Four guys and a London studio

Once upon a time, there were four guys who changed music forever. The Beatles, of course; and before you say you’ve already heard every Beatle story and bit of trivia about the band, I suggest you read Revolution: The Making of the Beatles’ White Album, David Quantick’s "behind the music" history on what went on while recording the band’s most splintered, sprawling statement.

Sure, I can sympathize with those of today’s generation who "don’t get" what was so great about the Beatles; but the cool thing is, this in no way diminishes the staying power of their music, created over a very short (by today’s standards) period of time. This music will continue to work its magic for decades to come. Can we say the same about Eminem’s? And sure, recording technology is light years beyond the analogue four-track innovations of "Sgt. Pepper." Yet today’s music, the stuff we’re forced to listen to – is it really any better than 1966’s "Revolver"?

And so we head back inside Abbey Road studios, where the Fab Four, slightly dazed and disillusioned by events at Maharishi Yogi’s Rishikesh spiritual retreat and a half year of political riots and assassinations, tried to peel back the layers of their image and create an album that stood in stark contrast to the baroque refinements and psychedelia of "Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band." This was the Beatles, warts and all, finally letting it all hang out, and barely holding it together.

It must be remembered that the members of the band started out as friends, as mates, back in the Hamburg club days and jaunting around Liverpool. They had each other, in the beginning. But by 1968, when the so-called "White Album" was recorded, they were beginning to find that they had only themselves.

Conventional wisdom likes to place the blame for the Beatles’ fractiousness during these sessions on the constant presence of Yoko Ono. But this is like blaming the band’s decision to stop touring on their horrific experience in the Philippines. True, Beatle wives in the past had largely been shut out of Beatle sessions. And Yoko was certainly no shrinking violet around the band, offering opinions on this and that, whether asked or not. But it’s also clear that John Lennon was, to some extent, using his bonding experience with the avant-garde Japanese artist to insulate himself from the Beatles business. Instead of "talk to the hand," it was "talk to the wall that is composed of Yoko and me."

Significantly, it was also a point in the Beatles’ career where they felt confident enough to write solo songs, even record them alone. (Paul McCartney went further, even telling Ringo that his drumming wasn’t up to snuff on Back in the U.S.S.R. Ringo left the session in a huff, Quantick reports, and Paul simply picked up the drumsticks himself.)

Quantick’s book is not as meticulous as the "33 1/3" book series (put out by Continuum Books in New York, and covering not only Beatles albums, but the recording of classics by Radiohead, Pink Floyd, Jeff Buckley, David Bowie and others) and it’s not as chronological as the highly recommended Mark Lewisohn diary, The Beatles Recording Sessions. But the SPIN writer is good at gathering trivia, such as the tidbit that McCartney stole the song title and recurring line "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, life goes on" from a favorite expression of his London pal, Nigerian conga player Jimmy Anomuogharan Scott Emuakpor (Jimmy Scott, for short). Scott was not pleased about not getting a writing credit, but he did get to play maracas on the track. After dozens of attempts to get McCartney’s Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da right, band members were reportedly ready to strangle each other with their guitar strings, until Lennon put the song to rest by lurching into the studio one night in a drugged stupor, sitting at the piano and announcing, "Okay, this is it!" before pounding out the high-octave honky-tonk riff that opens the song. Thanks, John.

Quantick notes that McCartney was keen on writing "character songs" about fictional people like Rocky Raccoon and Eleanor Rigby, while Lennon preferred confessional songs from a first-person perspective. But at least one Lennon tune on "The White Album," The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill, was based on a real person: Richard A. Cooke III, the son of a transcendental meditation enthusiast who was around the Maharishi’s place while the Beatles were in attendance. Cooke announced one day that he was going tiger hunting, a decidedly un-TM pastime, and that he was bringing his mother along. The two reportedly survived a tiger attack after the son shot the beast, and their exploits were immortalized in Lennon’s sardonic song.

Of the 1:15 Wild Honey Pie, Quantick wryly notes that every second of McCartney’s goofy solo ditty is designed to annoy, and reports that "no other Beatles were injured during its making."

And who would have guessed that George Harrison’s bizarre Savoy Truffle ("But you’ll have to have them all pulled out after the Savoy Truffle") was written about fellow guitarist Eric Clapton’s rotting bridgework? Clapton apparently couldn’t lay off the chocolate sweets, even though he was facing massive bouts of dental work, Quantick tells us.

It may seem a little late in the game to enjoy such juicy tidbits, but I defy any Beatle fan not to dial up "The Beatles" on their iPod or slip the CD on the stereo while reading this book. You get to relive every moment of the impenetrable double album, from the hypnotic guitar picking of Dear Prudence to the dense sound collage that is the album’s penultimate track, Revolution 9.

Quantick’s book also examines the striking album design of "The Beatles" by British Pop artist Richard Hamilton – originally issued with raised-lettering on the cover to ensure absolute minimalism. After the Pop explosion of Peter Max’s "Sgt. Pepper" album cover, Hamilton went in the opposite direction (he briefly considered putting a single coffee ring stain on the corner of the cover, to make it a bit messier). The inside collage poster, however, was Pop Art itself: dozens of personal photos by band members, woven together in random associations –not unlike the sound collage of Revolution 9.

And, in a way, the sound collage that was "The White Album" itself, which runs from Beach Boys pop to fake reggae to acid rock; from blues to country and western to folk; ending with a children’s lullaby sung by Ringo Starr.

Considering the mixed emotions that went into writing and recording these tracks, it’s not unusual that a great deal of anger and bitterness seeped through, too. Harrison’s Piggies and While My Guitar Gently Weeps are typical of the open-wound rawness of "The Beatles"; Lennon’s Happiness is a Warm Gun is blistering, McCartney’s Blackbird is melancholic, while his Helter Skelter is chaotic and menacing. Not surprisingly, some ears out there were picking up on the negative vibes, including Charles Manson, who made the White Album his personal roadmap to destruction, detecting hidden meanings in its lyrics and dispatching his Family members to commit seven murders in Los Angeles in August 1969. The Beatles can’t be blamed for such mayhem, of course.

But theirs was the beginning of the kind of distorted media fame that has become so pervasive nowadays – whether it’s people attending to the birth of Brangelina’s baby like it’s the Second Coming, or watching O.J.’s white Bronco chase live on TV. Both John and George were later attacked by deranged fans. Fame distorts, and the Beatles were not immune to the world’s insanity.

At the end of the day, however, the Fab Four were not prophets of doom, or purveyors of peace, or the Anti-Christ, or even the Walrus. They were, really, just four talented guys in a studio, making magic. And making history.