The Beatles' personal contribution to the specially boxed introductory set of new Apple releases called The First Four was the single "Hey Jude," backed with John's "Revolution". "Hey Jude" had turned into a pop epic. Beginning with Paul's plaintive voice against simple instrumentation, it built to a melancholy anthem of forty instruments and a chorus of one hundred voices chanting a four-minute coda. To help publicize the release of "Hey Jude," Paul decided to put the closed boutique at Baker and Paddington Streets to some good use. Late one night he snuck into the store and whitewashed the windows. Then he wrote HEY JUDE across it in block letters. The following morning, when the neighbourhood shopkeepers arrived to open their stores, they were incensed; never having heard of the song "Hey Juden" before, they took it as an anti-Semitic slur. A brick was thrown through the store window before the words could be cleaned off and the misunderstanding straightened out.
    As it turned out, Paul need not have worried about such a small publicity gimmick; "Hey Jude" became one of the biggest selling singles in England in twenty years. Mary Hopkin's "Those Were The Days" sold almost as well, and throughout the summer both songs fought for the top spot on the record charts, selling a combined thirteen million copies in all.
    In its own right, the Beatles new double album was no less successful. Entitled The Beatles, the album became known to the public as the White Album, because of its stark, glossy-white laminated jacket, with the words, "The Beatles," in almost invisible raised lettering. It was Paul's idea to have each album individually numbered, like fine lithographs. And indeed, the White Album was a work of art. The thirty songs on the two-record set took them an unprecedented five months to record and mix. The critics were ecstatic at the huge selection and diversity of taste on the LP, ranging from John's "Revolution 9," a taste of his experimental tapes with a strong influence from Yoko, to Paul's pudding-sweet "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da." Tony Palmer, in the London Observer, raved, "If there is still any doubt that Lennon and McCartney are the greatest songwriters sing Shubert, then . . . [the White Album] . . . should surely see the last vestiges of cultural snobbery and bourgeois prejudice swept away in a deluge of joyful music making. . . ." None of the critics noted, however, that perhaps some of the album's diversity was due to the work of individuals rather than the four Beatles working in collaboration. By the time of the White Album sessions, the Beatles' working relationship had disintegrated to the point where the only way for them to wrest control for the recording of his own composition while the other played "backup band." This put Paul at the controls most of the time, with John in second place, and George in a poor third with only four of his own compositions on the finished album. George had so much trouble getting John and Paul's attention that he even brought famed guitarist Eric Clapton into the studios with him to use as his "session guitarist."
    Ringo contributed hardly at all. He had finally become superfluous to the Beatles. Most of the time he spent in the studio he sat in a corner playing cards with Neil and Mal. It was a poorly kept secret among Beatle intimates that after Ringo left the studios, Paul would often dub in the drum tracks himself. When Ringo returned to the studio the next day, he would pretend not to notice that it was not his playing. The fans never knew, but it must have cut him terribly. The message from Paul and the others was clear; this little man who had lucked into the group and sailed with them into the big times was not good enough musically to play with them.
    One day Ringo arrived home after a recording session during which Paul had lectured him on how to play, and he told Maureen tearfully that he "was no longer a Beatle," that he had quit. Maureen was terrified at first. Ringo sat at home for the next few days and brooded or played with his kids while the recording sessions went on without him. When he got bored and peeved that the others had not attempted to draw him back, he sheepishly announced that he was "returning to the Beatles." The evening he arrived back in the studios the other three arranged to have his drum kit smothered in several hundred pounds' worth of flowers. Ringo was delighted and all was forgiven, but the rot had already set in; the foundation of the group was cracking, and no amount of flowers would be able to cover it up.