From his new album, named The Boys of Dungeon Lane in reference to a little street near Paul’s childhood Liverpool home on Forthlin Road; Dungeon Lane led down to the Mersey, where Paul and his mates went to play when they were little kids.
People are really liking this album. Critical reception has ranged from positive to rapturous across the spectrum of musical pundits (with only a couple of sour-pussed naysayers trying to spoil everybody’s fun). Rolling Stone, once McCartney’s harshest critic under the leadership of Jann Werner, used the word “masterpiece”. The Metacritic website, which aggregates both critical and public reactions (in the same way that Rotten Tomatoes does for films) rates it as having received “universal acclaim”. I haven’t listened to the whole album yet. I’m a little anxious that all this praise might amount to a lifetime achievement award for the 84 year old pop maestro, and it isn’t as good as people say, which I desperately hope isn’t the case. So I have to work up to it.
If the two tracks released so far on YouTube and other platforms are any indication, I have nothing to worry about.
The Days We Left Behind is sweetly nostalgic, as befits an octogenarian with a storied past, looking back on where it all began. It’s the sort of song that most composers can only produce in small quantities over the course of a career, which makes McCartney’s ability to more or less crank them out at will, especially at this late stage, frankly astonishing. Of course he no longer has the commercial appeal he could once have taken for granted, which is hardly surprising, and many, who haven’t been listening, would be surprised and skeptical upon hearing what I learned when I produced my 80 songs for his 80th Birthday series four years ago: that Paul has done a lot of his best work this century, beginning with 2005’s Chaos and Creation in the Backyard. In the result sales have been decent, if nothing like the old days – his next most recent release, McCartney III, hit No. 1 in the U.K. and No.2 on Billboard – and along the way, as the generations have changed, and malignant boobs like Jann Wenner have stopped controlling the narrative, the critical sneering has given way to appreciation and a widespread reappraisal of his post-Beatles catalogue (and his contribution to the greatness of the Beatles, too).
Perhaps the most surprising example of this general change of heart is the modern critical consensus around Ram, released in 1971 to howls of derision and unqualified scorn. It’s amazing to read the old reviews. Jon Landau of Rolling Stone: “the nadir in the decomposition of Sixties rock thus far,” “incredibly inconsequential” and “monumentally irrelevant.” Famed critic Robert Christgau: “If you’re going to be eccentric, for goodness’ sake don’t be pretentious about it.” UK Rock critics Roy Carr and Tony Tyler, writing in their illustrated Beatles history: “neither good pop (being too contrived) nor good rock (being too saccharine)”, “sta-prest ready-to-wear music”, “stifles all creativity”. Alan Smith, penning the review in the highly regarded New Musical Express: “an excursion into almost unrelieved tedium”. “The melodies are weak, the ideas are stale, the arrangements are messy”. So it went. His fellow Beatles were equally scathing, which must have cut like a knife. These days, by contrast, it’s thought to be his best solo album and a pioneering pop tour de force that pointed the way forward to Indie rock while incorporating a wealth of musical ideas that fused Art Rock with old school Rock ‘n Roll. Once again, Metacritic assures us, universal acclaim.
Back in the day, what seemed to piss everybody off was Paul’s refusal to be a tortured artist, and scream out his inner pain to the whole world, as real artists must (and as John Lennon certainly did). Nope, Paul was happy, once he pulled himself out of his tailspin in the immediate aftermath of the Beatles’ dissolution. He loved his wife. He loved his kids. He loved the beauty and seclusion of his farm on Scotland’s Mull of Kintyre. He kept insisting that he led a charmed life, and that becoming fabulously wealthy for playing music was almost as gratifying as making people happy with his work. What was there to be all upset about? Honestly, it was insufferable. How dare he?
These days, folks are just happy to have him around, and most people are inclined to view more favourably an insanely famous megastar who never jumped the rails or fell prey to the usual pitfalls of too much money, notoriety, and opportunity for self-destructive behaviour. It’s refreshing. And it may be that this general feeling of warmth and good will has more to do with his recent great reviews than the music does. Like I say, I’m hoping not. Signs are good. The latest album’s other release, Home to Us, is to these ears expertly crafted pop in Paul’s finest tradition, and also charming for the presence of Ringo, his voice instantly recognizable, in the pair’s first recorded duet:
From where I sit that’s songcraft, disciplined, tuneful, short enough to leave you wanting a little more, and expertly wrapped in soaring guitars and descending chords. They really don’t write them like that anymore, and modern ears don’t even know what to make of such stuff. It’s not going to get any play, and it’s unlikely to chart, but I know what would have happened if it’d been released on Apple in 1968.
There’s speculation that this could be Paul’s last album. I hope not, but if it is, it’s not just the conclusion of a spectacular run spanning almost seven decades, it’s the end of a whole era, and maybe a whole philosophy, of popular songwriting. It has also, I’m sad to say, provided the raw material for a scary and demoralizing insight into what lies ahead. Have a listen to this beautiful cover version:
Gorgeous, yes? But wait a minute – who is Ethan Gontor, and who are the wonderful female vocalists who go uncredited? After digging around on the web I discovered that the women aren’t named because they don’t exist. They’re A.I., the creation of this Gontor guy. This leaves me with two soul-crushingly dismal things to contemplate: one day, I’m going to wake up to the news that Paul is no longer with us, and one day soon after that, somebody’s going to sanction the creation of a synthetic A.I. McCartney, able not just to mimic his youthful voice (that wonderful, unwavering, five octave voice), but his compositional style, having assimilated his entire catalogue and learned the ropes. People will say it’s just like him, and just as good, failing to notice that it’s all regurgitated mash-up with nothing new and exciting, exhibiting none of the growth and changes in direction of a human being. They won’t care. They can’t tell the difference any more. They’ll listen to synthetic songs, read the latest from A.I. F. Scott Fitzgerald, and watch the latest release featuring computer-generated Paul Newman and Robert Redford, and whoever owns the rights, Disney, or Paramount, or some other stinking corporation, will rake it in.
We’ll have delegated what used to be the best part of ourselves to the machines. At that point, what are we humans really for?
the needlefish 