Revolution None: The Beatles’ ‘Wide Album’

By Tony Sclafani | Published: 26 November 2008 | Source: PopMatters.com

Each time an important date in Beatle history rolls around, stories pour forth about the successes of the Fab Four. This isn’t one of them.

Instead, this article chronicles the subterfuge behind the group’s 1968 release The Beatles. Known colloquially as the White Album, this article looks at its origins as the Wide Album. No one was willing to go on record and confirm details about this murky chapter of the band’s history, a chapter so seemingly implausible that virtually all esteemed Beatle scholars believe it to be fictional.

Yes, this is satire, just to clear up any confusion. (Editor’s note: Tony Sclafani)

Unplayable by Listeners! Un-stockable by Stores!

This was the tagline on promotional materials drawn up by advertising executives at Apple Records for the upcoming Beatles album in the autumn of 1968.

In today’s anything-goes world of pop music, such an announcement might be considered shrewd marketing. But when the Beatles decided to use it to promote their impending double LP, all hell broke loose at EMI Records. Though unbeknownst to the public at the time, and unreported since, the world’s biggest selling group was nearly dropped from its record label and hauled into court for breaking the terms stated in their 1962 recording contract.

And all they really wanted to do, say sources, was break new ground.

The idea came about after the group returned from India with a massive cache of over 30 songs and realized they had too much material for even a double LP. That’s when Beatle John Lennon hit on the idea of enlarging the size of the record’s discs from 12 to 14 inches, in order to fit more music. Beatle scholars agree that Lennon first brought the idea to his buddy, Apple staff inventor Magic Alex Madras, who confirmed that bigger discs could be manufactured. Unfortunately, no one would be able to play such discs since they wouldn’t be able to fit on regular phonographs. Undaunted, Lennon pressed on with the idea, saying the band “already did too much” for its fans and that he was “going to make sure Paul didn’t get more songs than me on the album even if it means no one hears the bloody tunes”.

Editor’s note: Some Beatle scholars believe the old Close-n-Play record players could have accommodated the larger discs. They also note that Lennon in 1968 would only listen to records on the kiddie record players, calling them more honest and authentic, than the bourgeois stereo owned by Paul McCartney.

Other Beatle-ologists claim Lennon and then-girlfriend Yoko Ono were just trying to stay one step ahead of the avant-garde. It’s also been claimed that Lennon was being spiteful over the other Beatles’ rejection of his song Revolution as the a-side of their Hey Jude single and was deliberately attempting to sabotage the group’s career.

The group’s true, conservative nature was exposed when they chose to relegate John’s ‘Revolution’ to the flip side of that record, explains a former Apple Boutique employee. These days, Paul McCartney tries to take credit for every innovation the band ever did, but back then he made June Cleaver look like Eldridge Cleaver. (Editor’s note: Many Beatle scholars dispute the validity of this quote, claiming instead the staffer referred to Wally Cleaver, not June Cleaver.)

Whatever the case, it came to pass that Lennon goaded executives at Apple Records into mastering previously-unheard-of 14-inch test pressings of the LP late in 1968, while fellow Fab Paul McCartney was away in America. Upon returning to Britain, the baby-faced Beatle was purportedly livid, but agreed to stand behind Lennon’s idea—at least at first.

The disc would be called the Wide Album, because of its unique width, Lennon said. At an Apple Records board meeting, the Beatle explained to a group of employees and Hell’s Angels that the disc would herald a “bold new era”. (Editor’s note: Several Beatle scholars argue there were no Hell’s Angels in the meeting. They claim that Ringo’s wife had brought along an angel food cake and the details got confused in the ensuing years.)

Lockwood’s lock-step

By mid-autumn, thousands of copies of the 14-inch LP were rolling off the presses. Sure, the concept of a record that could not be played was odd, reasoned many close to the Beatles. But didn’t so many of the group’s previous ideas seem strange at first? You know, like long hair and actually having to listen to the Maharishi? And then one day a pressing of the LP found its way into the hands of Sir Joseph Lockwood, president of EMI Records, which distributed Apple.

Lockwood couldn’t play the disc on his office turntable. Thinking his record machine was broken, he asked his secretary to try and play the record. But the needle kept popping up off the disc and Lockwood could barely make out the words to a song that sounded like it was called “Dear Pruneface”.

The elderly EMI president was not amused. Perceiving the “pruneface” song as a personal jab (Lockwood was nearly 80 at the time), he flew into a rage and hurled the group’s soon-to-be-released masterpiece against a wall. The next day, a more composed Lockwood summoned Beatles producer George Martin to his office. Martin had taken a leisurely vacation that fall and had missed many of the album’s sessions, but was about to be re-immersed back into the weird lair of the Liverpool Lads.

Lockwood demanded the producer bring the rapidly-fragmenting band together for a high-level meeting. A terrified Martin heeded Lockwood’s orders.

At the time, Lennon was dealing with the ramifications of his recent drug arrest, McCartney was in the studio with English thrush Mary Hopkin, Harrison was working with guitarist Eric Clapton , and Starr was in Greece. (Editor’s note: Some Beatle scholars claim Ringo was not in Greece but that he was covering his prematurely-gray hair with Grecian formula.)

When each of the four band members heard Martin erupt on the telephone, they sped to EMI for the impromptu get-together. Even the usually bold Ono made like a shrinking violet and begged off. The arguments came fast and furious, with Lockwood accusing Lennon of being “crazy” and “arrogant”. Lennon kept his cool, explaining that the unwieldy album would “make fans think” and “cause them to question who and what we are.”

Guitarist George Harrison and drummer Ringo Starr sat slumped in corners. Neither had known about Lennon’s scheme in the first place. As the always-articulate Lennon pressed on with his arguments, Lockwood held up a copy of the band’s recording contract, noting the clause which detailed the specific physical dimensions of albums. (Editor’s note: Some Beatle scholars maintain Lockwood did not hold up the contract, but merely pointed at it.)

New concepts were all well and good, explained Lockwood, but a record that could not be listened to did not—in his mind—qualify as any type of “innovation”.

“But if they CAN manage to somehow play the LP, they’ll get extra music and better sound,” offered a helpful McCartney. (Due to its larger size, the Wide Album, contained two extra songs, What’s the New Mary Jane and Not Guilty.)

According to newly uncovered EMI documents, Lockwood threw a hissy fit. He also threw the band and its crimson-faced producer out of his office. “Stop acting like spoiled little prats!” he barked. “Come back when you’ve made a proper record. And I’ve never said it before but that ‘Lady Madonna’ record was a load of bollocks!”

As angry as Lockwood was at the band, the brunt of his ire was saved for Fabs’ whipping-boy George Martin. In the passing weeks, Lockwood not only berated Martin in public, he forced the producer to personally cough up the cash to have the album re-pressed, since it was his oversight that allowed the craziness to happen.

“A producer should run the show,” fumed Lockwood. “Here, it looks like the lunatics have taken over the asylum.”

According to yet more Beatle scholars, Martin was furious at his betrayal by both the Beatles and Lockwood. This, say sources, is the real reason Martin was not present as producer during most of the Get Back/Let It Be sessions which commenced soon after. According to newly-discovered documents, the band began to put out feelers (their words) for a new producer. Rolling Stones guitarist Brian Jones was asked whether Stones producer Jimmy Miller could be employed. But Jones at the time was a drug-addled mess and claimed he didn’t even know Miller was now producing his band. (Editor’s note: Virtually all the Beatle scholars we talked to said they had never heard of an alleged band called the The Rolling Stones.) Jones snapped into lucidity when told about the band’s Wide Album. Calling Lennon a mad genius he dreamed of the day when he too could put out LPs no one can play. When Jones pitched just this idea to the other Stones a few months later, he was asked to leave the band.

Jones turned up dead weeks later.

Soon, both McCartney and Lennon agreed to get the LP out as soon as possible in any way possible. This, it turns out, is why the LP was issued in a plain white jacket: The Beatles had no time to commission a proper cover graphic.

“They wasted so much time with their bloody idea,” a former EMI engineer explains, “that they had to quickly assemble a cover in order to have the album ready by the Christmas rush. In effect, there was no cover!”

To save face, Lennon dreamed up the idea of calling the re-constituted LP by the similar name of the White Album, because of its blank jacket. People had already been saying Wide Album so (they) thought up a name that sounded close enough, says a source. Two songs were pulled from the disc’s lineup so the contents of the LP fit onto two standard 12-inch vinyl discs. EMI lubed up its presses for another run of LPs.

“The whole incident shows what can happen when egos get out of control,” offers a New Jersey-based rock critic and self-professed Beatles fanatic who wished not to be identified. “I’m glad all of this is finally being brought to light, because it hurt George (Martin) emotionally as well as professionally.” (Editor’s note: Several Beatle scholars contend this critic is not a critic at all, but a convenience store employee who likes to read music magazines.)

Indeed, the occurrence was considered such a professional embarrassment, it prompted a furious Lockwood to issue a memo to all EMI staffers, producers and bands to “keep quiet about it, or risk losing all earnings and your reputation within the industry.” To distract fans from the would-be scandal (and to secure their financial futures) the two head Beatles would both impulsively marry well-to-do women in the coming months.

Although Martin would reunite with the Beatles for their swan song, Abbey Road, the events in the fall of 1968 traumatized him so much that he vowed “never to work with rock acts again”. After a long search for the most boring group in the world, he discovered soft rockers America and purportedly produced many of their discs while asleep in a hammock in the back of his Bentley, which was parked a block away from the studio.

England’s lamest cover band

The outcome of the Wide Album incident hit the Beatles hard. No longer were they the golden boys who could do no wrong for EMI. Instead, they felt like cogs in the wheel—another meal ticket for the stuffed-shirt executives.

Dispirited, the group reconvened in January of 1969 to start work on an album comprised of safe-as-milk oldies, a move engineered to mock Lockwood’s bland tastes. If Mr. EMI wanted the Best Band in the Word to make like milquetoast, well, that’s exactly what they would do. “Look out Herman’s Hermits!” they joked. “We’re going steal your mantle of being England’s lamest cover band!”

Sadly, that plan was realized in spades.

Drugged, depressed, and dispirited, the band slogged through ear-wrenching, tuneless renditions of numbers they once loved. Originally called Sloppy Seconds by Lennon (who named it as such because the band couldn’t make it through more than a few seconds of each tune), it was later re-titled Get Back. For a few weeks it was called Octopus’ Garbage (at Harrison’s bequest), then accidentally named Nancy Wilson Sings the Standards by a novice tape-op who wasn’t paying attention.

At one point during the sessions, a smartly-dressed Keith Richards dropped by with then-paramour Anita Pallenberg. Hoisting a guitar, he attempted to jam with the band, but found he could not get in tune with any given band member at any given time. Dazed, he walked out of the session saying he “could not believe what he heard.” Later that night he allegedly drove with Pallenberg to the worst section of London and scored heroin for the first time. “If that’s the way the best band in the world sounds,” he slurred, “then there’s no point in music.”

Lennon took the rejection of the Wide Album particularly hard. He decided to “turn his back on pop music as we know it” and take up more substantial causes. (Editor’s note: Many Beatle scholars say they never felt Lennon’s causes were really all that substantial, at least not in the scheme of record collecting.)

‘Wide’ fallout

As the history books show, the band members decided to go their separate ways in Aug. 1969. Solo careers were launched, but the memory of the Wide Album would not go away. In 1974, Beatle roadie Mal Evans, then on the verge of bankruptcy, threatened to sell his memoirs—replete with an account of the “Wide Album” incident. One week later, Evans turned up dead.

Six years later, Lennon did an interview with Playboy magazine writer David Sheff, where he touched on all points of the group’s career—including the Wide Album. The discovery of the story was considered a major “coup” for the then-struggling scribe. But when Sheff went back to transcribe the tape the next day, the segment of the tape that covered the debacle, all 13 minutes of it had been mysteriously erased.

Lennon was murdered less than a week later.

By Tony Sclafani | PopMatters.com

26 November 2008

Revolution None: The Beatles Wide Album

By Tony Sclafani | 26 November 2008 | PopMatters.com

Each time an important date in Beatle history rolls around, stories pour forth about the successes of the Fab Four. This isn’t one of them.

Instead, this article chronicles the subterfuge behind the group’s 1968 release The Beatles. Known colloquially as the White Album, this article looks at its origins as the Wide Album. No one was willing to go on record and confirm details about this murky chapter of the band’s history, a chapter so seemingly implausible that virtually all esteemed Beatle scholars believe it to be fictional.

Yes, this is satire, just to clear up any confusion. (Editor’s note: Tony Sclafani)

Unplayable by Listeners! Un-stockable by Stores!

This was the tagline on promotional materials drawn up by advertising executives at Apple Records for the upcoming Beatles album in the autumn of 1968.

In today’s anything-goes world of pop music, such an announcement might be considered shrewd marketing. But when the Beatles decided to use it to promote their impending double LP, all hell broke loose at EMI Records. Though unbeknownst to the public at the time, and unreported since, the world’s biggest selling group was nearly dropped from its record label and hauled into court for breaking the terms stated in their 1962 recording contract.

And all they really wanted to do, say sources, was break new ground.

The idea came about after the group returned from India with a massive cache of over 30 songs and realized they had too much material for even a double LP. That’s when Beatle John Lennon hit on the idea of enlarging the size of the record’s discs from 12 to 14 inches, in order to fit more music. Beatle scholars agree that Lennon first brought the idea to his buddy, Apple staff inventor Magic Alex Madras, who confirmed that bigger discs could be manufactured. Unfortunately, no one would be able to play such discs since they wouldn’t be able to fit on regular phonographs. Undaunted, Lennon pressed on with the idea, saying the band “already did too much” for its fans and that he was “going to make sure Paul didn’t get more songs than me on the album even if it means no one hears the bloody tunes”.

Editor’s note: Some Beatle scholars believe the old Close-n-Play record players could have accommodated the larger discs. They also note that Lennon in 1968 would only listen to records on the kiddie record players, calling them more honest and authentic, than the bourgeois stereo owned by Paul McCartney.

Other Beatle-ologists claim Lennon and then-girlfriend Yoko Ono were just trying to stay one step ahead of the avant-garde. It’s also been claimed that Lennon was being spiteful over the other Beatles’ rejection of his song Revolution as the a-side of their Hey Jude single and was deliberately attempting to sabotage the group’s career.

The group’s true, conservative nature was exposed when they chose to relegate John’s ‘Revolution’ to the flip side of that record, explains a former Apple Boutique employee. These days, Paul McCartney tries to take credit for every innovation the band ever did, but back then he made June Cleaver look like Eldridge Cleaver. (Editor’s note: Many Beatle scholars dispute the validity of this quote, claiming instead the staffer referred to Wally Cleaver, not June Cleaver.)

Whatever the case, it came to pass that Lennon goaded executives at Apple Records into mastering previously-unheard-of 14-inch test pressings of the LP late in 1968, while fellow Fab Paul McCartney was away in America. Upon returning to Britain, the baby-faced Beatle was purportedly livid, but agreed to stand behind Lennon’s idea—at least at first.

The disc would be called the Wide Album, because of its unique width, Lennon said. At an Apple Records board meeting, the Beatle explained to a group of employees and Hell’s Angels that the disc would herald a “bold new era”. (Editor’s note: Several Beatle scholars argue there were no Hell’s Angels in the meeting. They claim that Ringo’s wife had brought along an angel food cake and the details got confused in the ensuing years.)

Lockwood’s lock-step

By mid-autumn, thousands of copies of the 14-inch LP were rolling off the presses. Sure, the concept of a record that could not be played was odd, reasoned many close to the Beatles. But didn’t so many of the group’s previous ideas seem strange at first? You know, like long hair and actually having to listen to the Maharishi? And then one day a pressing of the LP found its way into the hands of Sir Joseph Lockwood, president of EMI Records, which distributed Apple.

Lockwood couldn’t play the disc on his office turntable. Thinking his record machine was broken, he asked his secretary to try and play the record. But the needle kept popping up off the disc and Lockwood could barely make out the words to a song that sounded like it was called “Dear Pruneface”.

The elderly EMI president was not amused. Perceiving the “pruneface” song as a personal jab (Lockwood was nearly 80 at the time), he flew into a rage and hurled the group’s soon-to-be-released masterpiece against a wall. The next day, a more composed Lockwood summoned Beatles producer George Martin to his office. Martin had taken a leisurely vacation that fall and had missed many of the album’s sessions, but was about to be re-immersed back into the weird lair of the Liverpool Lads.

Lockwood demanded the producer bring the rapidly-fragmenting band together for a high-level meeting. A terrified Martin heeded Lockwood’s orders.

At the time, Lennon was dealing with the ramifications of his recent drug arrest, McCartney was in the studio with English thrush Mary Hopkin, Harrison was working with guitarist Eric Clapton , and Starr was in Greece. (Editor’s note: Some Beatle scholars claim Ringo was not in Greece but that he was covering his prematurely-gray hair with Grecian formula.)

When each of the four band members heard Martin erupt on the telephone, they sped to EMI for the impromptu get-together. Even the usually bold Ono made like a shrinking violet and begged off. The arguments came fast and furious, with Lockwood accusing Lennon of being “crazy” and “arrogant”. Lennon kept his cool, explaining that the unwieldy album would “make fans think” and “cause them to question who and what we are.”

Guitarist George Harrison and drummer Ringo Starr sat slumped in corners. Neither had known about Lennon’s scheme in the first place. As the always-articulate Lennon pressed on with his arguments, Lockwood held up a copy of the band’s recording contract, noting the clause which detailed the specific physical dimensions of albums. (Editor’s note: Some Beatle scholars maintain Lockwood did not hold up the contract, but merely pointed at it.)

New concepts were all well and good, explained Lockwood, but a record that could not be listened to did not—in his mind—qualify as any type of “innovation”.

“But if they CAN manage to somehow play the LP, they’ll get extra music and better sound,” offered a helpful McCartney. (Due to its larger size, the Wide Album, contained two extra songs, What’s the New Mary Jane and Not Guilty.)

According to newly uncovered EMI documents, Lockwood threw a hissy fit. He also threw the band and its crimson-faced producer out of his office. “Stop acting like spoiled little prats!” he barked. “Come back when you’ve made a proper record. And I’ve never said it before but that ‘Lady Madonna’ record was a load of bollocks!”

As angry as Lockwood was at the band, the brunt of his ire was saved for Fabs’ whipping-boy George Martin. In the passing weeks, Lockwood not only berated Martin in public, he forced the producer to personally cough up the cash to have the album re-pressed, since it was his oversight that allowed the craziness to happen.

“A producer should run the show,” fumed Lockwood. “Here, it looks like the lunatics have taken over the asylum.”

According to yet more Beatle scholars, Martin was furious at his betrayal by both the Beatles and Lockwood. This, say sources, is the real reason Martin was not present as producer during most of the Get Back/Let It Be sessions which commenced soon after. According to newly-discovered documents, the band began to put out feelers (their words) for a new producer. Rolling Stones guitarist Brian Jones was asked whether Stones producer Jimmy Miller could be employed. But Jones at the time was a drug-addled mess and claimed he didn’t even know Miller was now producing his band. (Editor’s note: Virtually all the Beatle scholars we talked to said they had never heard of an alleged band called the The Rolling Stones.) Jones snapped into lucidity when told about the band’s Wide Album. Calling Lennon a mad genius he dreamed of the day when he too could put out LPs no one can play. When Jones pitched just this idea to the other Stones a few months later, he was asked to leave the band.

Jones turned up dead weeks later.

Soon, both McCartney and Lennon agreed to get the LP out as soon as possible in any way possible. This, it turns out, is why the LP was issued in a plain white jacket: The Beatles had no time to commission a proper cover graphic.

“They wasted so much time with their bloody idea,” a former EMI engineer explains, “that they had to quickly assemble a cover in order to have the album ready by the Christmas rush. In effect, there was no cover!”

To save face, Lennon dreamed up the idea of calling the re-constituted LP by the similar name of the White Album, because of its blank jacket. People had already been saying Wide Album so (they) thought up a name that sounded close enough, says a source. Two songs were pulled from the disc’s lineup so the contents of the LP fit onto two standard 12-inch vinyl discs. EMI lubed up its presses for another run of LPs.

“The whole incident shows what can happen when egos get out of control,” offers a New Jersey-based rock critic and self-professed Beatles fanatic who wished not to be identified. “I’m glad all of this is finally being brought to light, because it hurt George (Martin) emotionally as well as professionally.” (Editor’s note: Several Beatle scholars contend this critic is not a critic at all, but a convenience store employee who likes to read music magazines.)

Indeed, the occurrence was considered such a professional embarrassment, it prompted a furious Lockwood to issue a memo to all EMI staffers, producers and bands to “keep quiet about it, or risk losing all earnings and your reputation within the industry.” To distract fans from the would-be scandal (and to secure their financial futures) the two head Beatles would both impulsively marry well-to-do women in the coming months.

Although Martin would reunite with the Beatles for their swan song, Abbey Road, the events in the fall of 1968 traumatized him so much that he vowed “never to work with rock acts again”. After a long search for the most boring group in the world, he discovered soft rockers America and purportedly produced many of their discs while asleep in a hammock in the back of his Bentley, which was parked a block away from the studio.

England’s lamest cover band

The outcome of the Wide Album incident hit the Beatles hard. No longer were they the golden boys who could do no wrong for EMI. Instead, they felt like cogs in the wheel—another meal ticket for the stuffed-shirt executives.

Dispirited, the group reconvened in January of 1969 to start work on an album comprised of safe-as-milk oldies, a move engineered to mock Lockwood’s bland tastes. If Mr. EMI wanted the Best Band in the Word to make like milquetoast, well, that’s exactly what they would do. “Look out Herman’s Hermits!” they joked. “We’re going steal your mantle of being England’s lamest cover band!”

Sadly, that plan was realized in spades.

Drugged, depressed, and dispirited, the band slogged through ear-wrenching, tuneless renditions of numbers they once loved. Originally called Sloppy Seconds by Lennon (who named it as such because the band couldn’t make it through more than a few seconds of each tune), it was later re-titled Get Back. For a few weeks it was called Octopus’ Garbage (at Harrison’s bequest), then accidentally named Nancy Wilson Sings the Standards by a novice tape-op who wasn’t paying attention.

At one point during the sessions, a smartly-dressed Keith Richards dropped by with then-paramour Anita Pallenberg. Hoisting a guitar, he attempted to jam with the band, but found he could not get in tune with any given band member at any given time. Dazed, he walked out of the session saying he “could not believe what he heard.” Later that night he allegedly drove with Pallenberg to the worst section of London and scored heroin for the first time. “If that’s the way the best band in the world sounds,” he slurred, “then there’s no point in music.”

Lennon took the rejection of the Wide Album particularly hard. He decided to “turn his back on pop music as we know it” and take up more substantial causes. (Editor’s note: Many Beatle scholars say they never felt Lennon’s causes were really all that substantial, at least not in the scheme of record collecting.)

Wide fallout

As the history books show, the band members decided to go their separate ways in Aug. 1969. Solo careers were launched, but the memory of the Wide Album would not go away. In 1974, Beatle roadie Mal Evans, then on the verge of bankruptcy, threatened to sell his memoirs—replete with an account of the “Wide Album” incident. One week later, Evans turned up dead.

Six years later, Lennon did an interview with Playboy magazine writer David Sheff, where he touched on all points of the group’s career—including the Wide Album. The discovery of the story was considered a major “coup” for the then-struggling scribe. But when Sheff went back to transcribe the tape the next day, the segment of the tape that covered the debacle, all 13 minutes of it had been mysteriously erased.

Lennon was murdered less than a week later.

Tony Sclafani | PopMatters.com

26 November 2008