In 1968 The Beatles were a punk band — They had no management, sacked their producer, and were self-releasing their music. Yet when I first heard The stark, monochromatic White Album, I was under-whelmed. It would take me till now to come to terms with it. I had picked it up sometime in 1997, at the Echo record store on Byres Road, Glasgow (Now a banal hairdresser or a coffee shop). If I wanted to continue on this exhaustive self-imposed Beatle pilgrimage, this epic, blank sleeve of intrigue was next. …
