to record as many of the Esher demos as possible for a double. They were also long out of their ostensibly naive, albeit highly intelligent pop phase, and well into a series of potentially ruinous relationship difficulties that may have been great material for songs but ultimately sowed the seeds of the band's demise. Lennon had separated from his wife, Cynthia, and was dabbling with heroin, McCartney was in the throes of splitting from his girlfriend, Jane Asher, while Harrison was bruised by his disappointing falling-out with the Maharishi.
Added to this was the mood at Abbey Road, which was pensive, to say the least: the band's long-time studio engineer, Geoff Emerick, baled out of the sessions, while Ringo (perceived by some to be the gormless one, and surely the least creatively minded) stormed out when McCartney started to instruct him on how to drum.
And then there was the extra presence in the studio of Yoko Ono, the first time that someone outside the band had been allowed access to the creative/recording inner sanctum.
ALL OF THESE troubles seeped into the recording of what was to be known as the White Album. Yoko's presence damaged the old team spirit, yet the diversity of the material (the major source of jealousy among some of the Beatles' peers) coupled with the intensity in the studio produced a record that is rated by many as the pinnacle of the band's collective genius.
And yet its very diversity also provided its critics with an excuse to brand it pointlessly indulgent. Among the styles embraced were unconvincing heavy metal (Helter Skelter, an unwise attempt at keeping up with musical developments and a song described by Ian McDonald, in his masterful book, Revolution in the Head, as "a literally drunken mess"), rubbery ska (Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da), classic pop/folk (Blackbird), avant-garde experimentation (Revolution 9), embarrassing political pop (Piggies, a George Harrison song that actually trumped his superlative Something for inclusion on the album), whimsical balladry (Martha My Dear), street theatre (Why Don't we do it in the Road), faux Bob Dylan (Rocky Raccoon) and self-revealing autobiographical masterpieces (Julia).
For many at the time, the album may have added up to less than the sum of its parts, but taken as a sprawling whole (and, like it or not, in this age of single-track digital downloading, this album really should be listened to in its entirety, not cherry-picked), the White Album has come to represent a pinnacle of creative invention. It is compelling, impulsive, trite, confessional, audacious, slight, self-absorbed, private, silly and disturbing. It is also, thanks to George Martin's 24-hour efforts over October 16th and 17th, 1968, a masterpiece of track sequencing and programming.
Self-indulgent? Undoubtedly. Fragmented? Yes. A lengthening shadow that begins to darken the early evening of The Beatles' career? That, too.