I Met the Walrus_ How One Day With John Lennon Changed My Life Forever - Jerry Levitan [7]
For the first time, the Beatles’ own record label logo, Apple, appeared. On one side, granny smith green. On the other, white and sliced with the seeds on display. “Revolution” was the sliced apple and was as edgy and rocking as anything the Beatles had done before. “If you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, you ain’t gonna make it with anyone anyhow.” Only John Lennon could get away with lyrics like that.
Since they were no longer touring, they weren’t forced to be prisoners to nerve-wracking world tours. And so the Beatles began searching for meaning in their art and in their lives. As their personal horizons expanded—drugs, meditation, exposure to other musicians—so did their music, the presentation of it and their aesthetic. George Harrison’s wife Patti told them of this wonderful mystic from the East, the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. They attended a lecture he was giving in Wales, and it was on the second day of that retreat, August 27, 1967, that they learned that their manager Brian Epstein had died due to drugs and mysterious circumstances. Epstein was twenty-seven when he found the Beatles at a club called the Cavern. He championed them from the beginning, when he still worked in his father’s appliance store in Liverpool, all the way to the behemoth they had become. It shocked them, and as John would later say, he thought the Beatles were finished after that.
Scared and directionless, they continued their infatuation with their guru, a word that became known to millions of kids, including me. It seemed to cut across religious differences and the Beatles were now exploring spirituality and involving all of their fans in that quest. The Beatles went to Rishikesh, India, in February 1968, not to tour but to study for weeks with the Maharishi. It was so exotic, so fascinating, and I could not wait to hear what they would say when they emerged. It was during that pilgrimage that they produced some of their finest, most personal and biting songs, songs that would form the content of the White Album.
When word spread that a new release from the Beatles was coming, it was shrouded in secrecy, and arrived on the pop scene like a bomb. Getting an album was not the easiest thing for a suburban kid in those days. They were not available everywhere. The place of choice in Toronto was Sam the Record Man. Three creaky wooden floors of vinyl. When you walked in, it felt like you were entering a temple of music and pop culture. I would spend hours there, even if I did not buy anything. The first floor was rock and pop. The second floor was show tunes, adult contemporary, and jazz. The top floor was classical. The ceilings were low and the rooms were connected by narrow aisles and square pillars. The rim of the ceiling and walls were lined, throughout the store, with 8 x 10 framed photos of recording artists from Judy Collins to Jimmy Durante, all with Sam “the Record Man” Sniderman hugging them or mugging with them. I knew every one of those hundreds of photos. That’s what it was like, for me, going to Sam’s in November 1968 to get the White Album.
I would call Capitol Records as soon as I heard of a new Beatles recording to get the release date and then the delivery date. Without fail, from Sgt. Pepper on, I was in the alley behind Sam’s waiting for the Capitol truck. I did the same that November, shivering behind the store until it pulled up. The driver unloaded boxes with the Capitol Records logo and I watched as the first box was opened on the floor in the back of the store.