I mean, Christ, the 68-year-old former Beatle looks better than any of us do after 30, and sounds better than any of us will — ever.
Opening with Wings’ Jet immediately followed by the Beatles’ All My Loving and Got To Get You Into My Life, the show proved that McCartney and his band (guitarist Rusty Anderson, drummer Abe Laboriel Jr., bassist/guitarist Brian Ray, and keyboardist Paul Wickens) have gone far beyond where they were when I saw them on their first tour nearly 10 years — some 200 shows — ago.
With a musical legacy that touched more lives than virtually any other living musician, McCartney remains a consummate showman who clearly knows which songs will bring packed stadiums to their feet and keep them there. But he also mixed in a couple of surprises, including a song from the Fireman, his ongoing indie project with Killing Joke bassist/producer Youth. At mid-show, he grabbed a mandolin for Dance Tonight, the lead track off Memory Almost Full, an album that helped me through one of the worst periods in my life.
I’m guessing most everyone in the crowd had at least one moment where they were fighting back tears; that was mine.
I’d provide the whole set list here, and will if anyone out there asks for it. But hey, this isn’t a jam band, even if this concert proved they could be any kind of band they wanted to.
So yeah, maybe I WAS amazed, and plenty of times. Near shows end, during Live and Let Die, explosive jets of flame roared up from the front of the stage. It was the scariest display of onstage pyrotechnics I’ve witnessed since seeing Einsturzende Neubauten in a small club, where they repeatedly showered cascades of sparks over the front half of the audience by intermittently applying a circular saw to sheets of metal.
McCartney also thanked his soundman and lighting crew by name, which is one of the classier things I’ve ever seen a performer do.
On the way out of the show, I bought the souvenir program, something I never do. Just making conversation after handing over the money, I asked the guy selling them if it was well-written.
“Yeah, it’s not a load of shit,” he said in a heavy working class British accent.
At one point in the show, watching McCartney on the two 30-foot-high screens during a rendition of the Beatles' Paperback Writer, it occurred to me that, like The Picture of Dorian Gray in reverse, he seemed to get younger as he went on. Maybe we all did.
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