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Posts Tagged ‘Paul McCartney’

Paul McCartney: The Biography, Philip Norman (W&N 2016)

If you look in the dictionary under “rock’n’roll”, you’ll find a picture of Paul McCartney. Yup. With a big black line through it. Macca is possibly the least rock’n’roll person on the Planet, man. Rock’n’roll should be down’n’dirty. Macca deals in light-and-frothy. Rock’n’rollers should be mean and menacing. Macca is music-hall. His ideal instrument would be the banjo, not the bass.

But he remains fascinating for in terms of issues around certain core components of his life-journey. For the size and longevity of his fame. That’s one component. For the rumours of his several illegitimate offspring. That’s another. Philip Norman engages issues around this toxically tantalizing topic in terms of chapter five:

“Boys will be boys!” Brian [Epstein] would say with a camp, self-satirizing sigh when news came to him that another girl was claiming that one of the Beatles was the father of her infant child. Sometimes Brian could quickly prove that the girl was mistaken or lying, but sometimes he would have to write a cheque or find some other way of keeping the girl’s family quiet and his beloved boys out of the headlines. […] Most of the claims were directed at Paul, who cut a swathe through the young female fans of the Beatles with his good looks and easy charm. “Paul would have the fun, then Brian would have to clean up the mess,” as an anonymous member of Beatles’ circle would later put it. Perhaps the worst mess of all was that of the Bootle girl, said to be of gipsy heritage, who turned up at Brian’s office with her young son and claimed that Paul was his father.

As the same anonymous informant told me: “Brian took one look at the child and realized that she must be telling the truth, because he was an angelic-looking kid who must have been the dead spit of Paul at the same age.” But the girl wasn’t after money or marriage, like so many of those who had preceded her and would follow: as a fanatical Beatles fan, what she wanted more than anything else in the world was for Paul to write a song just for her. Not only that: she wanted to be the only one to ever hear it. As the price of her silence, she demanded that a song be written and recorded by Paul entirely in secret, then passed to her as a unique single — the only one of its kind in existence anywhere. Brian was forced to agree and persuaded a reluctant Paul that he had to comply with the girl’s wishes.

Or so the story goes. If it is true, then a lost McCartney classic may still be out there, unheard by all the world except for a single gypsy girl and perhaps her family. What would that rumoured single be worth if it were put up for auction today? Even a song of average quality might fetch hundreds of thousands of pounds; if it matched the quality of “Yesterday” or “Michelle”, the sky would be the limit. But of course there would be a legal minefield to tread, because Paul himself would certainly lay claim to the song and any profits to be made from it. For all we can say at the moment, however, the rumours of the Lost Single are either untrue or the gipsy girl prefers to keep the song just for herself.

Is the song out there? Does the Gipsy girl still listen to it? Has she ever let her son in on the secret? Does he know that he has a Moppa-Toppa Poppa? Esoteric questions for feral folk.

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Front cover of In the Seventies by Barry MilesIn the Seventies: Adventures in the Counterculture, Barry Miles (Serpent’s Tail 2011)

This book needs an ad break. Barry Miles didn’t have adventures: he made ventures. And pretty dull ones. Which is disappointing, when you consider that Serpent’s Tail have previously published counter-cultural colossi like Stewart Home (Thighway to Mel: Six Years, Eleven Months and Eighteen Days as a Terrified, Traumatized and Tearful Toy-Boy Tonguing the Tepid and Toxic Tvotzke of Top Social Conservative Melanie Phillips), radical researchers like Dr Miriam B. Stimbers (Doubled Slaughter: Barbarism, Brutalism and Bestial Bloodlust in the Music(k) of Simon and Garfunkel, 1965-2010) and visceral visionaries like David M. Mitchell (A Sustainable Future: Fourth Annual Report to the Welsh Parliament on Renewable Energy Resources). But Miles isn’t a key/core component of any of those communities, i.e., he’s not a counter-cultural colossus, a radical researcher or a visceral visionary. Serpent’s Tail have been a bit dishonest too. The Clash are prominent on the front cover and are named first as “Legends of the Decade” on the back cover. But they don’t get a lot of space inside and Barry Miles doesn’t make them look very good:

I saw them a lot, at the Electric Ballroom in Camden, the Roxy in Covent Garden, in recording studios and rehearsal rooms. They never seemed to have any money. I was struck by the fact that after they played three sell-out nights at the Rainbow Theatre, I saw Bernie Rhodes pull away in a car with personalized number plates reading CLA5H, while Mick Jones was waiting for a bus outside. … Joe [Strummer] certainly went along with the posing and pouting – none of the other punk bands came anywhere near the Clash in terms of [where’s an Ex-term-in-ator! when you need one?] adopting classic rock ’n’ roll poses as soon as a photographer removed their lens cap, and the music rags were happy to print the pictures of the Clash looking moody in front of burnt-out buildings, in front of bare brick walls, the Clash in camouflage fatigues in Northern Ireland, the Clash posing in the same way that all of the pop groups of the sixties posed, in fact. Never a smile; they were masters of the moody profile, particularly Paul Simonon, who became a real pin-up in punk circles.

It paid off eventually, of course, and they went on to become one of the most successful bands of the era, a seventies equivalent of the Rolling Stones, until Joe took Bernie’s advice and sacked Mick Jones. With the only musically talented member of the band gone, the Clash degenerated into a parody of its old self and folded. (ch. 15, “1976: Punk”, pp. 229-30)

That The Clash ever degenerated is news to me. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible. Miles does say good things about The Damned and The Ramones – “I particularly liked the Damned because they injected humour into punk, something sadly lacking with bands like the Clash” (pg. 232) – but they get less space than The Clash, unfortunately. So do Paul McCartney and Patti Smith, also “Legends” on the back cover. Little space for Patti Smith is fine by me. None at all would have been even better. As for Ian Dury: he’s on the back cover but doesn’t seem to appear at all in the book. He’s not in the index and I didn’t come across him as I read. I could easily have missed him, because I skipped a lot, but it looks as though Serpent’s Tail promised something and didn’t deliver. In Ian Dury’s case, I’m not complaining.

However, I’m definitely dubious about this bit, where Miles describes a robbery he suffered while living in New York:

Inevitably, given where we lived, it was not long before we were robbed. One day we came back from the A&P supermarket at 8:30 in the evening, walked up the stairs to apartment 4C and, just as I was fiddling with the key, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I looked round to see the stubby barrel of a handgun held by a large black man. His partner was holding Ann [Buchanan, Miles’ girlfriend] against the wall at knifepoint. (ch. 4, “1970: Chelsea Days, pg. 61)

That was disturbing to read. I mean, is the so-called race of a so-called criminal ever relevant? And why does Miles have to say that he was “very scared” that “they might rape Ann”? That’s pandering to a vicious stereotype about blacks. Okay, it’s an accurate stereotype, but what does accuracy matter? Just because blacks commit a heck of a lot of violent crime doesn’t mean people should say that they do. If we stopped saying it long enough, perhaps they’d stop doing it for a bit. Or stop enjoying it so much. It seems unlikely, but it’s worth a try, surely. They’re driven to it by racism and injustice anyway. What else could it be?

But the black robber doesn’t get a lot of space either. No, Miles writes most about working as a kind of secretary-cum-archivist for Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs. This is where the dullness really kicks in. Or nods off. I don’t like the writing of Ginsberg or Burroughs and their eccentric behaviour and lives – sorry, lifestyles – don’t do anything for me either. But if you’d like to hear about Allen’s long phone-calls to New York from the countryside and about how Bill’s flat in London got cold in the evenings because that’s when the storage-heaters stopped working, go ahead and make your own day.


Elsewhere other-posted:

• More Musings on Music

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