Another word about Paul McCartney
Ok, so I posted this in a very timely manner.
HOWEVER, i failed to mention that this was my third attempt to see the man play in the Puget Sound area, and all the sweeter for my two previous failures. The first time was in 1989, when I was in town from Virgina for a couple of days to visit my dying grandmother. I was walking around Pioneer Square, where my dad's gallery was at the time, and saw that PMc was playing the Kingdome. I tried to figure out a way to justify going, but was ultimately thwarted by my dad's hyperactive guilt transferring mechanism. (EXAMPLE: "I'm sure your grandmother would understand that you preferred to go to a concert over visiting her on her deathbed. I mean, I might not understand, but then, I'm not the one who's dying.")
It's worth mentioning that I had spent several hours in her company at this point, and she was unconscious the entire time, gasping for breath, and frail almost beyond recognition. In fact, if she had been conscious, she would not only have understood; she would have demanded that I go, both because she would've been embarrassed to be seen in her condition (vanity dies hard), and because I was the apple of her eye. I was a tender and callow lad in those days, but I could still recognize a crucible of familial angst that I would no doubt still be scraping myself out of today. It was the fucking "Flowers in the Dirt" tour, though. Fook's sake.
The second time was a much clearer-cut example of taking one for the team: There was a performance of "21 Shots" that night and no way I could make it to Tacoma in time to see the show. I remember that basically the entire cast and crew scoffed at my classification of missing the Paul show as some kind of sacrifice. "PAUL MCCARTNEY????" they scoffed. "YOU ACTUALLY WANT TO SEE PAUL MCCARTNEY???"
(Implication: wouldn't you really rather sit around drinking warm Schmitt's from a can while some 18th generation Bright Eyes cassette plays on an answering machine and conversation centers on how everybody (except me) got their printer's devil nicknames?)***
Goddamn right, I said then, and say again now. I'm pretty sure it was the best show I've ever seen. In a certain sense, I could make the argument that my entire life had been leading up to the moment the lights went up and the (brilliant) band launched into "Magical Mystery Tour" and I was instantly transformed/regressed into a young child, dancing around my parents house wearing nothing but underwear (and maybe a cape, actually).
To paraphrase Mr. Costello: "Umm, compared to whom is Paul McCartney not brilliant?"
Yes, the banter was embarrassing, as were the long curtain calls after every song, and the obvious plastic surgery, but none of it mattered; this was not a master taking a victory lap. This was a master showing the world how it's done. And by the world, I mean the world.
I really feel like I've accomplished something meaningful now, and I'm utterly not joking at all.
Which is probably sad on some level, but who cares? I saw Paul McCartney, at long last. He even played a song from Ram, my favorite!
***i hope it goes without saying that i say this with love.
HOWEVER, i failed to mention that this was my third attempt to see the man play in the Puget Sound area, and all the sweeter for my two previous failures. The first time was in 1989, when I was in town from Virgina for a couple of days to visit my dying grandmother. I was walking around Pioneer Square, where my dad's gallery was at the time, and saw that PMc was playing the Kingdome. I tried to figure out a way to justify going, but was ultimately thwarted by my dad's hyperactive guilt transferring mechanism. (EXAMPLE: "I'm sure your grandmother would understand that you preferred to go to a concert over visiting her on her deathbed. I mean, I might not understand, but then, I'm not the one who's dying.")
It's worth mentioning that I had spent several hours in her company at this point, and she was unconscious the entire time, gasping for breath, and frail almost beyond recognition. In fact, if she had been conscious, she would not only have understood; she would have demanded that I go, both because she would've been embarrassed to be seen in her condition (vanity dies hard), and because I was the apple of her eye. I was a tender and callow lad in those days, but I could still recognize a crucible of familial angst that I would no doubt still be scraping myself out of today. It was the fucking "Flowers in the Dirt" tour, though. Fook's sake.
The second time was a much clearer-cut example of taking one for the team: There was a performance of "21 Shots" that night and no way I could make it to Tacoma in time to see the show. I remember that basically the entire cast and crew scoffed at my classification of missing the Paul show as some kind of sacrifice. "PAUL MCCARTNEY????" they scoffed. "YOU ACTUALLY WANT TO SEE PAUL MCCARTNEY???"
(Implication: wouldn't you really rather sit around drinking warm Schmitt's from a can while some 18th generation Bright Eyes cassette plays on an answering machine and conversation centers on how everybody (except me) got their printer's devil nicknames?)***
Goddamn right, I said then, and say again now. I'm pretty sure it was the best show I've ever seen. In a certain sense, I could make the argument that my entire life had been leading up to the moment the lights went up and the (brilliant) band launched into "Magical Mystery Tour" and I was instantly transformed/regressed into a young child, dancing around my parents house wearing nothing but underwear (and maybe a cape, actually).
To paraphrase Mr. Costello: "Umm, compared to whom is Paul McCartney not brilliant?"
Yes, the banter was embarrassing, as were the long curtain calls after every song, and the obvious plastic surgery, but none of it mattered; this was not a master taking a victory lap. This was a master showing the world how it's done. And by the world, I mean the world.
I really feel like I've accomplished something meaningful now, and I'm utterly not joking at all.
Which is probably sad on some level, but who cares? I saw Paul McCartney, at long last. He even played a song from Ram, my favorite!
***i hope it goes without saying that i say this with love.
posted by Sean Nelson at 12:01 PM
7 Comments:
just pick out a nickname and ask for it, and ye shall receive! that's what happened to me. i have tried telling you that like 8 billion times!
oh and paul...when i think of him, i think of him in that wagon in that video with MJ. sorry, i can't help it. his face is annoying.
p.s. but i'm happy for you having seen him.
i tried that trick. it didn't work. it was like i was being punished for wanting it, like when i was catholic.
you could try reverse psychology and say "DO NOT EVER call me rambini" or whatever name you want. then people will call you that. i have seen this happen before.
i feel that it is too late.
signed,
rambini
Ah, we love you too Rambini!
rambini,
i've never had a pdt knickname and i love paul mcCartney. i even saw his childhood home in liverpool when i was on my honeymoon. I think that Abbey Road is the best and that "She came in through the bathroom window" is the best but still my favorite song is "maxwell's silver hammer" only because it was the first song i ever truly loved. and ringo is my favorite. we have the same birthday. congrats of finally making it to see paul. he truly is a giant. xo xo
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