The Beatles' sprawling self-titled album, commonly called the 'White Album' due to its sleeve, is considered their magnum opus in the US, but the critical opinion in Britain tends to mark it behind the likes of 'Rubber Soul', 'Revolver' and 'Sgt. Pepper'.
For me, as for the writer of this slap-dash appreciation of the people and circumstances surrounding the recording, the Americans have got it right. For my part I play the album more than any of the others, which is the best measure.
With regards the people who influenced the recording, Quantick curiously devotes about a page to each of the Beatles themselves and then about ten to Yoko Ono, then dedicates a chapter to the man notoriously influenced by the album, Charles Manson.
Quantick, though a long-time music journalist, is primarily a comic writer of the glibly clever variety. I didn't decide to buy this book in the expectation of any weighty words of wisdom on the historical context the album was recorded in, nor did he disappoint me, e.g.
'History, in fact, came to see Nixon as a kind of anti-Kennedy, corrupt and sweaty and weird, where Kennedy was seen as sexy and innocent.'
As a music journalist, he did disappoint me when writing about the music, which he describes with no more depth than anyone with a pair of ears and a girl could conjure up. Again, he is best when being glibly amusing, as with this take on the clatter and seemingly interminable length of the song Helter Skelter, which he suggests'feels like the whole of Wagner's Ring Cycle compressed into a trilby hat.'
Kudos though for highlighting Harrison's sumptuous 'Long, Long, Long' as 'arguably the least feted of all the Beatles' great songs'.
This sloppily written book, clearly published while the editor was on holiday, even repeats certain facts multiple times, e.g. Jackie Lomax recorded a demo version of a Harrison song for an album called 'Sour Mill Blues'; the allegation of rape against the Maharishi was probably an invention by Apple's con-man inventor Alex Mardas, etc.
Quantick never got to speak to anyone involved in the sessions, nor does he say too much about the actual music, despite writing about each and every song in turn. So what you are left with is a series of widely known anecdotes collected together alongside some rather sour jokes about Charles Manson and flimsy ones about Ringo, which he also repeats.
The publishers may have been better off hiring Bungalow Bill for the job.