Paul McCartney's Kind Eyes and a Shaking Fork of Beans (1995/1976)

 

Paul during the soundcheck in Setttle 1976

Paul and Linda before the concert in Seattle.  Was this where the author of this article met them?

Paul McCartney's Kind Eyes and a Shaking Fork of Beans 

By Margie Boule

The Oregonian

November 23, 1995

    A memory is a strange magnet. Why do we remember what we do? Why have I sat for the TV this week watching Paul McCartney on ABC's Beatles documentary, unable to shake the taste of green beans?  Why can't I remember every word he said as he sat across the dinner table from me back in 1976? 

     I'll tell you what I do remember. Linda and Paul McCartney were extremely nice that evening so long ago in Seattle.  I was astonished they would even speak to me, a stranger, a nobody dressed in some blue jeans and a T-shirt. My only fashion accessory was a laminated tag that hung from my neck with the word "crew" printed on it. 

    I was working for KINGTV. Our company was hired to put the video pictures on the big screen inside the Kingdome for the Paul McCartney and Wings concert. I have some engineer friends who would be working the concert. Did I want to hang around backstage? They asked.

     Did I want to hang around and perhaps catch a glimpse of Paul McCartney, the sweet-voiced mop-top who jump-started my production of hormones when I was a sixth grader? Did I want to hang around and hear notes sung by the guy I'd harmonized with the 1964 with my pastel pink transistor radio clutched to one ear? You bet your Beatles wig I wanted to!

     "We'll put you on the crew list", said one of my friends, "You might actually have to help carry in cables or something." This was the only engineering-related task I was prepared to handle. Since I was barely able to do more than turn a TV set off and on. 

     We arrived early, and immediately it was clear there was nothing for me to do. Real engineers scurried around, hooking up cameras, checking light levels, and testing focus on the giant screen above the stage. I wandered backstage, trying to look legitimate. I coiled a heavy camera cable, then I uncoiled it, then I coiled it again.

     Late in the afternoon, as I stood somewhere near where the Seattle Mariners must place second base, Paul McCartney took the stage with his band members for a sound check. His wife, Linda, stood before a keyboard on a raised platform toward the back of the stage. Paul stood in front. One by one, the band members played their instruments, and the sound grew louder and softer and louder as technicians tinkered with the blend. I noticed there was no female voice in the mix. Linda McCartney appeared to be mouthing the words, then she sang alone, and I understood why someone had kept her mic turned off. She might be a wicked vegetarian cook, but a singer, she wasn't.  She was, however, having fun making music. She and Paul seemed happy.

     A few moments later, they left the stage. I had a few hours before the concert began, I coiled and uncoiled cord until I got hungry. There was a food tent set up backstage. Inside was a buffet table with paper plates and cafeteria-style food. I don't remember what I dished up, except for the green beans. 

    A few minutes later, Paul and Linda came in. I was stunned. "They eat this food?" I thought to myself, "Not champagne and little baby carrots with mint?" Their backs are to me. I watched them put food on paper plates, and then they sat down directly across from me. I swear for a full 60 seconds I was blind, deaf, and unable to speak. The words "act cool" seemed to be flashing in neon before my eyes.

     "Don't speak to them," I thought. Then they spoke to me. "Let them have their privacy," I thought. They didn't seem to want privacy. They asked me what I did on the crew, and I told them the truth. "I coiled and uncoiled cable." They laughed. They must have thought I was kidding. I remember wiping my mouth with my napkin a lot, because every time I picked up my fork, it shook so much the beans fell to the plate. What composure.

     I know we talked until the vegetables were all gone, but I have little memory of what we discussed. I don't think I made a fool of myself. I doubted I stared. I'm pretty sure I did not tell him how I once filled a scrapbook with photographs of him. It was just a pleasant dinner of bland canned vegetables with the man, who the Guinness Book of World Records says is the world's most popular performer, and his wife.

     I wish I'd sat down that night after the meal, after the concert, after I coiled my last cable and written down every detail of the visit, but I didn't. All I remember is my shaking fork, her lousy voice, his kind eyes, and the green beans. Like I said, a memory is a strange magnet.