PAUL MCCARTNEY: 'NEW' (2013)
So Lord Sir Macca has returned with his
394th album, released just in time for sticking in the Christmas stockings of bust baby-boomers, worn-out
groovers, frail and weedy pot-heads and un-embarrassable dancing uncles. Why
does he do it? Isn't he rich enough? Surely he doesn't need any more islands
stacked sky-high with tenners? Does he get some kinky kick from the online
insulters who, knowing nothing of him, point at his Herman Munster
Frankenmullet and laugh? Why doesn't he retire and let the world of Pop be run
by da kidz? For a legitimate reason for his reluctance to hang up his plectrum,
let's turn to another mad-haired Scouser OAP who still rampages the stages of
theatres. Ken Dodd, when asked about the thought of quitting by Bob Monkhouse
ten years ago, replied that retirement was when you stopped doing the job you
didn't like. And McCartney is no reluctant performer. It's not just some job of
work for him; it's his compulsion, it's his permanent itch. What would he do
otherwise? He knows no other way of passing the time.
And it doesn't really matter whether the records are good or bad,
whether they're inventive or dull, pleasant or painful, brilliant or plain.
That's not for him to decide. He hasn't the time to discern the qualities. He
is, to his detriment and benefit, a great believer in the random aspect process
and the first thought/best thought policy, and will leave some lyrical gobbledegook
in place, simply because it sounds good to him. 'C Moon' finds him trilling
that "I'd never get to heaven if I fill my head with glue", and
'Monkberry Moon Delight' finds him screaming about sitting in the attic with a
piano up his nose. Does this mean anything? Should it? It's a delight that
McCartney eludes the didacticism and naked confessionalism of Lennon's solo
output (God, all those bloody one-dimensional Yoko songs! It was like being
cornered by a humourless pub bore droning on about his car or Sunderland's
chances this season. Very early on in his solo career, Macca trod lightly on
the same espouse-the-spouse path as Lennon - e.g. 'The Lovely Linda' - but
realised very swiftly that this was a creative cul-de-sac, the wrong kind of
self-indulgence). McCartney's songs are as empty or full as you wish them to
be. When, on 'Band On The Run', he sings "The rain exploded with a mighty
crash as we fell into the sun", are we supposed to take this literally or
metaphorically? McCartney litters his songs with lyrical red herrings, blue
meanings or bare-faced codswallop - who
is Billy Budapest and why has he got Macca's pyjamas? Is 'Ram On' cryptic
autobiography (his showbiz soubriquet, pre-Beatlemania, being 'Paul Ramon')?
This doesn't mean that McCartney is oblivious to his faults (the
schmaltzy ballads, the cooing and the wooing, the sloppy pop, the gloomy strums
- Macca Tack, for short): 'Silly Love Songs', beneath its gloss and sheen, is a
knowing satirical self-poke ("You would have thought that the world had
had enough of silly love songs […] but what's wrong with that, I'd like to
know, because here I go - AGAIN! - 'I love you, I love you'…"). His art is
inconsistent, uneven, wayward, unbalanced, frustrating - but then so is Life itself.
What's the big deal? Which great artist has never painted a crappy picture? And
which crappy artist has never painted a great one? It's the way the cookie
crumbles, the sausage rolls, the angel delights and the strawberry fools.
This is as good a place as any to lean over to Francois Truffaut who is
saying this at some point in time and space:
"[T]he practice of cinema has taught us a certain number of things:
- It demands as much effort to make a bad
film as a good one;
- Our most sincere film can look like a
practical joke;
- The one we do most casually may end up
going around the world;
- An idiotic but energetic film can be
better cinema than an intelligent but flabby film;
- The result is rarely proportionate to
the effort put into it."
Francois' findings are as valid to record-making as to film-making.
What we have here on 'New' is a more sober-than-usual Macca. If you want
examples of how mad he can be musically, seek out and enjoy his 'Electric
Arguments' record made in 2008 with Youth (under the group name The Fireman);
there are more ideas and tunacy in its 63 genre-mashing minutes than in forty
years of Eno theorising. The contributions of Linda McCartney are much missed -
her untutored vocals were a vital, essential ingredient; broken glass in the
face cream. And Macca's employment of four of the hippest producers smacks of a
desperation for cool credibility. It's too late in the day for him to try and
re-invent himself, a la Bowie or Gaga. He doesn't need to bother about his public image.
Despite his continual proclamations of the 'normality' in his life ("Very
twee/Very me" - his self-description in 2005's 'English Tea'), we all know
he's completely mad and has been since 1964. He took advice from an owl on the
matter of whether or not to marry Heather Mills.
'New' has, as one would expect, a few trademark eccentric lyrical
touches ("I need someone who's a sweet communicator I can give my
alligator to") but, in the main, this is a solid textbook for the art of
pop composition. It rocks, it rolls, he reveals as much as he hides. It's a
great listen but, more than the songs themselves, is his continuing talent, his
ability to produce something new in that ancient framework of verses, choruses
and middle eights. Whereas most of his contemporaries, and the generations
following after, find their creative fires burnt out and having to rely on
repackaging their pasts in more elaborate and expensive boxes or churning out their back catalogue onstage,
Macca continues digging away, sometimes hitting common rock, sometimes coming
up with diamonds. In his eighth decade, he is Pop's Picasso, still curious,
still hungry, still moving.
There have been many pop star deaths this past year - some more expected
than others - but the passing of Lord Sir Macca, he of the permanently aloft
thumbs, would be probably the most painful for this writer to withstand. He has
been making music for my entire life, he has effectively soundtracked it
(without my knowing it), he has given me more joy (even the unintended hilarity
of something ghastly like 'Wonderful Christmastime', or the devil's advocate
argument of defending 'The Frog's Chorus' as a disguised anthem for the
workers) than almost any other pop musician. He gives hope and inspiration in
so many ways, and in these austere days, he is a treasure you'd be mad to lose.
Review by Kitty DaviesNEWS
ASTRO QUITES UB40
"After a well-documented turbulent few years I feel that it is time to draw a line in the sand and move on. Since Ali and Micket departed, the band has been like a rudderless ship with no clear direction, no action plan. We've merely muddled our way through on a wing and a prayer. There has been a serious lack of communication between the band and management...
I know it may seem sudden to all who know me but my mind is made up and will not change. I think it's clear that I've had enough of being depressed, as I'm sure other members are, but the difference is I'm not prepared to continue to be miserable at home and work. So it's with a heavy heart I say goodbye. It was (mostly) fun while it lasted." - Astro
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO.... Scarlet Johansson whose special day is November the 22nd.
Johansson says: "It's a great thing to get older and learn I don't feel bound in any way to how many years I've lived. I identify just as much with my 86 year old Grandmother as I do with my sister."
