The Secret Concert of Paul McCartney (1976)

Photos by D.J. Cast 

I recently purchased a wonderfully crafted Paul McCartney and Wings scrapbook, made by a Paul fan in the mid-1970s.  In it was this story and photos from "Pair Magazine." Sadly, the entire article was not included in the scrapbook, and the story ends just as it starts to get good.   I am going to go ahead and post what I have, hoping someone out there can help me finish the story.   I have never heard of "Pair Magazine" and could not find any mention of it online.  

The Secret Concert of Paul McCartney

By D.J. Cast

Pair Magazine 

May 1976

    It can be as simple as receiving a phone call. "Paul McCartney is playing Will Rogers Auditorium right now. He's rehearsing there. Word has it he's been there all week."

     Damn! I couldn't believe it. Here I was, bending myself backwards, talking to people at the Capitol in Dallas and at Concerts West, trying to find an audience with Paul McCartney, always ending at a dead end. Logic would only dictate that the famous bassist had to be in the area. It was less than a week away from the commencement of his first American tour in 10 years, and the tour was beginning in good old Fort Worth, Texas.

     A couple of friends later, I find myself at the stage door of Will Rogers Auditorium. We park the car and proceed to walk in. The hired policeman peeks around the doorway of an inner room as we pass. We just nod our heads as if we belong. He lets us pass without a second thought, and we walk on to the already empty stage. A few Show Co sound people are walking to and fro, turning off various amplifiers and preamps. This is it all right. There's Paul's piano overlooking the neatly stacked amplifiers. Linda's is completely surrounded by mini Moogs, mellotrons, an electric piano, all those nice effects that trip me from Venus and Mars. But where is the band? A Show Co person walks up to us, wondering who the hell we are. We throw around a few names, and he's assured were cool. He tells us they had just left after keeping them till nine o'clock yesterday.

     I stand there and look completely around me, and all those empty chairs that were the only listeners to "Maybe, I'm Amazed", "Band on the Run", "Magneto and Titanium Man," and surely yes, "Oh, Darling."

     The man informs us that they will return tomorrow. We thank him as he walks away, and before we leave, I put our magazine on Paul's amp, covering his song list, which reads like cuts from a McCartney greatest-hits album with Beatles hit. Yes, many! Paul has always been a good PR man. He knows what the crowd wants. He's not going to be like poor George. 

    The next morning, I'm in my own car, camera and tape recorder ready as I'm about to turn into the street leading to the rear of the Will Rogers, I see a limo drive casually away, empty, except for the disinterested chauffeur. "They're already here," I thought as I parked the car. The stage door was slightly ajar. My pulse was racing as I decided to leave my camera in the car. They may not want photos. I opened the door and walked in, thinking I would be seeing the face I'd seen many times on Beatles albums, magazines, and movies in the next few seconds, but there wasn't anyone here. It was 10 o'clock Friday morning, and the entire Will Rogers Auditorium was empty, except for the Wings equipment and myself. 

    I quickly put my recorder down and went out for my camera. I figured I might as well wait, just sit in the corner somewhere until they start playing. On my return trip, the policeman they hired met me on stage. I told him I was there for a possible interview. He said I was pretty early. The Show. Co people wouldn't be here until 11, and the band wouldn't be here until three this afternoon. I agreed it was pretty early to be out there, so I feigned surprise, and maybe I'd better call the office to see what the boss wants me to do. He redirects me to a phone. 

    I call my wife and tell her my plans in the strictest tones to fake the officer. He is faked, and I strike up some lively conversation with him. After I hang up, he tells me the band has been at Will Rogers since Sunday. I point out to him there were probably 4000 people in Fort Worth alone that would love to be in his shoes, to get to listen to live McCartney music five hours a day for the last five days. He sort of laughed it off as I took a picture of the empty stage. I tell him, I'll be back later and I'm about to walk out of the door, he throws a wait a minute at me and tells me he would personally tell the man that seems to be in charge of things, Trevor Jones, that I was by. He was the same one that would say yea or nay. I thank him and drive cursing myself on the way for forgetting my sunglasses on one of the amps.

     When I returned that afternoon, there are a few older people standing outside the stage door. There are four limousines parked, one wine red limo, and suddenly I realized they are here. This time, I walk up to the people and ask if anyone could find Trevor Jones for me, and one of them runs inside. I could hear McCartney playing a jam as he opens the door, and he returns with Trevor. He tells me, in his thick English accent, he's not the one that could decide on the interview. It would be the publicist by the name of Marsha Hightower, and if I were real cool, he'd tell me where she's staying. I said I would, and he tells me. I talked to him a while, and he informs me what it's like to work for McCartney. "Every time I asked for a raise, he tells me he could get two people to do the job for free," but he added that McCartney would always give credit where it's due and he's a good man to work for. He lays some more facts on me, like McCartney would be videotaping both the Fort Worth and Houston concerts for his own viewing to go over the problems that might arise with sound and stage presentation. Trevor bids me farewell, but before I leave it, I decided to ask if it's possible to just step in and see them do one number. He says it isn't possible. And I drive home, cursing myself for forgetting my shades again.

     Marsha Hightower informs me on the phone that no interviews are being granted, that Life, London Daily, and Time all want interviews, and Paul is just not giving them at this time, but she said, " We give out a press kit." I hungrily accept and make plans the following day to go to Dallas and pick up the press kit.

 Driving back to Will Rogers for the third time, I decide to stay until Wings leaves, so I can catch a glimpse of 1/4 of the Beatles when I arrive this time. Most of the parking places are filled. There's a small crowd of about 10 girls and a few guys just standing around in an Apple-Scruffian way and the sounds of a live Paul McCartney concert are contained inside. 

    I walk to the stage door, and the band is doing acoustic "Maumonia". The policeman greets me and gives me my sunglasses. I tell him they wouldn't let me talk to him, and in a pitiful sort of way, he lets me look into the stage, pointing out McCartney, which I couldn't see for my failing eyesight. I thank him and ask him where the nearest bathroom is. He directs me down the hall, and I stand at the urinal, thankful that I cleverly bought more time. 

(hopefully to be continued....)