No, I found the Beatles first—a few months ago, actually—which makes it all the more interesting when you consider my first concert. The one that featured Paul.
. . . Yeah, that Paul.
THAT PAUL.
I still can't completely believe I really saw him. I mean, I remember the hype, the excitement, the heart-pounding drive down the highway, the waiting endlessly in lines and babbling giddily to any Beatles fans who would listen to me, but who am I kidding? Who am I to be in the same five-hundred-foot radius of the guy who wrote "Yesterday," "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band," and "Hey Jude," (not to mention "Band on the Run" or "Live and Let Die") and was essentially a legend by the time he was 22? But ohmigosh I was really there and it was AWESOME!!!
I remember sitting in traffic, nervously tapping the wheel as I waited for the light to change; gazing across the bridge at the center where he was supposed to play, and noticing absently as a small caravan of black SUVs passed beside me to cross the bridge. And I remember being totally clueless until I saw the crowds waving ecstatically at these SUVs, and realizing with a jolt just what I had missed.
I remember being on Cloud 9 the whole time I waited for doors, buzzing with wonder that I had actually made it to the concert and that NOTHING short of Paul not appearing was going to spoil it!!!
I remember finally getting inside and surrendering my things to security while I looked on nervously, then at last being set free to roam the center till I found my seat. There I settled in; I told myself I could finally relax, but I still spent the next half-hour waiting anxiously for the seats to fill up. I watched the stage in a fog, trying to discern the faces of the people who appeared there so I could tell myself I'd recognize Paul when he arrived. (I had a funky view; I was in the partially obscured section to the right of the stage.)
I wondered if it would really register that the performer onstage was Paul when he appeared, or if my brain would refuse to believe it. I remember worrying that Paul's age would slow him down.
. . . And I remember both of those fears being blown out of the water, because the moment the little figure bounded up the stage into the spotlight there was not a doubt in my mind that I was looking at THE PAUL McCARTNEY because he was EVERYTHING old films promise and more—DO NOT be fooled by recent interviews of him because APPARENTLY he reserves his timeless awesomeness for the stage!!!
—
He was . . . What can I say? I can't say anything. He kicked off by plunging straight into "Eight Days a Week" and the whole thing went north from there. I couldn't believe how fit he was. In fact I believe it was during "All My Loving" that I fell into despair watching him dance (ham) because I knew right then that no matter what I did, no one was going to believe me when I told them what great shape 72-year-old Paul McCartney was in.
But it wasn't just that he was fit. He was just plain entertaining. The guy knows how to please a crowd, I will give him that. He was funny, yes—I wish I could write out all his gags and anecdotes, even if they do make a long post—but it was more than that. I've never seen anyone so totally absorbed with their own audience—not their own image, but with engaging people. It was the most heartwarming, exciting, truly wonderful time I've ever hard, and it was all because Paul totally gave himself to the crowd. You cannot fake the kind of enthusiasm he exhibited that night. Everything about him—the way he was so obviously burning to get on stage, the way he leaned forward towards the crowd, the way he danced and lit up at the cheers—everything about him said, "I belong to you tonight: Let's have fun!!!"
And it's funny, because there are two different ways the concert could have gone. Someone like Paul could sigh and say, "Well, I guess it's time to play Beatles songs—AGAIN," or he could play to the crowd and beg them to remember that one time he was really, REALLY famous. But it didn't feel like he was doing either of those things. He just seemed really, really, really happy to play Beatles music for Beatles fans—like it was his privilege.
That's what floored me. I just wanted to shake my head and say, "No—No, you're Paul McCartney, you don't 'get' to play for us, we get to hear you play!" But the fact that he was Paul McCartney didn't seem to matter to him. He was too busy being Paul McCartney to consider it.
Which is why, even when I had to stop thinking about who Paul was and what his music meant to me (my brain was a little overwhelmed) I would still look at the person on stage and think to myself, "Wow—that guy is cool."
(And I should also mention that I loved the performance of the lead guitarist, Rusty Anderson. I didn't get to see much of the other band members from where I sat, but this guy at least was awesome. He had crazy energy and pretended to collapse at the end of "Live and Let Die".)
—
Now, he didn't JUST play Beatles' music. He did "Maybe I'm Amazed" and "Band On the Run" and all the Wings greats (because Wings was AWESOME!!!) plus "Here Today" and some songs from his "New" album. (Which, despite its frustratingly punny name, is in my opinion one of his best. I think I might like it even more than "Tug of War".) But he acknowledged the general demand for the classics:
"You know, with a concert like this, you wanna do some of your new stuff, you know? . . . But you can tell, when you do an oldie: The stars come out. —'Oh! he's playing "She Loves You"—!'" He wiggled his fingers out towards the hundreds of phone lights aimed at him.
And good grief, that man. I admit I wasn't one to call young Paul cute—he just wasn't my type, I guess—but in concert, I have to hand it to him: He is one twisted, brazenly adorable personality. Obviously I'm not saying that like I found him attractive (he is 72, for pete's sake) but I'm not saying he fits the "cute old man" profile either. He was just . . . shameless.
I think it was after "The Long and Winding Road" or "Maybe I'm Amazed" or one of the other grand piano songs: The whole house was screaming and cheering; he stood up and leaned across the piano with his head in his hand, and he rolled his puppy dog eyes up at the stands with a sad little pout, glancing this way and then that amidst roars of laughter and ever increasing cheers because WHO DOES THAT???!!!! . . . As I said: Shameless.
"And I Love Her" is a little more difficult to describe. It was just . . . exactly in the spirit of the original song, or at least the version from "A Hard Day's Night"; it was like you could feel the sixties in the air over the floor, in the pale stage lights, in the music . . . Like a spell of sweet nostalgia.
Then he got up on a rising platform to perform "Blackbird" for us—he started off by explaining "this thing in the sixties called the civil rights movement" that the Beatles heard about and thought they'd comment on. But then after playing it (or was it before?) he said, "Y'know, ever since I wrote that song I've heard people say they tried to learn Blackbird on guitar. So who here tried to learn Blackbird on guitar?" Hands went up all over the place. Paul put his hand to his chest. "Now, how good does that make me feel? —And you're all doing it wrong." Laughter. He cocked his head innocently pinched the air in front of his face as though to say "just a little."
Then he did "Here Today," which of course was horribly sad. I was too wound up to cry—the way I normally do when listening to that song—but I was too down to stand up again till two songs after it. Interestingly enough, the only really Lennon-heavy song he did was "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite," but I thought it incredibly appropriate. In fact, it was one of the most memorable numbers of the evening, the light show was so creative. I kept thinking I wished Lennon could've seen it.
Naturally, though, the real light show was reserved for one particular number: "Live and Let Die."
I mentioned before that I spent a lot of time talking to fans before the concert. (This was especially fun because they were usually original-generation Beatles fans and I think they were kind of happily amused by my budding fanaticism.) Well, one woman I talked to asked me what my favorite songs were. When I admitted, blushing, to liking mainly Lennon songs ("Across the Universe," "All You Need is Love," etc.) she assured me that my favorites might change after the concert. But I blew this off—how could listening to a song live change the way you listened to it? When you went back to listen to it in iTunes, it would sound just the same. "Live and Let Die," for instance—that would still be kind of so-so for me. Right?
Boy, do I wish I could find her now and tell her just how right she was. I don't know if it was the lasers, the pyrotechnics, the arena-acoustics, or maybe just the fact that you're sharing the song with thousands of other people, but it was like hearing the song for the first time. Man, if anything was meant to be performed live, it's "Live and Let Die."
Then it was over, and Paul was sitting at the piano with his fingers at his ears mouthing "ow!" and shaking his head fretfully at the cheers. He thinks he's so funny.
For the finale he chose "Hey Jude." It was the one song I'd really, really been hoping he'd play, so it was a long time coming but obviously it was worth it. The funny thing is, though, that when he and the band left the stage right after, I actually got mad—I mean, the whole crowd was calling for an encore, so I figured there'd be more music, I just didn't realize an encore could feature more than one song, so I still felt shorthanded. Man, that was short!—When I get home, I'm gonna say, yeah, that was great, it was just SHORT! I mean, what was that, ten songs? Twelve?
I'm not kidding. I literally thought he'd only played ten songs. I even tried counting them in my head: Well, there was "Benefit," and those three at the beginning, and "And I Love Her," and those four . . . If I'd had real time to count I might have gotten a shock when I realized that they had, in fact, done thirty-one songs, but fortunately Paul didn't make us wait that long till the encore, which consisted of eight more songs.
He kept teasing us every two songs or so: "More? . . . Well, okay . . ."; "I get the feeling, uh, you guys just wanna rock? . . . Alright, you asked for it" and so on. Being a newbie, I kept thinking that maybe he was about to finish—when he played "Yesterday" I thought, okay, that makes a nice closer; but then I thought the same thing when he did "I Saw Her Standing There"—I mean, that really does wrap it up nicely, right? But when he started on "Golden Slumbers," I knew it was about to end. Sigh.
They bowed to the audience.
"Let me tell you guys, you've been fantastic. It was really special."
We all cheered; Paul apologized to everyone for having to go home. I and a thousand other people all shouted back at him: "NOOOOO!!!"
He smiled. "Yeah, but there's another side to this, y'know—YOU'VE all got to go home."
Awww.
He and the band exited the stage—only to return ten seconds later carrying flags before a stream of red-white-and-blue confetti. The band held the union jack while Paul ran in front with the American flag. "Thank you! We'll see you next time!" And then, at last, it really was over.
—
And I feel I should point out, while I'm writing this, that he actually pointed to me.
That feels so crazy to write, but wow. It's true. I went to go see Paul McCartney and Paul McCartney saw me. I know it was me he pointed to: When he rotated to greet each section I was afraid it was going to be my last chance to be seen, so I jumped up and threw my hand into the air three times like a maniac. And just like that, he was pointing.
But initially I wasn't thrilled by the gesture—actually, I was a little confused. Had he really just . . . was it me he pointed at? Thing is, I was the only one in my section who seemed willing to show much enthusiasm, and his timing had just been so perfect . . .
But no! wait! He misunderstood! I hadn't come to receive more awesome feeling from Paul, I'd come to thank him for his music. He wasn't supposed to make this even better! My debt was just piling up!
But regardless of my immediate consternation, it still makes me happy. The fact that Paul pointed at me says that he did see me. I did my part in a million to say "Hey, your music is absolutely timeless and I will share it with my grandchildren if I get the chance."
—
So, sadly, I did not get to show my gratitude like I wanted to. No, instead Paul had to make the concert such an incredible experience that now I owe him not only for happiness listening to some of the best music on the planet, but for the best two hours of my life.
Is that so weird, that I'd simply like to say "thank you"? I mean, I've admired a few different celebrities, but up until now there's never been anyone outside my own social circle that I wish I could just thank. I don't really care that he's gotten gazillions of accolades from billions of people for the past fifty years. That's immaterial. Well, I mean, my ego would like to be recognized, sure, but it's more than that. I just want to say, one human being to another, thank you for touching me with your music. I haven't felt this hopeful or optimistic since I was five, and I had no idea music could affect someone like that.
But how? It's almost as though the songs were written with some sort of affectionate subtext for fans. You feel as though they were written for you personally. I don't know how or if it was even intentional, but the essence of Lennon-McCartney seems to make people feel loved.
And, in the end . . .
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