I’m currently half-way through reading Howard Sounes’ Fab: The Intimate Life Of Paul McCartney. While it’s not the most revelatory of Beatle biographies, Sounes does win points for writing the most cutting paragraph of Sir Paul’s woeful fashion sense:
Paul showed up in a baggy tartan suit, like a Caledonian clown. [Linda McCartney] wore a maternity dress. Paul had cut a sharp figure during the Sixties, never more so than when he strode across the Abbey Road zebra crossing in a beautifully tailored Saville Row suit. Now he had mislaid his style compass. It would be years until he found it again. Not all Seventies fashion was bad, but it is fair to say that Paul McCartney dressed appallingly throughout that decade and much of the Eighties, wearing ill-chosen clothes and sporting a trendy yet hideous mullet haircut.
Ouch! Thankfully, unless you scan the record covers intensely, it’s now quite easily to overlook his sartorial crimes. All’s that’s left is a load of catchy – sometimes syrupy – songs. The other target in Sounes’ book is the strength – or weakness, if we’re going to be honest – of McCartney’s lyrics. For me, you can forgive something like Silly Love Songs when you have something like Live And Let Die to consider. The unbelievably good sometimes outweighs the unbelievably bad. Still, he does seem to defer to the act of choosing words because they rhyme rather than the words meaning anything. Just try and decipher the lyrics to Jet; it’s just gibberish.
You can’t fault the man’s light-hearted approach to promotion though. The album was supported by a jokey television advert, featuring several members of the public singing Wings tunes, ending with a dustman, parked in his lorry in Abbey Road, singing a wildly out of tune rendition of Band On The Run, at which point Paul, Linda and Denny Laine pull up alongside and Paul shouts “You’re a bit flat mate!”. The driver leans out his window and says “Funny, I only checked them this morning”.
Hit: Live And Let Die
Hidden Gem: Junior’s Farm