he BEATLES embossed, a line of gray numbers (A2174290) and a sheet of whiteness; it caught the interest of a child Edwin C. Faust, skimming through his parentsí record collection. After being scared shitless by the Magical Mystery Tour album cover, my young consciousness sunk into the starknessóthe whitenessóof The White Album cover. Inside were photos of gypsy-looking Beatle freaks; listed on halved apples were cryptic song-titles like ìPiggiesî and ìEverybodyís Got Something To Hide Except Me and My Monkey.î Okayóthis youngster had enough! First, they freaked me out with the Walrus and other animal costumes, now these creepy Beatles were conjuring up dark, strange things with mere song-titles and a blank album cover. For the rest of my childhood, I avoided my parents Beatle records lurking in the closet like the most proverbial of monsters.


Enter my teen years. The White Album-dusty in my parents' closet-it beckoned me; like some voluminous tome pulled out of a cobwebbed labyrinth-there was alchemy within this record sleeve. More than anything, it was the whiteness of The White Album that drew me in. And though its whiteness did betray some of the ineffable terror that Melville saw in his white whale, the overwhelming emotion was wonder. Enwrapped in this wonderment, this intrigue, I placed the record on my momís old hi-fi and it struck meó God, this record is really scratched to hell! But the bug was planted; days later, I usurped the cassette from a nearby friend. But I didnít listen to it immediately. Ohó I had a plan! The next night, a girlfriend of mine provided chauffer service, I popped the tape in her deck, and then I dropped some acid on my virgin tongue. Yes, I was simultaneously experiencing LSD and The White Album for the first timeó such is the sublime madness of youth. Now, the acid didnít kick in until after The White Album, but I was in a very existential state while listeningó awaiting a psychedelic odysseyó nothing escaping my observation. The girlfriend, the LSD, the adolescenceó theyíve all become anecdotal phantoms of a past life, but one thing remainsóstill stirs the intangible when heard: the fade-in of ìDear Prudenceî or to be more accurate: the moment when ìBack In The U.S.S.R.î fades into ìDear Prudenceî.


We hear that McCartney jetliner landing with the image of ìsnow peaked mountainsî and mysterious Russian dolls, standing in a tundra of whiteness akin to the album coverótheir large gray eyes looking skyward with arousal, anticipation. The plane passes overhead and we feel the euphoria of traveló the sighting of a new horizonóand then we hear a gentle sound rise out of the thundering engines. The aurora borealis is before us and this arctic world darkens and illuminates at the same time. The burgeoning sound is that of a guitar and it echoes India and things beyond modern society. Lennon is using technologyó electric guitar, recording studioó to recreate nature, spiritual transcendence and we feel thisó we feel this more than we hear it. Itís the feeling of a sun setting or rising. The watching of a bird as it soars into a luscious blue infinityó the sparkle of a secret in a womanís eyeóor the rapid eye movement of a sleeping woman in an exotic location. Sheís beautifuló an extension of the natural world like Thomas Hardyís Tess or Lewis Carrollís Alice under a treeó sheís dreaming and the guitar is a morning birdsong, trying to sing her awake. But Johnís not just conjuring Mia Farrowís sister from her slumber, but anyone listening. And this is all evoked before the first bass note is hit, the first vocal sung. Thereís a resonance from that moment, that timeó it rings from the guitar notes, how theyíre phrased, how theyíre playedó it hangs in the reverb like dappled sunlight or whistling wind. Thereís also the contrast between the jetliner effect and the tranquility of the guitar: the dynamics of that eraó the war machine colliding with the peace movement; Corporation Land standing against thrift-shops, hitchhiking, and witchcraft. The Beatles stole a fair amount of hippie spells; thereís magic when ìDear Prudenceî arrives; itís Panís flute calling us into the forest to dance, to hunt, to love, to vibe.


The fade-in is a promise of a journey and The White Album follows through: From the ìsnow peaked mountainsî to the apocalyptic soundscape of ìRevolution 9î, weíre taken to many places on the album. However, the pioneerís heart beats most vibrantly when he catches that first glimpse of his destinationó thatís the fade-in of ìDear Prudenceî: the pull of discovery.