The White Album is:
hugely ambitious
scatterbrained
immense
fractured
Legendary.

Chances are, if you are sentient and have spent any time at all with another sentient being in the past forty years, you are at the very least aware of the White Album, the mythical double album that almost killed the Best Band Ever (they limped on for a couple years after), while producing some of their best songs–While My Guitar Gently Weeps, Dear Prudence, Happiness Is A Warm Gun, Blackbird, I Will, Helter Skelter, etc. Hey Jude, arguably the most well known song of their career, was borne out of these sessions, but doesn’t appear on the album. Genres vary wildly here (one was even created) from 1930s cabaret showtunes, Baroque, musique concrete, Country Western ballads, hard rock, and just about everything in between. Clearly, it was a fruitful time for the Fab Four, fresh off of a spiritual stay in India.

But it should be clarified that it was a fruitful time for the Beatles as individuals, not necessarily as a group. Whereas early releases saw an enormous amount of cowriting between John and Paul, the last few records before the White Album saw them moving in different directions–John began experimenting heavily with psychedelic textures and studio experimentation, while Paul continued to focus on writing great pop songs. Legend has it that during the studio sessions, the two rarely saw eachother, recording in different rooms on their own pet projects, i.e. Paul’s Honey Pie and John’s Revolution 9, both of which reek with self importance and misplaced ambition. However, a lot of the tracks here see John and Paul trading roles, with John writing excellent pop songs (Julia, Happiness Is A Warm Gun) and Paul experimenting in different styles (Helter Skelter, Rocky Raccoon, and the awful, awful Wild Honey Pie). Much of the material is among their best output, but at times it feels an awful lot like a mixtape instead of a proper album. And at an hour and thirty-three minutes, it could have done well with some cuts (and there are a number of songs that would not be missed). George’s tracks are less consistent here than anywhere else (Piggies is too precious, Long, Long, Long is nothing to write home about, While My Guitar is heartbreakingly gorgeous), and Ringo (!!!) finally wrote a song that appeared on Beatles record (perhaps a poor decision). It’s also incredibly front-loaded. Disc one is more focused (side one especially) and is free of the misguided egotism that saturates the later portions.

Most of the psychedelic textures that made portions of Revolver, Sgt. Pepper, and Magical Mystery Tour so enjoyable are sadly missing here, the go-to sound being centered around heavily distorted guitars and blues structures, with some nice acoustic guitar/piano led ballads thrown in. It’s not a bad sound, but it certainly isn’t what you’d expect after the last three LPs. The lack of psychedelic experimentation betrays the absence of George Martin, who spent most of the sessions away from the studio to avoid the interband unpleasantness, which was rampant.

If nothing else, The White Album heralds the beginning of the end for the Fabulous Foursome. John, Paul, and George’s differences of opinion of what the Beatles should be (a vehicle of avant-garde and political expression, a heart-tugging pop group, or the best rock band in the world) diverged sharply, foreshadowing their upcoming solo careers (and leaving poor Ringo with no one to collaborate with–he left the band at one point during the sessions, largely due to boredom and a lack of respect). But, three of the greatest minds in rock and roll (ever) working separately is only slightly less great than those minds working together. And, as we would see later on, it could get much worse.