XXII. Bloated Can Be Beautiful, Too.

A Small Celebration of The White Album, Forty Years On.

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 get.


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 house, too.




The sun is up, the sky is blue.
It's beautiful and so are you.