On December 19th, I finally got to see Paul McCartney live – at the O2 in London on the final day of his “Got Back” tour. A significant event for me. The Beatles altered the entire trajectory of my life and are pretty much single-handedly (perhaps that should be eight handedly) responsible for my subsequent career path.
Quite why it has taken me so long to go to a McCartney gig is a discussion for another day. Suffice to say, however, that it was McCartney, not Lennon, who was my initial bridge into the Beatles with his exquisitely crafted ballads (Here, There and Everywhere?).
So finally I am there at the concert in London, where the 82 year old McCartney strolls on stage. A bigger moment for me than I expected long before he played a note. There he was.
And then he launched into Hard Days Night, and a close up appeared on the big screens. And this annoying thought popped into my head “Did I need to hear this older man – albeit astonishingly well preserved - singing these songs?”. I found myself trying to ignore the large screen with its perhaps too revealing close-ups in favour of the more distant figure on the stage. And, in lesser ways, that situation that played out in my head for the next ten or eleven songs. Until, in fact, he played “Maybe I’m Amazed” sitting at the piano. At which point I was sold.
And that would be the end of this blog, except it leads to the all too familiar question of “to photo or not to photo”. In a fascinating role reversal, I found myself only too happy to join the majority in taking regular videos - much to the chagrin, I learnt later, of Jon, who had accompanied me and arranged the event. And ever since, I have been asking myself “why?”. The Beatles have, for me, produced more utterly transformational musical moments than anyone else. How come, at a McCartney concert, the inner child in me did not weep in wonder and I simply disappear into the music. This was an astonishingly wonderful spectacle to be enjoyed. And I really did enjoy it. And to call it “highly professional” would be an insult. But I never got the chills of that wonderful “other” that can occur at such events. Was it me? Was it him? Did I bring strange expectations? Was it the sheer size and nature of the event? I was reminded of my first visit to the Alhambra in Granada. My wife (then girlfriend) and I went round once as tourists, admiring everything, taking lots of photos. We then returned later, and simply enjoyed one of the spaces, as it might originally have been used. We just sat in the corner and read a book. Far more memorable than the initial tour.
Did I need to go two nights running? If so, you’ve missed that bus, David.
