documentary airing on ABC - which simultaneously (and logically) marks the 30th Anniversary of me becoming a Beatles fan (which just means I actively began learning about them and discovering their music). It's particularly cool to me to have such a definitive mile marker - not too dissimilar from a child watching them perform on
in '64. But the really great joy of uncovering an artist's (or artists') body of work is that it's continual; there are many starting points throughout the journey - especially if the book is closed on their
. Fortunately for me, between my two parents I had the band's entire catalog on vinyl at my disposal: my mother had all their early albums, and my father had the later stuff. Combine that with the family turntable/tape deck stereo, and within weeks I had my own curated collection of Beatles mixes - pulled largely from their Greatest Hits albums,
I was 12 years old - the band wasn't entirely new to me, but that small amount of added exposure caused that thing that clicks to finally click. If you're a fan of anything you know what I'm talking about, and if you're a fan of The Beatles then you really know what I'm talking about; not only is there a lotta content from this band to absorb, but it's a variety, complete with various subtexts and nuances and phases and even clues(!). But obviously I familiarized myself with all the popular stuff first (and they had a bunch) and then only very gradually did I begin to venture out into the "very slightly less popular" stuff, which is such a delicate margin that it no doubt raises its pinky as it sips its tea. For album cuts I was naturally drawn to the busyness of the art work on the Revolver and Sgt. Pepper covers, as well as the general familiarity of the Abbey Road image. But even still, I was skipping around to song titles that I thought might sound cool, and literally skipping over others. "Lovely Rita"? "I Want You"? Those sound like they're probably boring. So it should come as no surprise that I consistently flipped past the dirty yellowed album with no pictures on it.
For a couple of Beatles fans, my parents were good about never forcing their interests on me; they had their own shit, and if I wanted to participate or showed interest then they were happy to include me. So when I organically found the band I had two bonafide mystery tour guides to not only provide me with the music, but also the knowledge and wisdom. When my mother was a teenager each of the four walls of her bedroom were dedicated to a different Beatle. She showed me the Hard Day's Night and Help! movies and she knew them by heart. Her beat-up and incredibly crackly copy of their first U.S. album Introducing... The Beatles was like a visual and auditory time machine that helped me ignore the fact that I was stuck in the mid 1990s. She gave me a good sense of the fab world of Beatlemania, and I lived it. Privately. In my room.
My father, who's eight years younger than my mom, educated me more on "later" Beatles: the music, the fashion, the drugs, the death hoax, India, Manson, details about the breakup, and even some solo years stuff. Suffice to say a lotta this material brought everything to a higher level of adoration and fascination as the whole thing started to become more of an intellectual journey. And again, while my guardians let me digest and interpret Pop Culture on my own terms, my dad couldn't help but strongly suggest that I allow myself to experience "The White Album".
"Rocky Raccoon"? "Julia"? "Savoy Truffle"? I'd never heard of any of these songs - the whole album gave the impression of some niche novelty of dull throwaways that weren't good enough to be a part of any Greatest Hits compilations. An then I listened to it. And I wish I could remember more details about exactly when it happened or where I was or even how I felt when I heard it, but I can't, and that may be due in part to some weird Shining connection I had to it, as though I'd always been familiar the album. (In all honesty, George's "Long, Long, Long" still makes me nostalgic for a moment that I may not have experienced in my lifetime.) What I do remember is no longer feeling like I was catching up on some Oldies music, but instead I was experiencing a prologue to a future that had not yet arrived; the album isn't "ahead of its time", it's adjacent to it.
I can't say too much about the impact the album had upon its release; these songs (for the most part) didn't necessarily reinvent the wheel, but the band did (for the second time) reinvent the concept of "the album". Their talent only ever transcended the trappings of "A-sides" nestled into "filler" to fill out a standard LP; many if not most of their "lesser" efforts could've passed as successful singles for any lesser band. With Sgt. Pepper they attempted to present an entire record as one unified work of art - with not quite as much consistency (in my opinion) as the bands that followed in its footsteps (The Who, Pink Floyd, Bowie, et al.). "The White Album" is such a dramatic antithesis of unification that it becomes, in itself, a monumental whole. Organized chaos. A dizzying wealth of craftsmanship and imagination swirling around inside a plain white package.
It was exceptionally exciting, and really kinda serendipitous, that in 1999 Paul Thomas Anderson cited "The White Album" as his favorite album, and that he drew some abstract inspiration from it in creating Magnolia. But it's hardly coincidental: my favorite album by my favorite band has psychic ties to my favorite movie, so clearly whatever they're putting out, I'm picking up with a heightened sensitivity to that power. On the surface, both are rooted in an almost reckless stream of consciousness that blow past the average running time. Aesthetically, they're both a collage of sorts, with pieces that fit together primarily because they occupy the same space. All of that is just a fancy way of saying what everyone's ever said when describing this album: of the 30 songs that appear on the record, no 2 are truly alike. Some people actually dismiss the album because of this - I can't explain why (and typically neither can they). Not only is it the truest testament to the talent of The Beatles, but it lines up with something I seem to value most in art: diversity. In its entirety it's an exploration of the history of Pop Music, up to and including their own contributions to it, as well as the experimentation of that very minute. And while it's best represented by its blank canvas cover, it's more literally translated in (and contrasted by) its accompanying mashup poster by Richard Hamilton.
I gush about this collage more than I do about the album for which it was created - partly because it's harder to write or talk about music, but also because the poster is a totally accurate depiction of what the album offers: jagged snippets, candid glimpses, nostalgic time capsules, polished showmanship, private moments, tongue in cheek witticisms, all juxtaposed with a jarring asymmetry, grounded by the familiarity of the act you've known for all these years. Without any tangible cover imagery to mentally link our minds to the music, this fractured jumble of snapshots, negatives, drawings, and other ephemera carries that weight with perhaps the most logical effort in the whole box. The poster peels back some of the mystery, while also definitively mirroring it, and whatever style or technique you'd call this, it's the one I look for and respond to most in art -- regardless of how abstract it is, it's how I attempt to decorate my home, how I decorate my body, and perhaps even how I choose to structure my life. So no, it wouldn't be too dramatic to say that I live and breathe this album (along with the prizes inside).
Standing rigidly in clown suits holding Classical Music instruments in easily the best visual depiction of what Pepper is. Same as how the blank white cardboard with The Beatles crookedly embossed just off center is the best representation of what can be heard here. I do remember watching the brief "White Album" segment of the televised Anthology documentary, during which they recycled a lotta footage from the "Hey Jude" recording session, as well as a few studio still photos from 1968, and my father's immediate reaction was "Nooo, I don't wanna see them making 'The White Album', it ruins the illusion!" I obviously didn't understand what he meant at the time (having not yet heard the album) but boy I sure get it now. Thankfully (and appropriately) the photography that does exist from them making this record is consistently in black & white, and only ever depicts a shadowy/otherworldly atmosphere that seems sometimes soulful, sometimes menacing, and often collaborative. Mad scientists in the lab.
Pepper was witty, campy, melodramatic, and overproduced. "The White Album", for the most part, feels intimately lo-fi; in the early days I often experienced it through headphones and I truly felt like I was in that ghostly Abbey Road studio as it was being recorded. But this isn't about comparing it to Sgt. Pepper - to be fair, I should be comparing "The White Album" to the entire Beatle catalog because it very much stands out as its own thing. And that thing, to me, could be summed up by a handful of descriptors: kinky, enthusiastic, melancholic. All the music seems to be mired in one or two or all of these things, and while those are some primal moods when you're 13 years old, I've found that the effect never seems to age. Regardless of whether it's Acoustic Folk, Honky-tonk Country, nonsensical ad-lib, faux Blues, Heavy Metal, British Music Hall, or Avantgarde Soundscape, the creativity and commitment never waivers - up to and including the spontaneous scraps and off the cuff jams.
Simply (and fittingly) titled The Beatles, "The White Album" was released in the UK on November 22, 1968 - just in time for the Holiday shopping season at the end of one of the most violently tumultuous years of the decade; a little over a year since Sgt. Pepper and the Summer of Love, and only 10 months before John left the band for good. Critics of this album will dismiss it for its supposed lack of teamwork, and that it felt more like four solo artists merely operating as coworkers (as though this somehow diminishes the quality). John perpetuated this observation later on, reiterating that exact sentiment of the singular Beatle with a "backing band". The other members, as well as the engineers who worked on the album, admit to tensions but suggest a much more cooperative atmosphere - moving away from "meddling" in others' work and leaning more on support. (All the unearthed demos and outtakes further illustrate an air of camaraderie.) If there actually is a discernible division while listening, I only ever interpreted it as the frenzy of inspiration and ingenuity that it is - that excitement when the words come faster than you can move the pen. It's all treated in typical Beatle fashion - if Paul wants to bang out a song about his dog then it's time to bring in an orchestra, or if John wants to sing a children's singalong about lions and tigers then Yoko can sing backup, or if George wants to do a song about guitars then let Eric Clapton do a solo. Each song dictated its own production value, and by this point the band had the experience and the intuition to know when they needed flugelhorns and sleigh bells, or when a simple tambourine would do.
Puberty was bad to me. By the time Eighth Grade began I was short, overweight, and sad, all while trying to grow my curly, wavy hair to match John's "White Album" portrait. At school, I was slowly and painfully realizing that it was best to be ignored, but as my once-outgoing personality clung on for dear life, I couldn't help but represent, as my wardrobe now consisted almost entirely of Beatles t-shirts that I shamelessly wore eight days a week. If you're into anything in Junior High your peers will mock you for it, but I decided to make it be well known that I liked "Oldies" music (before it became the more respectable "Classic Rock"). Nothing in the mid 1990s was uncooler than old music - except maybe the fat kid who openly adored it. I took a lot from The Beatles, and one thing was the realization that I couldn't help but be me; in the face of constant ridicule I never backpedaled or broke my allegiance to what gave me joy, and I continued to consciously choose to openly express it, despite the "Blubber Soul" and "Flabby Road" jokes. That, plus the mental conviction that I knew I was right, and that there was no doubt that my XL "White Album" shirt was way cooler than all the Bush and Marilyn Manson and NIN shirts around me. I maybe walked the line between "punchline" and "pushed aside", but I knew I was the only kid in school who could effortlessly sing along to "Revolution 9".
Decades go by and I meet more people and the Internet opens a larger world and I begin to learn that the fandom is far-reaching. Magazines and TV Specials and online listicles always manage to shine a light on "The White Album" (though Revolver suddenly gets the most attention and I honestly don't understand why), and once we did reach the era of "Classic Rock" appreciation I began to see that much of the world is likeminded in regards to my favorite record. And it's usually for a lotta the same reasons - mostly focusing on the range of musical styles and the proficiency with which they were executed. But like any album or song or movie or painting or book, a piece of art's true power is best measured by how it affects The Individual. Music (even Pop Music) is one of the more abstract art forms and it can work on us like strong scents or bright lights, so whenever we revisit a collection of specific songs in a specific order, it can create a whole illustrated timeline in our minds. "The White Album" helped to get me through some times of trouble, but it's also sparked inspiration, accentuated better times, and mystified me with its layers and puzzles. I'd never put it on the playlist that is the "soundtrack of my life" because it never played the role of "background music" - it's always been an experience that demanded my full attention; a blissfully schizophrenic 93 minutes that ranges from funny to scary to gentle, packaged with a promise that it would eventually take me back where I came from.
- Paul
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