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| A couple of photos where you can see that Paul is wearing the shirt that Allen gave him. |
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| "Macca himself in New Orleans in front of the new stadium. Photo by Linda. Shirt by Allen. |
There are several occasions I can remember while Paul
McCartney was staying here in New Orleans when I made an attempt to see him;
but it’s the most successful and rewarding that I intend to relate to you
here. It had been a week already that
Paul, his family, his band, and his associates had located themselves in the
heart of New Orleans. They tucked
themselves away in their perch at the Le Richelieu Motor Hotel in the French
Quarter district of the city, and came out mostly to drive to the Sea-Saint
recording studios every weekday between 1 and 3. (They had made several social ventures from
their suite, but by Paul’s own admission, he worked much more then he played
while he was here.)
The Crescent City was preparing itself for its annual party
in the streets – Mardi Gras, and tourists ran rampant over the narrow streets
of the Quarter. It was getting near noon
when I arrived there and headed towards Lew Richelieu. As is typical of New Orleans unusual climate,
the sun was beating down rather warmly and people had left their sweaters and
coats hung in the closet for this day in early February. By the time I reached the hotel the street walkers
had thinned out a great deal. And before
I had time to wonder which of the suits of the hotel that can be seen from the
street Paul might be lodged in, I heard the sound of children at play coming
from the second story balcony directly above the entrance to the hotel. Yes, the children were Paul’s and I gazed in
amazement at Stella, Heather, and Mary who all seemed to resemble their
photographs comparatively. After a
while, they went inside the suits and I went about my plans to contact their
father.
I had bought a king cake at the bakery before I reached the Quarter
so as to have something to bring them when (and if) I met them. I realized the hotel staff wouldn’t allow me
to go near his room, so I asked the receptionist if she could have the cake
delivered up to him for me. She obliged,
so I sat down and nervously scribbled down a short note explaining the king
cake. I expressed how I’d love to see
them and maybe get a photograph if they weren’t terribly busy at the
moment. I specified that I’d be waiting
downstairs, and gave them my good wishes for their stay in the city and
recordings they’d be making while here.
After leaving the package with the desk clerk, I headed out to the
street once again and planted myself on a small clump of steps across the
street from Paul’s suite.
After a few impatient, anxious minutes had passed, I noticed
a figure standing inside the doorway of the balcony putting something on his
wrist and facing my direction. I was
slightly embarrassed at the thought of being watched (what was he thinking?),
yet I was excited as I realized that the figure was probably Paul
McCartney! After a few moments of this
pleasant agony, I turned my head in pretense that I never really noticed he was
standing there since he wasn’t making an attempt to introduce himself. But as I glanced back to the doorway, there I
saw Paul McCartney exit onto the balcony.
He was also pretending he hadn’t’ noticed me across the street, and went
about strolling around the balcony as if he was out for some morning sun. When I soon regained his attention, I quickly
and simply waved a friendly hello to him to break the ice. He immediately returned this with a brisk and
distinct thumbs up gesture and I decided this was it! I quickly walked over across the street and
under the balcony to talk to him.
The first characteristic of his appearance that grabbed my
attention was his jet black hair. Its
licorice richness presented such an interesting and attractive contrast to his
fair complexion. He was dressed in a loose
fitting robe that reached his keens, but his body appeared lithe and thin. He was much better looking than most of his
pictures.
All of the planned conversation I had stored in my head
evaporated, and I stood there with nothing more to say than, “Can I take your
picture?” A tour but in the meantime
inconveniently parked itself right where I was standing, and its raging engine
made it impossible for him to hear hardly anything I was saying. We talked about the shirt I was wearing (The
black and white Wings t-shirt from the Fun Club in England), and the shirt I
made for him and left with the receptionist at Sea-Saint one of the first few
days after he arrived. When I asked him about
it, he said something like, “Oh, you did that yourself?” The shirt wasn’t anything exceptional; I
suspect he was just being appreciative.
I did find out later that he wore it to have his photo taken in front of
the nearly completed Louisiana Superdome (where he’s assured us he’ll play when
he tours later in the fall) *see photo*.
The shirt was originally one of those tourist novelties. It bore a picture-collage of different New Orleans
landmarks and attractions with the name “New Orleans” inscribed boldly
underneath the design. In the same style
writing (and with a few birds thrown in on the sides), I printed “Wings Over”
on top, so it read, “Wings Over New Orleans” when I was finished with it.
At one point in the conversation, he motioned that it was alright
for me to take pictures. I withdrew my
movie camera from the shopping bag I had carried all my junk in, and he
proceeded to be Paul McCartney, professional ham, for my film. It was just unbelievable and I enjoyed every
minute of it. He waved into the camera,
coaxing Mary (who had wandered out on the balcony without me noticing) to do
the same. He then danced around with her
a little, but he seemed to be growing impatient with the situation. Before I had time to remedy the situation, he
politely waved goodbye into the camera and disappeared back inside his suite.
The whole incident was entirely too short lived, and I stood
on the sidewalk in awe and disillusionment, but with a sense of
accomplishment. I regretted that my meeting
with him hadn’t gone down a little more intimately (instead of just another fan
type thing), but I was grateful for what I’d gotten.
With a few minutes of precious film locked safely inside the
camera, I was ready to race back home and tell my friends of the
experience. I wanted to finish off the roll
of film so I could have it developed immediately, however, so I turned back to
the hotel to film the outside and the area surrounding it. Just as I glanced towards the balcony, my eye
caught an attractive blonde lady standing by the railing. It was Linda!
I called to her, and raced back across the street to greet her. For all the negative things that have been
written about Linda, she was very warm and friendly when I met her that
day. She was playful, in fact, complying
with my request for her to dance for the film, and putting on a carnival mask
one of the children had used to decorate the balcony for the holiday. She explained that I had caught them in their
robes, but I assured her they looked great in spite of it. Her hair hung in long, soft curls and
enwrapped her face and shoulders, and she too was looking in good shape. She made several attempts at bidding me
goodbye and heading back inside, but something would invariably interest her
and she’d stay out for a few minutes longer.
She did manage to wave a final goodbye, and soon was back inside the
suite.
It’s been over 3 months since that incident. The Le Richelieu has changed its title to “Paul’s
hotel” in my vocabulary, and it stands as a secret moment to a dream partially
realized in my memory. I stop in front
of it every now and then, and stare up at the balcony where he was
standing. The balcony doesn’t look the
same without him, but it provides an empty stage setting to reminisce on whenever
I pass it.
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