The Renaissance of Dirty Macca
By Tony Tyler
The fall of Paul McCartney was the tale of a perfectly
harmless Philistine slaughtered by a posse of self-righteous Samsons. And I suspect it began with the court case
that followed the dissolution of the Beatles.
Do you remember how the story went? We were all presented with an appealing
picture of three Beatles who wanted to go on being Beatles; honest, just wanted
a new manager, that’s all. In the
opposite corner stood Dirty Macca 15 stone of brutal chubbiness, dragging Us
and Them through the courts, and all for a few scraps of paper. And he made us all wake up, and he had the
cheek to win. What a downer.
Then, with McCartney firmly established as the villain of
the piece, the coast was clear for Lennon to bury himself in New York horse
radical chic surrounded by herberts who would drag out a mike if Johnny-baby so
much as passed wind. Lennon’s
subsequent disintegration as an artist of credibility was passed off as the
doing of Ole Fatsuff back there on ‘is bleedin’ Scottish farm, messin’ round
with that Eastman chick an’ them bleedin’ sheep.
The worst thing about it was that Lennon obviously believed
this story: he had to, for his own
self-respect. So, because Lennon had
credibility in those days, we were treated to what was possibly the masochistic
breast-beat of all time, the celebrated John Lennon “Rolling Stone” interview. In this the wretched Lennon took every opportunity
to slam more nails into McCartney’s coffin.
Of course, he was knocking them into his own as well. But it wasn’t so apparent at the time. And so it came to pass that James Paul
McCartney began his long slide from public favour. I believe the real reason for his banishment
to the salt mines was the fact that he was generally blamed by the public for
the break-up of the Beatles. Yet it was
fairly obvious then—and even more obvious now, with hindsight—that the Moptops
were four very dead Mersey Goldfish even as far back as “Let it Be.”
James Paul’s real mistake was in underestimating how much
the very existence of the Beatles, even on a mere emotional level, was
considered a necessary adjunct to a full and fruitful lifestyle.
Neither, of course, did he help himself by bringing out two
fairly terrible albums, “McCartney” and “Ram.”
Yet the public still after his blood, ignored Lennon’s own personal
albums and laced into McCartney – failing to realize that the latter’s own solo
efforts might have meant every bit as much to him as did Primal Shouts Parts
One and Two to Lennon.
Double standards?
Certainly – and ask yourself this:
who, in five years’ time, is gonna be more embarrassed by his post
Beatles product?
By this time the odds were beginning to stack against
McCartney. There was nothing he could do
right.
Even the few mitigating factors didn’t run in his favour.
By this time the wheel of pop chic had spun a drunken full
circle and the powdered rhinestoned, glittering New Barbarians had little time
for McCartney’s gentle tunesmithery.
Coke n blood were what sold and the only interest in Eleanor Rigby would
be a lascivious enquiry about the lady.
My own stake in this affair is that I grew up in the same
Liverpool as the Beatles, even played in a band myself once – so you’ll
understand when I say that the existence of the Beatles meant as much to me as
to anybody.
I’ve seen McCartney, leather-clad playing bass behind Little
Richard at the Tower Ballroom; I’ve seen them in Hamburg, sweating their asses
off for a heavy character called Horst Fascher; I’ve seen them pissed on crates
in the Grossbier shop and getting laid in the upstairs bunk across the street
from the Star.
I saw their first return to the Litherland Town Hall, when
Pete Best got more cheers than anybody.
I tell ya, I’ve got Beatleography engraved on my heart.
This s why I was as sadden as anybody else by the split and
subsequent events and I haven’t really got off on McCartney’s music since that
time I winced at the “James Paul McCartney” TV special, just like everybody
else seemed to, but in that same show I also saw enough to convince me that,
under the layer of defensiveness, the rocker was still in there, waiting for a
friendly word before he came out and blew our heads off again.
It was with this mixed attitude that I turned up at
Birmingham Odeon last Friday night to see the Wings tour. My friends, as a veteran of endless,
pilgrimages to the Rainbow for Bowie, or Roxy, or some such tinseled trivia I
was instantly taken by absence of the sort of amateur poovery that one comes up
against these days. There was not a
rhinestone, not a jeweled droplet, not a square inch of satin in place.
In fact, and this is going to sound boring, they were just
nice, ordinary people. They were
courteous, kept themselves firmly seated, and betrayed little emotion at the
thought of actually seeing a Beatle.
They were a sincere-looking audience.
Suddenly there’s an invite to us to greet the Fabulous Paul
McCartney and Wings; and the greeting from the previously demure audience is so
loud it shakes the roof.
Linda McCartney is dressed (I’m including a fashion note
here because I know some of you may be
interested in such matters) in a handsome black suit cut to resemble Scottish
full dress with jacket, cravat and knee-length skirt.
She looks fine, not a trace of the Harridan I’d half
expected. Denny Seiwell looks cool behind his kit, Denny Laine looks smashed
behind his jumbo and Henry McCullough --- Henry looks pissed, so be frank, but
ask everyone from Joe Cocker down, and they’ll tell you that Henry plays great
when he’s pissed.
He is wearing a black jacket, is Henry, with “a Pearly Kid”
embroidered on the back. And he plays
fine, just fine.
Ah, but so do they all.
It’s a frequently-forgotten fact, but McCartney is one hell of a
bassist, all bounce and balls. He looks
pretty slick himself, in his silk shirt and left hand Rickenbacker. Denny Laine keeps the second- lead lines
together well, and every now and again he takes over bass or piano. Denny Seiwell hunches his shoulders and digs
in; Linda plays O.K., too, as far as I can tell (certainly I hear no bum notes)
and the whole thing gets quite nicely.
Nobody hollers for a Beatle tune, which must be gratifying,
and there’s plenty of shouted requests for Wings’ music. After about four number the people have
already started to twitch and it’s apparent they’re only waiting for that one
rocker to let go…beats me why McCartney doesn’t give ‘em what they want. But he’s got his own plans and I have to
admit they make sense.
Then he’s into rock and now they’re beginning to stampede
and it’s on the seat-back, feller, if you wanna see what’s going down. Denny does “Go now” Paul and Henry do a
knees-up and suddenly it’s almost over and time for what I came all this way
for “Long Tall Sally.”
You see I have this thing about McCartney singing “Long Tall
Sally.” I’ve never heard anyone sing it
better and it’s my own personal acid test to see if his goolies are still where
they were. I’m happy to report that they
are in place, and swinging better than ever.
McCartney has absolutely no need to justify his rocker credentials; he
screams like a bitch and swings twice as hard.
This crowd goes potty.
The gig is now over, expect for five little girls who fight
for a towel, swinging around in a five-pointed star of agro. Epithets fly, I shudder, and make my way
backstage where…
The Publicists is flapping like a shirttail in the breeze,
nervously marshalling us into some kind of order before entering the
Presence. An American journalist is
putting McCartney (but not in the publicist’s hearing, or he wouldn’t get in,
no way) and everybody seems to be American.
McCartney’s changed clothes.
His kids are running around and both he and lady are being cool with
them, giving friendly prods and pushes and generally letting them get on with
it.
The American thrusts a mike right under McCartney’s nose,
but the Fab One, not the slightest disconcerted, answers questions, pantomimes
situations.
Did he enjoy making “Live and Let Die?” Certainly, he likes to be given good work to
do. What’s the movie like? OK, says
Paul. Linda thinks Roger Moore’s a
little smooth, but that’s cool.
Would you believe the American then asks McCartney the
“difference between England and America?”
One longs for “A Hard Day’s Night” comeback, but McCartney’s not into
putting others down, not even when they beg for it.
McCartney is asked about the TV film, “I thought some of it
was OK, you know, but I’d do it completely different now. Like, we thought the live concert didn’t
really happen for us, you know, didn’t really geddoff onnit.”
“When are you coming to America?” ask the West Coaster. McCartney reveals that visa problems are, bar
accidents, just about sewn up.
They have this friend, y’ see, in New York, who’s a friend
of Senator Jacob Javits ( a liberal politician) and…
“But like it’s different for us, ‘cos we gotta be
careful. There’s others (he names names)
who can do a little dropsy if they wanna (he makes the immortal backhanded
gesture), but we’ve gotta be careful.”
Like John? “John’s
problem is getting’ out, not in.”
We get on to the gig.
I tell him I thought he got a great reception. “It’s always a great reception these days,”
says Linda. McCartney is glowing, and it
is obvious that he’s getting thrilled all over again, that he’s really
satisfied he can still do it. And the
Beatles? He still sees a couple of the
others now and again --- especially Ringo, who lives in London. But he hasn’t seen John in a while. “People have gotta remember that it’s
over. It really is. What we did was…what we did in THAT band. Now I’m in another band, playin’ different
music. It’s over.”
Is he satisfied that his own feelings about a Certain New
York Businessman are now seen to be shared by the other Beatles? “Well, yes, I am. I’m not smug, and I don’t wanna say ‘I told
you so.’ But I knew I was right then an’ it’s been proved. I’m just glad it’s all over and we can get down to playing
again.”
I have to admit I thought Paul McCartney was all right. He was smooth, not glib, and professional
like a rock star should be. He looked
healthy and suntanned and, this is also going to be boring, happy. He seemed very close to Linda; not in a
sloppy way, just like I am with my lady, maybe like you with yours. He didn’t put anybody down. He was cool. You could see he felt that things are finally
going his way.
I also have to admit I’m glad about that. If things are going McCartney’s way, then
more people are going to get something out of the remnants of the Beatles than
otherwise might have been. I’m still not
completely stuck on his music though you’ll find that if you give it more than
one listen, you might just like what you hear.
In retrospect I feel Jame Paul has had something of a raw
deal – thought in the beginning he brought it on himself by underestimation of
public morale vis-a-is Beatles. Because
of that he’s not really been given a chance since to show what he could do and
let’s own up how serious do YOU take Wings as a rock force? But “Wild Life” was a progression from “Ram”
and “Red Rose Speedway” is another upwards step. Given a little encouragement McCartney can do
it again.
Somebody once said “I do not agree with what you say, but I
will defend your right to say it.” Well,
that almost sums up my attitude. I
don’t’ get off on everything McCartney is doing but his right to do what he
wants is incontrovertible.
And when he gets steaming into those rocker vocals, there’s
nobody on this side of Little Richard’s false eyelashes who can hold a candle
to him. Given time and, as I say, a
little encouragement, and he’ll yet frighten the ass off of the mincing queens
who currently hold count.
Look: just wait and
see. OK?
