Paul McCartney: McCartney II

PAUL McCARTNEY: McCARTNEY II (1980)

1) Coming Up; 2) Temporary Secretary; 3) On The Way; 4) Waterfalls; 5) Nobody Knows; 6) Front Parlour; 7) Summerʼs Day Song; 8) Frozen Jap; 9) Bogey Music; 10) Darkroom; 11) One Of These Days; 12*) Check My Machine; 13*) Secret Friend.

General verdict: A brave experiment in which Paul demonstrates that the Eighties might not be the best decade for him to keep up with trends and fashions.

Although Paulʼs first official solo album of the post-Wings era was released only in May 1980, most of the actual recordings were from the summer of the previous year; it is interesting, and quite telling, that he apparently had no intention of making them public before the Japanese bust and the souring of relations with his Wings companions. The solo sessions, recorded at his private studio in Sussex, were just a small part of Paulʼs, let us say, playful and erratic behavior throughout 1979 — beginning with the rather silly and somewhat tasteless flirt with «cocktail lounge disco» on ʽGoodnight Tonightʼ (far from the best of his singles) and ending with the rather silly and somewhat tasteless flirt with «Sesame Street electronica» on ʽWonderful Christ­mastimeʼ, which, by the way, was the only one of the 1979 solo recordings that he actually decided to release in 1979.

As the thought of seriously going solo once again crept into his mind sometime after (or, who knows, maybe even during) Tokyo jail time, he decided that it would be OK to return to the recordings he made earlier, rather than starting anew. This made the entire experience a little less improvisational and spontaneous than the recording of the original McCartney, but the two albums definitely share something — like the willingness to offer the public a rawer, less glossy side of himself, where pop perfection could be sacrificed for the sake of an extra personal touch and an atmosphere of friendly intimacy. What definitely makes McCartney II stand out, of course, is Paulʼs increased interest in elements of electronica — of all his records, this is the one that most directly reflects the influence of New Wave, although it would be an exaggeration to say that Paul ever had any big ideas on how to change the rules of the game and make his own unforgettable mark on contemporary music fashion. After all, it all started out as just a bit of harmless fun in his basement.

In terms of individual songs, only one song off McCartney II has legitimately «survived» through the ages, and, ironically, it was the least solo number on the album: although this parti­cular version of ʽComing Upʼ was indeed recorded on his own, it started life as a Wings number, and a live performance from 1979 was included as the B-side on the corresponding single. True enough, it sounds like nothing ever done previously by Paul: the funky guitar riffs clearly reflect a Talking Heads influence, although the melody is far happier than anything that the grim, sarcastic New Yorkers had produced (it does feel more at home with the later, more pacified years of the bandʼs and David Byrneʼs careers). But it is still a lively, catchy, sing-along-ish pop anthem, which, in Paulʼs case, means almost inevitable popularity and a long, healthy life on the radio and in the live setlists. My only problem with it is the awful production on the vocals — it is quite likely that Paul intentionally wanted to make himself sound like a green goblin and a sucking up choir of will-oʼ-wisps, but we are under no obligation to respect that artistic decision. If not for that bit of silly vocal circus, ʽComing Upʼ could have become a perfect opening state­ment for the new decade — along with Johnʼs ʽStarting Overʼ and the Stonesʼ ʽStart Me Upʼ, all of them songs that optimistically opened up the curtains on a brand new morning (which, for most of these guys, never properly resolved into a brand new day).

Get beyond ʽComing Upʼ, though, and what you have is a severely disappointing experience — albeit unusual and unpredictable enough, to the point of garnering McCartney II a devoted cult following, typically from people who value the art of «going beyond oneʼs comfort zone», no matter what the cost, above the art of staying true to oneʼs traditional self. In reality, it can never be perfectly predicted which choice is the better one to take; and as for history in general, it has not been as kind to McCartney II as it has been, for instance, to Bowieʼs Berlin trilogy or certain other attempts by «old school artists» to go all «new school» on us in the late 1970s and early 1980s. And the reasons for that go way beyond the proverbial pop-McCartney bias.

Starting off on a personal note, I find it weird how McCartney II is the very first McCartney record from which I can never even vaguely remember even half of the songs. Some of this, I think, has to do not with the fact of Paul employing electronica, but rather with the fact of his relying on clichéd songwriting templates — ʽOn The Wayʼ, for instance, is a surprising excourse into the territory of dark, almost heavy, blues-rock, but a one-man Led Zeppelin with muffled, echoey production is not quite the same as a four-man Led Zeppelin with crystal clear production; ʽNobody Knowsʼ is fast, bawdy country-rock whose attempt at creating a drunken barroom atmosphere by means of overdubs is nowhere near as fun as the real thing; and ʽBogey Musicʼ (sic!) is indeed an attempt to cross «boogie» with a bit of «bogey», with Paul transforming himself into a hologram of Elvis and then cloning the hologram. Like most of Paulʼs musical jokes, these ones would have worked much better if they were fully surrounded with material of substance; unfortunately, most of this album feels like a musical joke, with but a tiny drop of substance encountered from time to time.

A true gentleman could certainly say that something like ʽTemporary Secretaryʼ feels like a ʽPaperback Writerʼ for the new decade — a classic light-hearted character vignette from Paul, with a touch of sarcasm, a touch of hipness, and plenty of inventiveness. It is certainly a serious effort to master the art of synth loops, and it certainly sounds like nothing else around it: modern electro-pop, yet imbued with the half-quirky, half-innocent vibe of our old friend Paul McCartney from Liver­pool. The problem is that these two vibes do not mix in a way that would make much sense. The effect is neither futuristically scary or mind-blowing, nor properly humorous. The synth tones and artificially treated vocals clearly go for comical effect, but Paul was never a true comical genius, and in the end, ʽTemporary Secretaryʼ is just a bizarre oddity.

And it is also arguably the best of Paulʼs electronic exercises presented here. Anybody remember ʽFront Parlourʼ or ʽFrozen Japʼ? If not, hardly surprising: the former is essentially three and a half minutes of inobtrusive elevator muzak, and the latter buries a potentially rewarding, but way too simplistic and repetitive, crystal-clear synth-pop melody under a grimy layer of over-loud percussion. I will admit that in purely objective terms of complexity of composition ʽFrozen Japʼ is probably quite comparable to something like ʽHot As Sunʼ from McCartney; but the simple acoustic theme of ʽHot As Sunʼ was jumping out at you and naughtily seducing you with its beachy leisureness, while the synth theme of ʽFrozen Japʼ never breaks out of the background. (The name of the instrumental is spot-on, though — it really does sound like a refrigerated variation on a Japanese pop melody).

In the end, I can only name two songs on the entire album that still sound acceptable today — ʽComing Upʼ is one, obviously, and then there is ʽWaterfallsʼ, not one of Paulʼs best ballads (a bit too child-like in both melody and lyrics) but managing to combine sentimentality and sadness in a way that, even in 1980, remained open for McCartney on a completely exclusive basis (there is that mournful, no-escape wisp in the line "people who jump waterfalls sometimes can make mis­takes" that goes all the way back to ʽFor No Oneʼ and ʽFool Of The Hillʼ). Okay, throw in ʽTemporary Secretaryʼ if you really want to remember what McCartney II was all about, but I still do not like that thing.

Curiously, what might arguably have been the best result of those electronic sessions never made it to the LP itself, being instead relegated to dark B-side space: ʽCheck My Machineʼ, sampling dialogue from an old Tweety and Silvester cartoon, is a leisurely shuffle whose unnerving vaudeville tempo really fits in with Paulʼs echoey falsetto to produce a genuinely creepy effect, something that ʽTemporary Secretaryʼ or any other tracks on McCartney II totally failed to do. It may have been unintentional, of course, but reality states that I, for instance, was seriously creeped out by this track when I first heard it, and I still do not recommend anybody to play it to their kids if they have a frail and sensitive nature. It is perfectly possible that Paul did not include it on the LP precisely because he did not want the songʼs disturbing atmosphere to clash with the jolly optimism of ʽComing Upʼ or the sentimental innocence of ʽWaterfallsʼ — but then whatʼs the use of a nice, risky titillation if all you do is stick it away on a B-side?..

Compared to ʽCheck My Machineʼ, the other B-side that you will find tacked on as a bonus track to the CD edition — the ten-minute long opus ʽSecret Friendʼ — is another disappointment. Its length and repetitiveness introduce it as an otherworldly soundscape, but it ends up reminding me rather unfortunately of the kind of experimental stuff youʼd meet on, say, Canʼs Future Days, and guess who wins that competition. Again, this is Paul trying to set up a tent on somebody elseʼs turf, straying away from his strengths and confessing his weaknesses; as an electronic suite, ʽSecret Friendʼ is no more alluring than Paulʼs classical exercises like Liverpool Oratorio — this is simply not what he was sent into this world to do.

All in all, regardless of whether this experiment is to your liking or not, it is quite telling that even after going solo, Paul would never again return to this format (even his Fireman works with Martin Glover would be a collaborative project). This was not due to a lack of sales: on the success wave of ʽComing Upʼ, McCartney II fared much better than Back To The Egg, and the critical reception was slightly warmer (though still mixed). This may have been, however, due to feeling that, after all, this was only a slight distraction of a project — and that there were many other people around who could do this kind of stuff much better. I have no doubt that McCartney II will continue to live on as an attractive, intriguing oddity, but I still tend to rate Paulʼs albums by how often I get the urge to relisten to any of them rather than by how formally unusual they are — and according to this simple criterion, McCartney II always finds itself at the bottom of the heap. In the end, I fully agree with that mixed look of amazement, suspicion, terror, and disgust that Paul shares with us on the sleeve photo. 

Paul McCartney: Back To The Egg

PAUL McCARTNEY: BACK TO THE EGG (1979)

1) Reception; 2) Getting Closer; 3) Weʼre Open Tonight; 4) Spin It On; 5) Again And Again And Again; 6) Old Siam, Sir; 7) Arrow Through Me; 8) Rockestra Theme; 9) To You; 10) After The Ball/Million Miles; 11) Winter Rose/Love Awake; 12) The Broadcast; 13) So Glad To See You Here; 14) Babyʼs Request.

General verdict: An album that sounds like it was made to be hated; whether you will cash in on the hatred or not depends on how much respect you have for pure and shallow melodic craftsmanship.

Here it is — the album that was supposed to triumphantly open a new era for Paul McCartney and Wings, and instead ended up rather embarrassingly closing an old one. With new band members Laurence Juber on second guitar and Steve Holley on drums, by mid-1979 Wings were fully back on track as a self-sufficient rock band, and although it was probably futile to hope for the same type and scope of reception that the band enjoyed in 1975–76, Paul was definitely set upon thrusting it back into the spotlight, now competing for popularity with disco, punk, and New Wave acts rather than glam- and prog-rockers from half a decade ago.

The infamous marijuana bust in Japan brought those plans to a halt, but while the bust is often mentioned as the main reason behind the dissolution of Wings, something tells me that the main reason must have rather been a combination of the colder-than-cold critical reception and relative commercial failure of Back To The Egg, multiplied by the ten days that Paul had spent in Japanese prison and by the refreshing experience of working solo once more on McCartney II after the arrest. Over the subsequent decades, Paul would pretty much disown Back To The Egg entirely: not a single track from the record would reappear in his live shows, even when he began digging back into the depths of his catalog to haul out forgotten nuggets (though he did re-record ʽBabyʼs Requestʼ for Kisses On The Bottom). Ultimately, it looks like the record eventually convinced him that the format of a pseudo-democratic rock band with stadium ambitions would no longer be in demand in the Eighties — or ever after, for that matter.

Now it is very, very, very easy to condemn, ridicule, despise, and just shrug off Back To The Egg as a typical exercise in «blind dinosaurism» — 35-year old fart with zero relevance for the changing times, trying to fit in without properly understanding and cleverly assimilating all the new developments. The single biggest problem with the album is that it really wants to succeed at everything: Paul wants to do the arena rock thing like Boston or Foreigner and he wants to do the smooth dance-pop thing like Hall & Oates and he wants to do the punk thing like the Buzzcocks and he wants to do the retro-vaudeville thing, too. In short, he wants to do so much of everything that the only thing he clearly forgets to do is to be himself — meaning that Back To The Egg has exactly zero of the despondent charm that made London Town so special. It is more of an exercise in genre-hopping, an oddly grotesque theatrical show that is downright impossible to empathize with on any level.

One thing and one thing only explains why, despite all of its troubles, the album has always had the potential to be fun and still retains it: in 1979, Paulʼs knack for churning out memorable and inventive hooks was still fully intact. Each and every one of these songs is a solid piece of work in its own right, able to get by through the sheer power of well-fitted musical chords. There is nothing like the hope-through-despair atmosphere of a ʽDonʼt Let It Bring You Downʼ, nothing like the get-on-your-feet-and-begin-life-anew attitude of a ʽJuniorʼs Farmʼ, nothing like the hypnotizing minimalistic innocence of a ʽLet ʽEm Inʼ — nothing, that is, that elevated the best of Paulʼs solo output from the status of generic pop music to the «proudly carrying the badge of an ex-Beatle» status. But even as generic pop music, Back To The Egg is anything but a collection of boring stereotypical patterns.

As a first example, take ʽOld Siam, Sirʼ, the heaviest rocking song on the album that was also released as the lead single from the album. It is slow, bulky, and overproduced; it features a screech-based vocal performance that might be more annoying than exhilarating; it has odd lyrics that try to be half-comical, half-dramatic but could instead be construed as clumsy and racist (though, arguably, telling a tale of a Thai hookerʼs adventures in the UK is hardly racist by itself: itʼs just that Paul ainʼt no Lou Reed when it comes to telling tales from the wild side). But even with all these sins, its leaden see-saw riff is physiologically unforgettable — and its symphonic bridge, pumping the air up with more and more tension until it finally explodes in your face, is a cool musical invention on its own. There are probably ways in which one could turn the song into an actual masterpiece — fiddle with the production, change the words, find a more threatening attitude with the vocals — but this is such a glaring triumph of form over substance that, as it sometimes happens, form becomes substance, and I simply forget about any obvious or intended original purposes for the song and get into the groove as if it were doom-laden or something.

On the other side of the equation, we have ʽArrow Through Meʼ — a song that commands attention already in its first fifteen seconds, during which Paulʼs spiraling bassline really conveys the feeling of «arrowing» through something, leaving a fuzzy taint of humming synth noise in its track. As the rhythm section steps in, we understand that this is just a slightly disco-ified track for a cheesy midnight dance with your current passion, but it is still hard to resist the infiltrating power of the vocal melody, and even in these circumstances, Paul still has a surprise for you in the form of an almost Stevie Wonder-like anthemic brass riff coming in for the middle section and stealing the day. Hardly a true feast for the feels, but sometimes it feels cool to sing along to it and picture yourself as this cartoonish smooth seducer.

Or take the much-maligned experiment of ʽRockestra Themeʼ, in which Paul packed a ton of super-powered musicians, including Pete Townshend and David Gilmour, in the same room and then made them all play a fairly simple theme in unison, as if posing an experimental question: «would a composition like that sound any different if all the players were guitar greats rather than average session players?» I honestly do not know the answer to that question — to answer it properly, we would need to have it re-recorded by an army of hacks — but what I do know is that ʽRockestra Themeʼ is fun. It sucks, it is a failure, it is a musical joke rather than a musical storm, but I like that theme — it puts Paul back in his thunderous ʽLive And Let Dieʼ mood, and it totally works as, say, a potential opener for a football game, with plenty of pumped-up power but no Queen-style pathos whatsoever.

Whenever you go on this album, be it on the soft side or on the hard side, the proverbial Egg always cracks up exactly the same way — the songs do not mean all that much, but it is hard to get them out of your head after a couple of listens. Even a veteran listener like myself, who likes to pick up on all the faint signs of mystery and psychologism in seemingly «shallow» McCartney tunes, has a hard time fishing anything truly serious from this collection. The only exception to the rule, though it might be surprising to hear that, is the brief acoustic interlude ʽWeʼre Open Tonightʼ — it has always sounded weird how this little jingle, formally just a terse announcement that "weʼre open tonight for fun, so bring all your friends come on", is set to the same acoustic chords as the coda to Genesisʼ ʽDancing With The Moonlit Knightʼ and, in a way, shares some of its melancholic gorgeousness. Like, what is the meaning of setting this kind of announcement to a bit of music that sounds more like a meditative invocation of the Lady of the Lake? This is one mystery about this album that I have never been able to solve — too bad itʼs just one, where, for instance, London Town had at least half a dozen of those.

On the other hand, in terms of true disappointments I would have to admit that Back To The Egg really sags in the sappy department. Almost two-thirds of the record are squarely in the rock or at least the power pop idiom, and it is only towards the end that Paul remembers how he has not yet properly serenaded anybody and lets loose with a cannonade of mini-ballads — a two-track, four-song medley — and all of them are quite subpar, be it the high school prom wooing of ʽAfter The Ballʼ or the dark brooding of ʽWinter Roseʼ, unconvincingly followed up by the cheery optimism of ʽLove Awakeʼ. It all reminds me of the closing medley on Red Rose Speedway, except that the songs were far better fleshed out and more coherent than these raw snippets. Even so, I still could not accuse the snippets of being utterly devoid of genius; it is simply that they do not penetrate deep enough, and it might not even be their own fault as much as it is a combined failure of incorrect sequencing, unsatisfactory production, and occasional blunders such as singing ʽWinter Roseʼ in a strangely unnatural, hoarse tone that mars the impact (perhaps Paul just had a sore throat on that day, but surely he was in no rush?).

Another quibble — and, perhaps, one that is at least partly responsible for Wingsʼ demise — is the unexpected seppuku of Denny Laine as a credible songwriter. From Band On The Run and all the way to London Town, he kept on showing signs of occasional brilliance, from the epic runs of ʽNo Wordsʼ to the folksy gloom of ʽDeliver Your Childrenʼ; and his share of writing steadily went up from album to album, so that you might have expected him to strike some gold on Back To The Egg as well. Instead, he comes up with but one song — and that song is ʽAgain And Again And Againʼ, an exercise in intentionally moronic arena-pop whose sarcasm, if there is any, is easily lost on the listener. Perhaps he took the title of the album too seriously and decided that it was time to get back «to the roots», meaning writing a song from the perspective of a horny Fiftiesʼ teenager — but that was a long time ago; at least if he made it sound like Gene Vincent, I would understand, but he makes it sound like a soft-rock version of Slade, and this attitude just does not work for Wings at any time.  

But petty issues aside, Back To The Egg still finds its way into my listening list from time to time, which is so much more than I could say about Pipes Of Peace or Press To Play — unlike the former, it does not try to replace strong hooks with corny sentimentalism, and unlike the latter, its experimental nature does not allow to define it as «McCartney trying harder than necessary to not be McCartney». Once you have dealt with the obvious — namely, that this is the most psychologically shallow record that Paul had released up to this point — you are still left with the option to enjoy it for what it is (which kind of brings it close in nature to the Stonesʼ Emotional Rescue from about the same time, although Back To The Egg is still better). And when, after all the pointless turmoil, the curtain falls on the hush-hush, cuddly, lovable vaudeville piece ʽBabyʼs Requestʼ, it feels like there still definitely is some life around — so try to stick around with this guy for at least the next few years and see if he succeeds in redeeming himself...

Paul McCartney: London Town

PAUL McCARTNEY: LONDON TOWN (1978)

1) London Town; 2) Café On The Left Bank; 3) Iʼm Carrying; 4) Backwards Traveller; 5) Cuff Link; 6) Children Children; 7) Girlfriend; 8) Iʼve Had Enough; 9) With A Little Luck; 10) Famous Groupies; 11) Deliver Your Children; 12) Name And Address; 13) Donʼt Let It Bring You Down; 14) Morse Moose And The Grey Goose.

General verdict: Subtly creative and uncharacteristically bleak — always fun to catch Paul McCartney in one of his less-than-happy moods.

This record opens a brief and somewhat underrated mini-stage in McCartneyʼs musical biography: The Autumnal Season of Wings. It is not just about the album cover, featuring gray skies over London, Paul visibly shivering in his overcoat, and a somewhat battered line-up of Wings, once again reduced to the «core trio» with Denny and Linda after everybody else had split. It is also about the music, which has once again performed an about face and left all of its glam-rock aspirations stranded in the dirt, many miles behind.

London Townʼs generally poor critical reputation is primarily due to the chronological context: 1977–78, with their revolutionary developments everywhere, were not particularly favorable to «dinosaur rockers» (only the Stones somehow managed to make the grade with Some Girls), and a record that did not rock out, stayed away from social issues, and made whatever points it had to make in cute, subtle, inobtrusive ways could hardly make it in the same month that also saw the releases of Patti Smithʼs Easter and Elvis Costelloʼs This Yearʼs Model, among others. As in so many other cases, time has been kind to the album — but not enough for Paul himself, who has pretty much shut it out of his own memory.

Oddly enough, things had started out quite auspiciously: ʽMull Of Kintyreʼ, released as a single in late ʼ77, became one of the biggest songs of its time, as its Scottish overtones and anthemic nature were too overwhelmingly impressive to dismiss — not to mention the Christmas season release, which effectively turned it into a modern substitute for ʽAuld Lang Syneʼ and boosted both sales and confidence. You would really be hard pressed to find a better compromise between Celtic folk and British pop — or a better example of Paul and Dennyʼs collaboration, with Paul providing the pop hook and Denny indulging his folk appetite. Even the bagpipes manage to sound glorious here, rather than traditionally irritating for the non-Scottish ear.

But the triumphant beginning had a less-than-perfect ending, as this particular Tale Of Two Singles ends up ʽWith A Little Luckʼ — or, more likely, without a little luck, since that particular song, in many peopleʼs minds, remains typical of everything that was worst about Wings: cuddly softness, inoffensiveness, sentimentality, and technological dependency — what with its use of synthesizers so reminiscent of all the generic trends of the time. Indeed, this was like a minor inept brother of ʽSilly Love Songsʼ — without that songʼs unbeatable hooks, impressive musical ideas (the bass is nowhere near as melodic and expressive), or endearing arrogance. Perhaps the songʼs biggest fault, in addition to all that, is that it tries to pass itself for an anthem of love and hope, but these anthemic aspirations clash way too harshly with the clinically sterilized production and the central role of generic Seventiesʼ synthesizers. I still think itʼs a good song after all, with a nicely unique central melody line that is pure McCartney — but it definitely could have used a livelier arrangement.

What is really sad is that the (in)famous popularity of ʽWith A Little Luckʼ has pretty much eclipsed everything else you can find on the album — and not only does it feature a wealth of interesting, less-than-trivial ideas, but it has a general vibe of its own: the slightly cold, damp, quiet, foggy vibe of an autumnal morning after a solid night of steady rain ("silver rain was falling down upon the dirty ground of London Town"). Calm sadness, light melancholia, friendly introspection, shy reclusiveness — with the occasional exception of a more straightforward rocker or too, London Town clads you in rags, puts you under an umbrella and puts you out in the street to observe frequently less-than-happy pictures of everyday life. It is as much anti-glam as Venus And Mars was pro-glam: the perfect hangover antidote to a few years of drunken glitz. And it has a kind of depth to it that was really lacking in the previous two records.

I like to think of ʽLondon Townʼ as a sort of subconscious remake of ʽPenny Laneʼ — another gentle piece of solitary life inspection with equal parts love and pity for all of its characters. I am not even sure that its base melody is objectively worse than ʽPenny Laneʼ: it simply has a slower, lazier, less emotionally pinching vibe, which kind of makes sense if we are talking ten years later. It is also being more realistic about its dreams of escapism: the bittersweet "Oh, where are there places to go? / Someone somewhere has to know" conclusion to each verse stresses just how impossible imaginative escapism has become. Listen closely to the song, and in time you will discern a disturbing streak of gloom under its superficially soothing keyboard coating — a streak of gloom that sets the defining tone for the entire album.

Take the very next song, the slightly funkified dance-rocker ʽCafé On The Left Bankʼ — which, admittedly, takes us from London to Paris, but the general autumnal vibe does not change much. Right-wingers might want to interpret it as a rant against the emerging globalization ("English-speaking people drinking German beer, talking far too loud for their ears"), but it really sounds more like one desperate manʼs commentary on the pointless fuss of socializing, and everything about the song, from the minor chords to Paulʼs wailing vocals to the frantic solo (still played by Jimmy McCulloch), screams «panic!», which is not what you usually expect at all from a song centered around Parisian nightlife.

Another piece of weirdness is the ʽBackwards Traveller / Cuff Linkʼ medley — one short mid-tempo pop rocker about an "ancient wool unraveller" busy "sailing songs, wailing on the moon", one slightly longer gruff funk instrumental with a nagging, but memorable sinister Moog riff pushing it forward. Why are they together? What is their significance? What does he mean when he says that "Iʼm always going back in time"? Whatever it be, I really like how the two pieces complement each other: I would guess that ʽCuff Linkʼ probably began life as a random experi­mental jam (like ʽZoo Gangʼ or one of those other classic era Wings instrumentals), but then, in an Abbey Road-esque move, they associated it with this little snippet about time travel so that the mystery quotient could go up a notch, and it does.

Then thereʼs the oddness of ʽGirlfriendʼ. Allegedly, Paul wrote it specially for Michael Jackson, but ended up recording it first, one year prior to Off The Wall. If you only heard the Jackson version, you will think of the song as a feather-light sentimental ditty — and that is precisely the way it begins in Paulʼs version as well. But Paul adds an extra middle eight section, after which comes a guitar solo that begins by imitating the vocal melody — then, all of a sudden, takes a 180-degree turn into dark, bleak, mope-rockish territory for a few bars, before trotting back to safe, fluffy territory. If there is a better comparative example of why Paul McCartney is a great songwriter, while Michaelʼs primary talents are in other departments... well, there is no better comparative example. It is precisely this ability to surprise and stump the listener, even in small details like these, that elevates Paulʼs Wings-era stuff above most of his «soft rock» competition.

Foggy doom-and-gloom stuff accumulates even denser as the album reaches the midway point. ʽWith A Little Luckʼ notwithstanding, the two best tunes on the second side are ʽDeliver Your Childrenʼ and ʽDonʼt Let It Bring You Downʼ — both co-written with Denny (who also gets lead vocals on the former), both featuring titles that seemingly advocate for hope even as the music throughout remains painfully depressing. ʽDeliver Your Childrenʼ, not coincidentally bearing an uncanny melodic similarity to ʽRichard Coryʼ (which Denny, as you remember, sang on the Wings Over America tour), is a speedy acoustic folk-rocker with some of the most cynical confessional lyrics you can ever find on anything McCartney-related — fast, tight, tense, bitter, with a vocal arch on each verse that begins on a note of hysterical desperation and ends on one of gloomy disillusionment. Special praise goes to the bass-heavy acoustic solo that takes all the points stated by the vocal melody and emphasizes them fifty-fold. Arguably, this is the very best song Denny Laine ever wrote — and I never really know if it is a good thing or a bad thing that it is so deeply concealed in the cracks of a not-too-popular McCartney record. Probably good, since it still has a bigger chance of discovery than Dennyʼs solo version.

ʽDonʼt Let It Bring You Downʼ, another highlight, is a slow, stubborn, frigid waltz whose lyrics propagate hope in the face of seemingly unsolvable problems, but whose music is one of the most vivid portrayals of a broken-hearted person wallowing in his own pain. The quietly nagging, monotonous electric guitar part that accompanies the main acoustic riff throughout the song (and is only allowed to break into a real solo in the coda) hangs in there like some dull toothache that refuses to let go; the counterpoint flute riff breaks in from time to time like some ancient Greek funeral march; the quietly mournful tone of Paulʼs falsetto is the epitome of bleakness. If I knew nothing whatsoever about chronology, I would have easily made a blind guess that the song was recorded for Driving Rain, Paulʼs answer to Lindaʼs death — as it is, he happened to write the most convenient song about the harshest event in his life twenty years before the fact.

In between all these subtle emotional peaks, London Town places lighter elements, such as the fairly straightforward pop-rocker ʽIʼve Had Enoughʼ (which could just as well have been written around 1963), the somewhat gross send-up vaudeville number ʽFamous Groupiesʼ (one of those songs that would today earn a death sentence from the cultural police), and the nostalgic Perkins-meets-Vincent rockabilly tribute ʽName And Addressʼ. These are all nice, but something special; the albumʼs true wildcard is ʽMorse Moose And The Grey Gooseʼ, a frantic mix of disco rhythms, prog noodling, folk harmonies, and nonsensic lyrics that ends the whole thing on a note of total confusion and disarray — a far, far cry from the melancholic tranquility of ʽLondon Townʼ. I am not a big fan of this track (it lacks both the apocalyptic overtones of ʽ1985ʼ and the sorrowful absurdism of ʽMonkberry Moon Delightʼ), but it does show Paul trying to apply creativity and imagination to new musical formulae, rather than just doing it the common way on tracks like ʽGoodnight Tonightʼ.

In the end, London Town might take more time to grow on you than is usual with Wings, but its autumnal charms easily make it, perhaps, the second most intelligent Wings album after Band On The Run. If you are not convinced, play it side by side with something like Pipes Of Peace, just to see what it is that separates an inventive McCartney record from a flat and formulaic McCartney album. It may be so that its very «grayishness» and persistent melancholy have blocked Paul from revisiting any of its songs in concert, or maybe he just remembers it as the single most Denny Laine-dependent project of his life; whatever be, London Town deserves to be dusted off and properly enjoyed — particularly on those gray, dull, rainy days on which you are tempted to wonder if itʼs all really worth it.

Paul McCartney: Wings Over America

PAUL McCARTNEY: WINGS OVER AMERICA (1976)

1) Venus And Mars / Rock Show / Jet; 2) Let Me Roll It; 3) Spirits Of Ancient Egypt; 4) Medicine Jar; 5) Maybe Iʼm Amazed; 6) Call Me Back Again; 7) Lady Madonna; 8) The Long And Winding Road; 9) Live And Let Die; 10) Picassoʼs Last Words (Drink To Me); 11) Richard Cory; 12) Bluebird; 13) Iʼve Just Seen A Face; 14) Blackbird; 15) Yesterday; 16) You Gave Me The Answer; 17) Magneto And Titanium Man; 18) Go Now; 19) My Love; 20) Listen To What The Man Said; 21) Let ʼEm In; 22) Time To Hide; 23) Silly Love Songs; 24) Beware My Love; 25) Letting Go; 26) Band On The Run; 27) Hi, Hi, Hi; 28) Soily.

General verdict: Paulʼs triple-live contribution to The Age Of Excess — loud, chaotic, clumsy, and technically expendable, but alive and fun rather than mechanically nostalgic.

The Wings Over The World tour of 1975–76 was not merely the public zenith of Wings as a band: somewhat arguably, it marked the very last moment in history when any one of the Beatles was still capable of «moving mountains», figuratively speaking. McCartney was making headlines, selling like hotcakes, attracting gigantic masses of live audiences, and basking in the warmth of rockstar extravagance. Sure enough, for the upcoming generation, soon to be feasting on the fresh flesh of punk and New Wave, Paul was approaching the status of living fossil — but not any more than, say, Led Zeppelin, who were still very much at the peak of their game.

The thing is, Paul was really digging the Seventies. He would never succeed in properly catching up, Bowie-style, with the new musical trends of the Eighties, and starting with Flowers In The Dirt, he would completely jump out of the time window. But the hard-rock, the glam-rock, the prog-rock period of 1970–75 — this, instinctively, was still his time, and Wings Over America is the perfect historical document to prove that. The band that was assembled for that tour may not have exactly been the tightest, most disciplined, or even most professional team to back him up on stage; but each and every member of Wings in 1976 — even Linda! — was a personality, rather than a willing and obeying servant of the one and only Sir Paul, and all these personalities were enjoying the dope-thick air of the mid-Seventies in a freedom-loving, reckless way that, some might say, could only have existed around 1976. (Cue Weenʼs ʽFreedom Of ʼ76ʼ here).

That was a hyperbole, but so is this entire album: a triple LP set — if ELP and Yes can do this, then why not an ex-Beatle? — focused on ensuring Wingsʼ dominance over the contemporary world of rock (or, at least, pop-rock) music, and ensure it did: to the best of my knowledge, this is the only triple live album to have ever topped the US charts. Once again, one last time, Paul McCartney was on top of the world, showing himself to the world exactly the way the world wanted to see him — rocking out, glitzy, long-haired, and playing tons of catchy anthems. And most importantly, while he did make a few nods to his past with the Beatles, for about 80% of the time he was busy presenting his new stuff, and the fans did not seem to mind. Never again would a McCartney live set feature less than at least 50% Beatle classics — and never again would the man ever agree to share the spotlight with any of his supporting band members.

This is not to say that Wings Over America is a great live album. For all his lively nature, Paul McCartney lives and breathes studio polish, and everything that he takes with him on stage inevitably suffers from the lack of that polish. The lack of atmospheric overdubs, the difficulties of singing and playing at the same time, the inability or unwillingness to reinterpret or expand the studio material — all of these problems, so typical of pop artists in general, are especially biting in the case of Paul McCartney, where you instinctively want everything to be perfect, get sorely disappointed when not everything is, then understand that there would be no need for a live album if everything were perfect, then try to find a way to embrace the imperfections... then you find out you cannot really do it, and never return to the album again.

Granted, as long as Paul has those Wings around him, the situation is not that dire. The biggest hero in this mess is Jimmy McCulloch, who has enough raw talent to make almost each single song on which he is active slightly different from the original, with subtly improvised moments that make the songs come alive. Listen to his solo on ʽMy Loveʼ, for instance, which he has faithfully learned from Henry McCullough, his predecessor, but subtly converted from a soft-rock to a hard-rock paradigm; or to his screechy flourishes on ʽLet Me Roll Itʼ, which make the song a little less repetitive and monotonous than it was on Band On The Run. His instrumental and vocal performance on ʽMedicine Jarʼ turn it into a serious highlight of the show, with Paul willingly reduced to the role of his trusty bass henchman for a bit.

Next to the young passion of Jimmy, Denny Laineʼs more mature professionalism is not as easily noticeable, but he, too, gets a couple interesting spotlights, including a heart-on-sleeve acoustic rendition of Paul Simonʼs ʽRichard Coryʼ ("oh I wish that I could be... JOHN DENVER!") — I am only sad that he had not yet written his own masterpiece in this fast acoustic folk subgenre, ʽDeliver Your Childrenʼ, which would have been an even more appropriate inclusion. And, some­what predictably, he gets to pour the contents of his broken heart out on ʽGo Nowʼ, probably the only song associated with his person in the pre-Wings days that anybody in the audience had a chance to remember — with Jimmy lending a helping hand, as the old torch waltz is transformed into a strong arena-rock anthem.

Speaking of the setlist in general, the album has an interesting structure and features some unique performances that favorably set it apart from the string of sonically superior, but interchangeable live records from McCartneyʼs later years. The first side of the first LP is fully contemporary: nothing but songs from Band On The Run and Venus And Mars, with Wings in full-scale rock mode — Paul pulls no punches when he blasts off with ʽRock Showʼ and then directly segues it into ʽJetʼ. After the first adrenaline-raising segment is over, he switches to piano and tests out a couple of Beatles classics (ʽLady Madonnaʼ, ʽThe Long And Winding Roadʼ). After this, the band gathers round a friendly campfire to have some acoustic fun, and eventually Beatle stuff resurfaces once again — but this is just Paul solo (with a little help from the horns), playing solitary renditions of ʽBlackbirdʼ and ʽYesterdayʼ to a thrilled audience that would probably be offended if it had to leave without hearing a single Beatles song.

Once ʽYesterdayʼ is over and the people have been placated, it is back to contemporary business: as we get to the third LP, the band begins to play selections from its most recent album, Wings At The Speed Of Sound, and you get unique takes on ʽSilly Love Songsʼ and ʽBeware My Loveʼ, songs that, to the best of my knowledge, McCartney has never played live since then — my guess being that the former taxes his bass playing skills to the max, and the latter does the same to his vocals. That live version of ʽSilly Love Songsʼ is well worth your money, though, because the bass might be even louder and tighter than in the studio — and, for that matter, Paul himself plays a lot of bass on this tour, unlike the later years when he would frequently switch over to rhythm guitar and generally present himself as The Great Ex-Beatle rather than a fabulous musician. Here, he hugs that Rickenbacker like there was no tomorrow (you can actually see all the hugging on the Rockshow video from the tour), and it becomes particularly evident that on all these Wings albums he was still treating the bass as a highly important melodic instrument rather than a support strut, which would be more typical of later albums.

It is also telling how the show ends — not with a predictable good-vibe audience hug with ʽLet It Beʼ and ʽHey Judeʼ, but with two heavy and slightly provocative power-pop-rockers: ʽHi Hi Hiʼ and ʽSoilyʼ, the latter surprisingly funky for Wings (a bit reminiscent of the Stonesʼ ʽHeart­breakerʼ from Goats Head Soup) and never issued in a studio version, perhaps for the better, since the song (similarly to the earlier ʽMessʼ) is essentially an excuse for some dark and sweaty band jamming. It might not be a great composition, but once again, it shows just how much effort Paul was putting in at the time to avoid his shows being perceived as nostalgic events.

Personally, I find myself watching the accompanying video (Rockshow, recently remastered and officially re-released by Eagle Rock) more often than I listen to the album — the glammy vibe of the mid-Seventies, with all the glitter flying around, is ridiculously fun, and even if Paul now admits himself that Wings were a "terrible band" when it came to hanging out on stage, the important thing is that they had some great stuff to play, and they had a lot of fun playing it. It is hardly surprising that the pop rocker Paul McCartney, the folk / art-rocker Denny Laine, the hard-rocker Jimmy McCulloch, and the photographer-cum-keyboardist Linda McCartney could never gel together on the level of The Who or Led Zeppelin — but the very weirdness of this combina­tion of a bunch of talented people brought together by fate adds a special flavor to this historical document, one that you will never taste again. 

Paul McCartney: Wings At The Speed Of Sound

PAUL McCARTNEY: WINGS AT THE SPEED OF SOUND (1976)

1) Let ʼEm In; 2) The Note You Never Wrote; 3) Sheʼs My Baby; 4) Beware My Love; 5) Wino Junko; 6) Silly Love Songs; 7) Cook Of The House; 8) Time To Hide; 9) Must Do Something About It; 10) San Ferry Anne; 11) Warm And Beautiful.

General verdict: A safe, sound, and smooth pop album with plenty of hidden depth to it once you let go of the "THIS was released in the year of punk rock?" attitude.

In retrospect, the most irresponsible thing about this album seems to have been its title. There is little doubt that it was reasonably inspired by having been recorded in the middle of Wingsʼ biggest international tour ever, with all the glitzy hustle-bustle and all the glamorous jet flights befitting a rock star in the age of Led Zeppelin. But 1976 was also the year of The Ramones — the real band playing «at the speed of sound» — and whatever Paul was doing back then, he should have refrained from provoking critical ire by inadvertently giving people one more pretext to compare his tired, old, conventional brand of safe pop with the exciting new sounds coming from a new generation of fresh young punks, all set and ready to kill their idols.

The strangest thing about this album, then, is that, despite coming right off the heels of Wingsʼ single most rock-oriented record and Wingsʼ single most arena-oriented rock tour, Wings At The Speed Of Sound has a very quiet, almost homely vibe to it — as if they were intentionally (or subconsciously) offering us a musical antidote to the brash loudness of its predecessor. With the exception of ʽBeware My Loveʼ, there is not a single song here that would rock as hard as ʽRock Showʼ, ʽMedicine Jarʼ, or ʽLetting Goʼ. Youʼd think that for a record that is known for being the most democratically structured Wings record ever, with all members of the band contributing to songwriting and lead singing, it could have been just a wee bit raunchier than this, but no way: even Jimmy McCulloch with his obligatory anti-drug statement is content to provide a quiet pop song rather than a loud rock anthem.

All of these circumstances have tarnished McCartneyʼs reputation circa 1976 to such an extent that even today, unlike Ram and Venus And Mars, this particular record has not properly recovered its status in the public eye. But in reality, it is not that difficult to get partial to its subtle charms. Words of the day are «simplicity» and «minimalism»: almost every song here that is credited to Paul tends to be based on something very plain and skeletal, either musically or lyrically or both, and so runs the risk of being either hailed for laconic genius or ridiculed for being so unworthy of a former Beatle. There is even an element of defiance here, best expressed in the lyrics of ʽSilly Love Songsʼ ("whatʼs wrong with that?"), but actually manifesting itself all over the place, from the barebones chromatic progression of the opening ʽLet ʼEm Inʼ to the elementary level music exercise of the closing ʽWarm And Beautifulʼ. Despise it, or embrace it? Both strategies are understandable; I will go ahead with the latter, though — even if I do have some reservations about some of the tracks.

For starters, I have never had any problems about embracing the two big hit pop openers on both sides of the album. ʽLet ʼEm Inʼ is a little kitschy, with Paul having all the guys pretty much impersonate a Sesame Street marching band; but it has been a pretty long time since he last wrote an «all-inclusive» pop anthem that could make his fans feel like part of his big family, and there is no need to resist the party spirit in this particular instance, especially when it is crafted with such reserve and humility — the song invites everybody to join in the fun, but from a very personal, almost reclusive standpoint. Besides, it is not that simple: its cumulative effect comes from the juxtaposition of the piano, woodwind, and brass melodies, each of which is simple on its own, but together they weave and twist into a series of interconnected lifelines, one of which might belong to sister Suzie and the next one to brother John, for all we know.

Likewise, ʽSilly Love Songsʼ also has a fairly complex layering of vocal harmonies — at its peak, the song reaches a level of vocal polyphony that is almost reminiscent of Talking Headsʼ later work (albeit in a completely different style) on Remain In Light, and that is not even mentioning Paulʼs stupendous bass line, arguably his most memorable and melodic bass part in the entire history of Wings. The cutely cheery disposition of the song, its title and its lyrical message are too much for a lot of people to bear, but it is beyond me to understand how one could reject the tightness of the bandʼs groove here — the perfect integration of the brass section, the almost mathematically precise handling of the overlapping harmonies, the way that bassline always keeps drawing attention to itself, no matter how much other stuff gets piled on top of it. For some reason, ʽSilly Love Songsʼ has never appeared on any of Paulʼs touring setlists after the 1976 tour, and I have never managed to understand if this was because of the critical backlash against the lyrics, or (more probably) because it required a high level of precise live bass playing that Paul was no longer able to maintain after returning to live performing in 1989 — but, in any case, you have not truly lived until you have seen the man rocking that bass in the videos from 1976.

For that matter, the third biggest song on the album (only briefly released as an A-side, before it got swapped with ʽLet ʼEm Inʼ), ʽBeware My Loveʼ, also had the misfortune of forever disap­pearing from Paulʼs setlist after 1976 — this time, doubtlessly because of the insane level of vocal pressure that it would require. This one has always been a personal favorite of mine, even if for the wrong reason: with the conspicuous lack of a comma after ʽBewareʼ and without having direct access to the lyrics, I always took it to be a threatening song — Paul impersonating some kind of dangerous romantic madman, acknowledging his passion as a destructive force that can bring his loved one happiness or ruin at any given moment. The truth is much more boring — in reality, it is ʽbeware, my loveʼ, just a farewell admonishment for the girl who is in the process of dumping the protagonist — but I still refuse to acknowledge the comma. Try it this way, and what you get is the finest «mad scene» in Paulʼs entire repertoire: psychologically disturbing, downright scary in places, totally thunderstormy when the screaming vocals, the ghost-like woo-woo vocal harmonies, and the aggressive wah-wah lead guitar all fall into place. Melodically, this is still «pop» rather than proper «hard rock», but nevertheless, this song rocks harder than anything else in Wings history, with the possible exception of ʽ1985ʼ — it is the «out-of-control madness» element that brings them close to each other and separates them from the rest.

(Side­note: an early demo version of the song with John Bonham himself on drums, now available on the expanded reissue of the album, is often claimed to be a superior take, but do not believe the hype: Bonhamʼs drumming style is not particularly fit for this pop song, and the lack of fire-breathing wah-wah guitar is extremely detrimental to the overall effect as well. I mean, heck, not everything is necessarily better with some Led Zeppelin in it).

With the big three out of the way, we are left on shakier ground: nobody really truly remembers much of anything about the other songs — because they are either not Paulʼs (five in total), or because the other songs by Paul are way too short or too flimsy (three in total). This is not really very just: simply because something was written by Denny Laine on a Wings album does not automatically make it inferior to everything else because, you know, even living gods have to use the bathroom from time to time, and even mediocre songwriters can occasionally become inspired in the presence of living gods. High prize, however, goes not to Denny, but once again to Jimmy McCulloch, whose other anti-drug song, ʽWino Junkoʼ, rocks nowhere near as hard as ʽMedicine Jarʼ, but might even be more sympathetic — this time, largely because of Jimmyʼs gorgeously melancholic vocal part, so classy in its humble, but determined, weariness. The effect of «going down» is perfectly conveyed by the contrast between the lively and bouncy verse / chorus sequences and the slowed-down, psychedelic bridges — head under water in the bridge, head out of water as you go back to the verse; it is very easy to miss all this evocativeness on the first few listens, but stay with the song a little longer and it will probably click.

Dennyʼs contributions, in comparison, are more lightweight, but still faithfully convey the manʼs generally grim and pessimistic approach to life which would arguably peak with ʽDeliver Your Childrenʼ on the next record; here, ʽThe Note You Never Wroteʼ is good at cooking up a stranded, lonesome, Robinson Crusoesque atmosphere, and ʽTime To Hideʼ should probably have been used for the opening (or closing) credits on any documentary on the life of Denny Laine — "I've been on the run / Since the Good Lord knows when / And the day I die / Iʼll still be running then" is a pretty good description for the man whom fortune has condemned to the role of a permanent second fiddle / sidekick for all his life. Pretty catchy, too. Which leaves us with drummer Joe English (ʽMust Do Something About Itʼ — nice, relaxed, and also about loneliness; yes, kids, rockʼnʼroll lifestyle and private jets tend to do this to you) and... oh yes, Linda.

Now I must admit here that while, «objectively», I could agree that ʽCook Of The Houseʼ may be the worst thing Wings ever did, it is also «objectively» and transparently just a short musical joke, unfortunately, one that is too often taken symbolically to illustrate the assumed hideousness of this record in general. A bit of old timey vaudeville, perhaps not unintentionally made to sound similar to The Bonzo Dog Bandʼs ʽDeath Cab For Cutieʼ from Magical Mystery Tour, with Lindaʼs lead vocals heavily disguised by reverb and echo, it parodies the «kitchen woman» stereotype and even somehow contributes to the overall homeliness of the record. Clumsy and awkward as it is, it was never intended not to be clumsy and awkward, and somehow it even gets across a tiny fleck of Lindaʼs personal charisma — she never really wanted to be a musician, but she was happy enough to work as Paulʼs personal muse, and her presence on the album, as horrendous as it might seem from a purely musicological standpoint, does not feel alien.

That said, this time around her presence did not particularly inspire Paulʼs genius: his two songs that could be construed as addressed directly to Linda are quite questionable. ʽSheʼs My Babyʼ is bouncy and catchy, but features a very strange distorting effect on his voice (not sure if he just adopted a special tone or tinkered with the tapes, but it all sounds very unnatural) — and the line "like gravy, down to the last drop, I keep mopping her up" might be the cringiest case of double entendre in the entire history of Paul / Linda relations (is he talking about oral sex? is he taking lessons from Bessie Smith? whatever...). As for the already mentioned ʽWarm And Beautifulʼ that concludes the album, its clichéd lyrics and «trivial» piano chord sequence can easily split listeners — Elvis Costello really liked the song, for instance — but I am not sure that Paul is really at his best when he is writing material that seems oriented at almost kindergarten level music training. At the very least, ʽLong Haired Ladyʼ it is not. Though, I do agree, it forms a pretty symmetrical conclusion to ʽLet ʼEm Inʼ, fully agreeing with the overall quiet and homely tone of the album.

As you can see, whether or not At The Speed Of Sound is truly such a letdown as was originally proclaimed by critics and is still maintained by a lot of listeners, one can still write quite a lot about it. One thing is for sure: no matter how smooth and safe Wings were becoming, at this point they still had a spirit of adventurousness to their music — adventurousness that did not come from observing fashions and catching up with the times (it is clear from the music that Paul was no frequent guest at CBGB), but from mining the backs of their own brains and following their own muses. In 1976, this was considered a tad criminal; today, it really does not matter, so we might as well appreciate Wings At The Speed Of Sound for exactly what it is, rather than not appreciate it for something that it was never intended to be.

Paul McCartney: Venus And Mars

VENUS AND MARS (1975)

1) Venus And Mars; 2) Rock Show; 3) Love In Song; 4) You Gave Me The Answer; 5) Magneto And Titanium Man; 6) Letting Go; 7) Venus And Mars (reprise); 8) Spirits Of Anicent Egypt; 9) Medicine Jar; 10) Call Me Back Again; 11) Listen To What The Man Said; 12) Treat Her Gently / Lonely Old People; 13) Crossroads.

General verdict: Paulʼs slightly overdue answer to the glam-rock era — professional, perfectionist, and ultimately quite confusing, though there is no denying the high entertainment value.

Rock critics have rarely, if ever, shown any serious love for the post-Band On The Run career of Wings — and even if they are wrong in general, it is hard not to acknowledge a certain barely tangible, but persistent line that separates the (perhaps involuntarily) visionary soundscapes of Band from the somewhat shallower and trendier sound of Venus And Mars. By early 1975, it was clear that Paul had his mind set on becoming a rock star once again; and to do that, he needed a record with a big, crunchy sound, adapted for the era of glam-rock and arena-rock. Inspiration for such an album would now be coming not from the seedy depths of Africa, but from the much more safe and familiar American territory — New Orleans and Los Angeles, where most of Venus And Mars would be recorded. The band, too, would be much bigger: in addition to the core trio (Paul / Linda / Denny), there would be young guitar wizard / drug addict Jimmy McCulloch, a separate drummer (Geoff Britton, later replaced by Joe English), and plenty of guests, as could be expected for anybody recording in New Orleans.

The results were satisfactory: Venus And Mars provides a ton of fun, including some seriously underrated compositional gems, great arrangements, and solid feels. But it takes one more step in the direction of turning Wings into an actual band, and one that is more likely to obey current trends than set them. The first goal is achieved by having Wings members that are not Paul either write some of the songs or sing them, as well as make even more use of group harmonies on the heavier numbers, taking attention away from Paul. The second implies an abundance of heavy guitar riffage, cosmic synthesizers, and overblown production — the only things missing are long flowing hair, glitzy costumes, and chest hair a-plenty (and you would get all of that on the ensuing tour... well, maybe without the chest hair; apparently, Paul is shy about that).

Granted, some of this is very tongue-in-cheek. ʽRock Showʼ, the first big number on the record, is clearly more of a parody on arena-rock than the real thing — with its BIG sound, proto-Spinal Tappish lyrics ("in my green metal suit I'm preparing to shoot up the city!"), sarcastic references to Jimmy Page and stretched out hell-raising coda, it was never meant to be taken seriously. It is hilarious, and musically interesting — two different bridges, an uplifting pop riff carrying the main melody, complex overdubs, party atmosphere — but it occupies the same spot as ʽJetʼ (with which it would later be joined in a single medley in concert), and it ainʼt no ʽJetʼ. ʽJetʼ was more than just fun — it was an inspiring flight of fantasy, hard-rocking, funny, and romantic at the same time. ʽRock Showʼ, in comparison, is just a tongue-in-cheek commentary on the mid-1970s rock scene — which is why, unlike ʽJetʼ, it quickly became musically and lyrically dated, and would only be briefly resuscitated by Paul in concert in the 21st century when he became looking for old forgotten goodies in order to add diversity to the setlist.

More show tunes that cannot be taken seriously follow one after another. ʽYou Gave Me The Answerʼ is an old style music hall number, a bit of a Fred Astaire tribute, that follows in the footsteps of ʽHoney Pieʼ but has none of that songʼs sly humor — just the melodicity, catchiness, and a bit of that irresistible (or annoying, depending on your constitution) sugary falsetto from Paul. ʽMagneto And Titanium Manʼ is a bouncy, super-energized pop tribute to Marvel Comics that is... good enough for fans of Marvel Comics, I guess. ʽSpirits Of Ancient Egyptʼ is a deeply strange number whose grim, claustrophobic production style and hyperbolic lyrics make it sound like a psycho killerʼs love declaration — could be disturbing, if not for Denny Laineʼs lack of sufficient coolness to pull it off and for unfortunate stringing of lyrics into sequences such as "you're my baby and I love you... I'm your baby, do you love me?". And ʽCall Me Back Againʼ, a slow New Orleanian soul number, is ruined by Paul locking himself in shouting mode for the entire duration of the song — I suppose he wanted to have another ʽOh Darlingʼ here, but ended up overcooking the brew to the point where it lost all taste.

This is not to say that all of these are bad songs: I enjoy most of them, have most of the hooks entrenched in my head from childhood, and even have fun singing along to "hung on the telly, hung on the telly, hung on the telephone" and "the Crimson Dynamo just couldnʼt cut it no more". It just seems that this time around, Paul was not able to infuse them with enough personality — that bit of human empathy in ʽPicassoʼs Last Wordsʼ, the weary strand of misanthropy of ʽMrs. Vanderbiltʼ, let alone the homebrewn, intimate atmosphere of all the silly excourses in Ram, all of this replaced with an atmosphere that is more carnival, or even burlesque, in essence. Not that Paul was not entitled to a bit of carnivalesque atmosphere — but in the end, it allows one to make the point that «Venus And Mars is sillier than Band On The Run», and then you have the uneasy task to prove that in true art, «silly» is never inherently inferior to «intelligent», and all that accompanying jazz. You know how it is.

The real bad news is that behind all the silliness, one tends to lose track of the several moments of pure greatness. In particular, two of the ballads on the album may be easily planted in the already rich gallery of McCartneyʼs sad-and-lonesome masterpieces. There is ʽLove In Songʼ, another case of nominally cheery lyrics backed by an incredibly melancholic melody, rising to a painful breakdown in the "I can see the places..." bridge section — wedged in between the inebriated glam theater of ʽRock Showʼ and the manneristic tap dancing of ʽYou Gave Me The Answerʼ, it is easily missable, and even Paul himself never cared to perform it live, but it deserves all the acclaim it can ever get. And at the end of the record comes a mish-mashed performance of ʽTreat Her Gentlyʼ and ʽLonely Old Peopleʼ that has Paul at his most humanistic. Melody-wise, this ainʼt no ʽFor No Oneʼ and ʽEleanor Rigbyʼ mashed in one, of course: these are fairly simple, one-trick pop ballads with plenty of repetition and not a lot of invention in the arrangements, but Paul can be utterly convincing in minimalist mode as well.

Another absolute highlight in another style is ʽLetting Goʼ, a song that establishes and develops a mighty groove that actually kicks more ass than ʽLet Me Roll Itʼ — the first thirty seconds before the vocals come in are my single favourite musical moment on the record: the dirty blues inter­play between Dennyʼs and Jimmyʼs guitars, the deep rumble of Paulʼs bass, the way Jimmy deviates from the set course into a few bars of aggressive soloing before he is cut off by the vocals... if somebody ever needed proof that Wings could be a real tougher-than-nails rockʼnʼroll band when they really wanted to, no need to go further. Cherry on the tart: the pompous brass interlude in the middle, followed by a short and utterly brilliant in its rise-and-fall guitar solo from McCulloch.

And speaking of McCulloch, his own contribution to the album, the hard-rocking anti-drug prayer / anthem ʽMedicine Jarʼ, is one of the finest overproduced rock songs of the mid-1970s. Again, the song went out of circulation after the Wingsʼ world tour of 1975–76, and there is nothing particularly «Paulish» about it other than the smooth bass part, but with its sonic thunderstorm, another brilliant guitar solo, seriously touching vocals from Jimmy, and strong lyrical message (particularly strong, of course, in light of McCullochʼs subsequent demise from overdosing), it manages to give Venus And Mars a strong push in the right direction rather than drag it down with a perfunctory «non-Paul» performance. That moment when Jimmy breaks into the solo and launches it all the way into the stratosphere is the most acutely felt «help-me-now-Iʼm-falling» moment on the entire record (though the bridge on ʽLove In Songʼ comes close).

Unfortunately, all these great tunes are usually downplayed by the success of ʽListen To What The Man Saidʼ, another #1 single for Paul in the States — an immaculately crafted, instantly memorable fast pop song with great sax work from Tom Scott, but a bit too «clubby» for my tastes: I can easily see it sharing the bill with something like ABBAʼs ʽDancing Queenʼ, and while I am a big fan of both artists, I would prefer them doing their own schticks rather than encroaching on each otherʼs territory. This one definitely goes with chest hair — and this time, you donʼt even get a sense of irony or anything.

As you can tell by now, the album is one hell of a mixed bag. Greatness mixed with silliness, heart-wrenching moments alternating with pure schlock, and not a whiff of conceptuality in sight, despite the softly epic title track trying to tie together both sides of the record. "Venus and Mars are all right tonight" — a message that could mean just about anything; on the Wings tour, it was taken to mean «here, if the times demand it, I will be your own personal Ziggy Stardust for this one particular evening». At the time, Venus And Mars dutifully fulfilled its task — provided the band with enough original material to play on tour. Once the tour ended, the album was more or less retired, and, unlike Ram, its reputation never truly recovered, for reasons that are easy to understand. Still — it is consistently melodic, it is fun, it gives you Paulʼs own take on the big crunchy rockʼnʼroll sound of the mid-1970s (you may take it or leave it), it has a few really great songs, and it has special added charm for fans of Marvel Comics and Fred Astaire. Are we really going to hold its relative lack of depth against it?.. Well, even if we do, I will still take a shallow Paul McCartney circa 1975 over a deep [insert your favorite 21st century artist here] circa [insert any year from 2000 to 2018 here — except maybe 2004, because, you know, Funeral came out in 2004] any time of day.