The White Album is one of the few things in the history of
the world that disproves the credo, “Less Is More.”
Every second of it, no matter how silly, absurd, extraneous,
willful, throwaway, ridiculous, meaningless, etc., is worth hearing in the full, swirling, glorious context of the album.
Granted, only The Beatles could get away with putting music
that falls into these less than complimentary categories on a record that was guaranteed to sell millions, but perhaps that
was the point.
There is hardly a point in me furthering the discussion about
the near-infinite greatness of most of the music contained here, much of which is among the best work of both John Lennon’s
and Paul McCartney’s careers, and thus, among the best work of anyone’s careers ever, not to mention some of the
very best ensemble playing the four of them ever did.
If you know The White Album at all, you already know how monumentally
great it is. It’s the Entire World expressed in a piece of art, or certainly as close to it as any artist will ever
As for me, if I was headed to that good old Desert Island and
I was promised only one collection of music I could take and listen to for the rest of my days, there is no question which
one I would pick.
Sure, maybe I prefer Revolver or A Hard Day’s Night or
Abbey Road, but for sheer amount of BEATLES, there’s only one that could possibly satisfy.
And if that good old Desert Island game is silly, absurd, extraneous,
willful, throwaway, ridiculous, meaningless, etc., I’ll take The White Album in all its bloated glory every day in my