Paul McCartney and Glastonbury

 Paul McCartney and Glastonbury

Deep in the heart of Somerset, summer had arrived. In fact it had got to this point last Wednesday afternoon but it was the end of June and all was well in the land of cider and peace loving folk everywhere. Every year, this pretty and sumptuously bucolic corner of England plays host to quite the most spectacular outdoor pop music concert and Britain adores it as if it were their precious national treasure that nobody should dare tamper with or steal. Glastonbury had just started.

Dusk fell over Glastonbury like the most stunning curtain you could possibly imagine. Far away from the busy highways and motorways of late Saturday afternoon traffic, a hum of anticipation could be heard for miles. In a lovely English field, the hundreds and thousands of Glastonbury loyal enthusiasts could be seen gathering together rather like one of those Billy Graham evangelical crusades from the 1960s and 70s. They had come from all four corners of Britain and the world,  huge multitudes  here to witness yet another startling revelation.

Across the mighty expanse of meadows, farmlands, churches and rivers, something momentous was about to happen. Those who had longed to see the most famous pop star, consummate musician, remarkable lyricist and brilliant of performers hadn't long to wait. They knew he was tuning up behind the scenes because there were symbolic reminders all around him.

In the front row a group of gentlemen wearing the outfits donned by the Beatles on the Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band iconic album, were grinning from ear to ear. The subject of their idolatry was a certain gentleman who should have been made a knight of the realm much sooner than he was but we'll give them the benefit of the doubt. So it was that Glastonbury awaited our celebrated celebrity with barely concealed enthusiasm. 

Sir Paul McCartney is, quite assuredly, one of the greatest, finest, purest and multi talented of musicians of recent times. Those early Beatles days of Hamburg and the Cavern Club when they were the Quarrymen must have seemed like a world away from where he was on Saturday evening. But at the grand old age of 80 McCartney still defies belief, a handsomely fit and athletic looking man impeccably dressed for the occasion and still going strong with little sign of flagging or retiring.

On Saturday night he must have thought back to those halcyon days when his best mate John Lennon and he would unashamedly hang out in each others houses and bedrooms while mulling over the golden lyrics that would ensure their future fame and immortality. They would strum their guitars, contemplate their multi layered chords, riffing, feeding off each other's fertile imaginations and then deciding which word or phrase went there or here. 

Throughout an extraordinary decade of sex, drugs and rock and roll, Paul McCartney was one of the most consistently imaginative and poetic song writers that ever lived. You remember the glorious story and origin of Yesterday. The working title of Yesterday was, of course, Scrambled Eggs and the way Maureen Lipman tells it the whole provenance of the song came about as a result of her friendship with Alma Cogan, a 1960s pop singer.

 After a lively Saturday night out with the girls, Lipman and Cogan came back from the West End, woke up on the Sunday morning only to find Cogan's mother making scrambled eggs. Paul McCartney poked his head around the door and promptly decided that scrambled eggs would make the ideal title with a song John was working on. Both Lennon and McCartney were of course humorous jokers and pranksters and naturally plumped for something eminently more sensible, logical and marketable. Yesterday was chosen and the rest is history. 

And so it was that Glastonbury was graced with the presence of pop music royalty. As soon as McCartney ran out onto the stage in crisp white shirt and blue buttoned jacket you knew you were in for a night to remember for many decades. Guitar loosely wrapped around his neck, Beatles and Wings songbooks in his head, he launched into an evening of ready cooked nostalgia and rich reminiscence. This was a journey into the world of a man who revolutionised pop music during the 1960s and quite literally turned everything on its head. 

Greeting the expectant audience, McCartney burst enthusiastically into Can't Buy Me Love, a jamming session with his fellow guitarists and instantly recognisable. Can't Buy Me Love almost defined the Beatles early years and then that period during the middle when things were beginning to take off for the Fab Four. It was instantly catchy, pacy, memorable and opened up the evening's proceedings with a resounding nod to the way it used it to be, resonating with most of those who can remember where they were when the single was released. 

This was followed by Junior Farm, a little known ditty but jolly, full of youthful exuberance and simple sentiments, a rocky number full of vim and vitality. After a burst of rapturous applause Macca gave us Letting Go which sounded amazingly like an old Eagles middle of  the road song, full of sonorous blasts of trumpets and trombones that perfectly accompanied the lyrics.

Now we were treated to Gotta Get in Ya Into My Life, a song which in more recent times, was given the most classical soul interpretation from Earth Wind and Fire. Gotta Get Ya Into My Life was full of powerful vocals, a strong sense of urgency and brimming with the confidence of a band who knew where they were going with their lives. Perhaps McCartney's thoughts briefly turned to the late Maurice White who was one of Earth, Wind and Fire's most influential of lead singers. 

The not so familiar Come onto Me was one of those moderately listenable and watchable of songs but left us some of us feelingly distinctly flat and underwhelmed. It was sweetly repetitive and effective but failed to make the desired impact that it might have done. Sometimes you can have too much of a good thing and up until this point Macca had spoilt us again. In some ways this had been too good to be true but then you can never have enough cliches. So the crowds applauded with all their might and the set continued seamlessly. 

Our first masterpiece of the day came when Paul McCartney presented us with the infectious Getting Better, a genuine toe tapper, a stirringly optimistic number full of hope for the future, a redemptive, upbeat song that was both chirpy and well crafted. Maybe McCartney, Lennon, George Harrison and Ringo Starr went into the Abbey Road recording studio and just felt good about themselves. During the 1960s everything seemed possible and viable and now still does. 

Let Me Roll It was another throwback to the days when everything around the Fab Four must have felt harmonious, appropriate, good for the soul and just right. It was a triumphantly heartening and uplifting track that McCartney revelled in as if it were some fond memory. The guitars were heavy, growling at times and the fusion of accomplished keyboard and drums giving Let Me Roll It conviction and charm. Nineteen Hundred and Eighty Five sadly came and went and didn't really do anything for you, failing to tick any of the relevant boxes.

Then, soppily and romantically, McCartney thought of his wife Nancy and discovered that this was the right moment to indulge himself in tender thoughts. My Valentine was a moving and poignant love letter that tugged on the heartstrings. Just for a minute he might have reflected on his late wife Linda who had provided so much of the drive and propulsion when McCartney formed his own band Wings. 

And so we moved back to Wings where Maybe I'm Amazed possibly transported McCartney back to that delicious moment when his children were young and everything in the world seemed just perfect. In his bearded incarnation, McCartney's gutsy vocals were a reminder of that period of his life when he was busy searching for a different identity, a time when the Beatles simply belonged to the past and that was final.

I've Just Seen a Face was yet more new territory for those who had yet to be exposed to his fresh material. This was fast moving, bouncing with good old fashioned rhythms and harmonies, a song with country and western cadences. For a while McCartney and his guitarists evoked memories of Crosby, Stills and Nash at their most fluent. But then I've Just Seen a Face fizzled out disappointingly and you hankered after more from the Beatles and Wings songbook.

Now it was that we were taken right back to the beginning of McCartney's formative days as a Beatle. Love Me Do was one of the first Beatles compositions that instantly stole the hearts of their hysterical, female, teenage driven record market. It had heavenly harmonicas but notably prompted a splendid story about George Martin, their behind the scenes, intellectual guru, mentor, guiding influence and hugely respected manager.

McCartney told the intriguing story about the day when the Mop Tops nervously walked into Abbey Road recording studio for the first time. In the middle of one of their many discussions and sessions, Martin, with total innocence, asked quite casually if Paul could do the opening intros. Gripped with anxiety and uncertainty Paul reluctantly agreed to the proposition. But he did point out that you could hear the slight trembling in his voice as he sung the first line in Love Me Do. Sixty years later McCartney would have no such reservations and it must have felt like a weight lifted from his shoulders.

It was now that another cute but charming set of lyrics dawned on McCartney. Blackbird was gently reflective, full of honeyed lyricism, a nod to Mother Nature and feelgood vibes. It was one of those simply structured and decorative numbers that he must have longed to put on vinyl in the hope that all of their fans would become permanently besotted to what had been a clean living image. But then there was Harry Krishna, meditation, drugs, the hallucinogenic kind which made your head spin at parties, alcohol at your disposal whenever the mood took them and all manner of other wild distractions.

The Being of the Benefit of Mr Kite was the Beatles ultimately experimental venture into the world of circuses, fairground barkers and strange mysticism. The backing track of  Wurlitzers, typical fairground noises and the sight of strong men flexing their muscles must have been all the Beatles needed for encouragement if they were to be regarded as even more inventive than they already were.

Here Today touched a sentimental chord with McCartney since he declared that he'd written the song shortly after John Lennon was horrifically assassinated. There was an obvious redness and just a hint of tears as he looked up at the giant video screen and saw Lennon again crooning into a microphone. You suspect that life would never be quite the same for McCartney again from that point but he did bounce back quite resiliently. 

And then there was Obla De Obla Da, seemingly nonsensical and absurd but perhaps a song that smacked of self mockery and humility. To all intents and purposes, the song is about nothing in particular and suggests that all four Beatles were beyond the point of caring anyway regardless of what was happening to their now declining years as a group. It was very much singalong, karaoke material and tailor made for teenage parties but meant a considerable amount to the pudding basin haircut boys from Merseyside.

Of course Get Back took you right back to those purple days of the Beatles pomp, when John and Paul were at the height of their song writing powers and Harold Wilson told us everything we needed to know about the White Heat of Technology. It's a slickly produced piece of music, cleverly written, lyrically descriptive and full of references to where the group were when the single was released. It took you right back to your childhood when transistor radios were all the rage and Radio Caroline were stubbornly defying the law.

Get Back was stirring, stylish, heartfelt, classically Beatles, relentless, hard driving and forceful. The sound of twanging guitars blending with the vigorous drumstick work of Ringo Starr garnished the song with its very own character. It is impossible to read the subliminal message behind any song but you sense that the Beatles simply wanted to get back to their roots.

I Saw Her Standing There was barnstorming, bullish and breath taking, four testosterone -fuelled lads enjoying life to the full. Most of the Beatles classics all had the recurring undercurrent of love and the yearning for more love. Millions of teenage girls screamed themselves silly when those very fashionably jacketed gentlemen took their place at the stadiums and, in their very early days, cinemas and theatre stages.

Towards the end of this epic exposition of a wondrous talent, Sir Paul McCartney opened up the Wings chapter of his life. Before you could blink Band on the Run blasted out from the massive speakers on the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury. Band on the Run was greeted with similarly nostalgic acclaim from the thousands assembled below all clapping in unison now and flying a million flags and banners. Band on the Run was a graphic illustration of the celebrity culture at the time. What you saw on the front cover of the album were a diverse range of figures ranging from chat show host Michael Parkinson, entertainer Kenny Lynch and boxer John Conteh.

And last but not least there was Hey Jude, a song so synonymous with the Beatles that it could have been their distinctive anthem and signature composition, summing up the band. Written as a result of the birth of John Lennon's son Julian and McCartney reacting with a similarly sounding, affectionate nickname, Hey Jude has been played so many times throughout the decades on so many radios and seen on so many retro TV music programmes, some of us have probably lost count.

Unfortunately Hey Jude on Saturday night seemed to go on indefinitely, a testament to its well deserved popularity and frequent plays at parties, discos and nightclubs. But tonight Macca exhausted every verse to the point of annoying repetition. The hand clapping from the throbbing masses in front of McCartney might have grated had we not known the conductor of this particular orchestra. But he did get away with it quite successfully although the cynics might have concluded that he was either going for an entry into the Guinness Book Of  Records or determined to stay up all night until Sunday breakfast time.

Then the master of ceremonies himself and the Liverpool maestro announced two late surprises. Firstly Dave Grohl from the Foo Fighters came prancing onto the stage with a display of mutual appreciation. And last but not least McCartney stunned us with his next party piece. He wasn't joking because this was true. The man he was about to introduce must have left most of the Glastonbury throng gasping with astonishment.

All the way from the United States of America, Bruce Springsteen walked almost respectfully onto the stage as if hardly able to believe he was about to do. Springsteen retained an air of deference about him because he knew without any doubt, that this duo of rock par excellence were meant to be sharing the same platform. Both men stared at each other like teenagers about to explode into action. Springsteen smiled warmly at McCartney and Springsteen's Glory Days was now superbly re-enacted by both men. It was one of those unforgettable moments that will take many years to equal or surpass. 

And so Glastonbury bade farewell to a pop music extravaganza from the two wonderfully talented musicians who just seemed utterly compatible on this night, made to rock the night away. It had been a stunning night of musical brilliance, a night where a small corner of rural Somerset saw a British national treasure and just couldn't hold back their unalloyed delight.

You were now left with the memories and sights. You believed the evidence of your eyes. You knew you'd seen Uruguay's flag, the obvious Ukraine flag, inflated globes, blue strobe lighting on the stage creating a nightclub feel and inflatable guitars. You'd witnessed orange lights and wonders of technology behind Paul McCartney, incredible graphics dancing in front of your eyes. There were the environmental movements still ever present at Glastonbury, the charitable organisations with their vivid banners and hidden away the contemporary rap, trance and garage tents with their influence.

From time to time the crowds seem to part company with each other and there was the fascinating sight of thick knots of people just running into each other and acting out some strange ritual. There were small huddles of humanity being carried across each other's shoulders rather like a surfers riding waves. 

And then the party ended as we always knew it would. You glanced at your watch and realised it was one o'clock in the morning and you weren't imagining it. Then all four men took their final bow and we just went to bed exhausted. It had been a hugely enjoyable and rewarding evening but you wondered why some of us were just longing for sleep by the end of the show. Then there was the cleaning up operation, tons of rubbish resembling hundreds of tiles of mosaics scattered all over Somerset.

 Of course it had been worth it and we were privileged to be part of this special occasion. Happy Birthday Sir Paul McCartney. We were honoured to be in the same company but perhaps next time you could include Sergeant Peppers and a myriad selection from your repertoire. Your place in the Hall of Fame was assured many years ago but it might be as well to wrap things up sooner. Sunday morning and Motown star Diana Ross would be awaiting her cue. Oh Glastonbury, Glastonbury take a bow.