Every Beatles fan has a favorite, and mine has always been Paul. (But let’s not get into an argument about it.) So I was delighted to receive this big, beautiful book—two books, really—as a Christmas present. Though massive, it is not a long read. Half of the pages are given over to photographs: of Paul (at various ages), of the other Beatles, of Linda (and a few of Nancy), and, most interestingly, of the original handwritten “manuscripts” (if you want to call them that) of the lyrics.
The lyrics are here, too, of course. But the real meat of the books are the “essays” (if you want to call them that) which accompany the lyrics. These are taken from a series of conversations that Sir Paul had with the Irish poet, Paul Mauldoon, which have been edited into coherent monologues. These conversations are ostensibly about the lyrics—what they mean, why he wrote them that way, etc.—but they often stray off into other territory, usually memories and thoughts that McCartney somehow connects to the songs.
The result is a surprisingly compelling book—a kind of kaleidoscopic memoir—that feels both intimate and refreshing, even for a man whose music and life have so exhaustively been picked over already. I really felt (impressionable fan that I am) that I was getting to know the guy. Perhaps a little too much, even. For I found that an unanticipated drawback of reading this book, and listening to song after song, was getting a bit fed up with Mr. McCartney—or, at least, with his music.
Even if you are a Paul fan, it is difficult to listen to his songs without noticing a fairly steep drop off in quality after he left the Beatles. The contrast highlights something that every Beatles fan knows: the interaction between the four of them—most especially, between John and Paul—are what made the group so special. Paul himself admits this. John Lennon is a constant presence in this book; their partnership (and friendship) was clearly the defining event in his life. The breakup of the Beatles hit Paul like a divorce (complete with legal squabbles and petty insults); and much as the divorced dad must learn to cook, Paul had to learn to write songs without the input of his great friend and partner.
A trivial example is enough to illustrate the value in their collaboration. Paul released his song “Teddy Boy” on his first solo album. The version on that album is nice enough; it is a catchy tune. Yet, if you ask me, the practice version recorded by the Beatles during the “Let it Be” sessions is significantly better—partly because of the musicianship of Ringo and George, and partly because John improvises a silly vocal part (mostly nonsense) that helps to add a much-needed counterpoint to Paul’s lyrics. By itself, Paul’s song is a fairly inane tale of a boy and his mother, not dramatic enough to be moving; yet re-contextualized by John’s ironic commentary, Paul’s lyrics take on a comic aspect that helps to salvage the song.
This, to me, is the really unsatisfactory aspect of many of the songs in this book: they are not silly enough to raise a laugh, nor serious enough to evoke a tear—instead occupying themselves with trivialities. Part of this has to do with McCartney’s philosophy of songwriting: unlike John, Paul consistently tried to keep his own life out of his songs, instead preferring to write of imaginary situations and generalized sentiments. And unlike George or John, he had no aspirations to anything more profound than a good love song. Paul himself responded to these criticisms with his “Silly Love Songs”; and maybe there is, indeed, nothing wrong with silly love songs. Even so, listening to too much of his (post-Beatles) music gives one the same sweet-sick feeling as eating too much candy.
I am coming down rather hard on Paul. But, really, this book has deepened my admiration and respect for him. One remarkable thing about the man is his ability to at least seem normal (no mean feat for someone who has been famous most of his life). He talks a good deal about his humble Liverpool upbringing, and this does seem to have given him a bedrock of common humanity. He also strikes me as having an enviably healthy attitude towards life: curious, optimistic, willing to try new things. (Obviously being an immensely successful musical genius must do wonders for one’s confidence.) As an example of this, when asked to write something for the 150th anniversary of the Liverpool Philharmonic, he immediately agreed—before even considering whether he had any idea how to do such a thing. (The result, unfortunately, was rather uninspiring.)
Of course, the most compelling thing about McCartney is that, at his best, he is one of the best. Admittedly, his greatest songs usually owe their excellence to their melodic rather than to their lyrical qualities. With a few notable exceptions (“Eleonor Rigby” and “For No One,” for example) the words mostly seem like an afterthought—making a project like this seem especially puzzling (and Mauldoon’s invocations of Shakespeare and Dickens, in the introduction, especially silly). Yet arguably the surest test of lyrics are whether they sing well, and Paul’s always do. In any case, Paul is certainly one of the great pop songwriters of the last century, and still iconic at the age of 79. That, I would say, is a life well lived.