For Everyone

A Daytalky open letter to Sir Paul McCartney on his 80th birthday

“You stay home, she goes out,
She says that long ago she knew someone
But now he’s gone, she doesn't need him.”

—The Beatles, “For No One”

Dear Paul McCartney,

Man, I don’t even know where to begin.

You’ve been in my life from the start.

I mean, you share a name with my late father, who was also known as “Junior,” since his father was also named Paul (although I realize your name is James Paul McCartney, but no one ever called you Jimmy, did they? And if so, how weird is that? Paulie. You are Paul, always Paul).

I wanted my father to be my friend. We attempted that later in life (to some success, actually). From what I understand of your early life your father was your friend, certainly after your mother Mary died. I think that’s wonderful. Your father must have given you a lot of wisdom. It shows in how you present yourself.

You and I first met (though you met a lot of people, naturally) on Sunday, February 9, 1964. Our family always watched TV on Sunday night. For the record, I was then four years old, turning five in the fall. You, of course, were only 21 years old. So, yeah, you were an adult, at least to me. My parents were 33 (Dad) and 28 (Mom). I can’t recall if others were there when I saw you on The Ed Sullivan Show, but I doubt it. My brother Brian was only a toddler.

I’ll just say this…

Oh yeah, I remember you. (Link also in the player below.)

I remember your electricity, like a sudden lightning bolt instantly frying our living room carpet with energy and passion, in the Broad Ripple neighborhood of Indianapolis, with its white faux brick walls and potted plants. I recall disapproval from the parents (it was your hair)—but I didn’t care. I had just met you. I thought you were fine. My hair (what I had of it at the time) must’ve stood on end. I was captivated.

This was new. It was good. I was excited to meet you. I hoped you’d become a new friend in my life.

And you did.

And for that I’m forever grateful.

---

I write this because you’re now 80 going on 81. I got to see you in Orlando, Florida, when you were 79, mere weeks ago. For the record, I’m 62 going on … well, here’s the deal. How are numbers a thing, right Paul? Of course your “When I’m Sixty-Four,” seems quaint, no? But it’s still fun to listen to. I was always partial to “You Gave Me the Answer,” or “Treat Her Gently—Lonely Old People,” which were brave songs to write given you weren’t old.

Or, it seemed, lonely.

Maybe we’re never old? Maybe age is a mindset, an illusion, a culturally adopted falsehood?

NAH.

Let’s face it: We’re old. When I saw you in Florida, I worried about you like a friend would worry about another friend. I don’t know why I did, but I did. But you seemed to get energy from all of us in the audience—I got it and it inspired me. You struggled a bit at first (your voice seemed raspy and tired) but it picked up steam. I thought: “holy Mother of God, he’s back!” Kicking 80 in the butt is no big thing. I must try that some time.

Numbers are one thing, attitude is another. You sorta showed me that in Orlando when I saw the show.

Paul McCartney in Orlando, Fla., May 28, 2022, on his “Got Back” tour (photo by StoryShed Media LLC).

So, our joint journey was random. That is, I didn’t catch up with you until the 1970s, when I was much older, but you were always on the edge of my early years, during the 1960s. We heard “Penny Lane,” “Strawberry Fields Forever,” but it was late that decade that “Let It Be” entered my world and “The Long and Winding Road.” I felt sad. I thought you were going to leave us all, you and your friends George, John, and Ringo. It was unthinkable that you would. Why end a beautiful thing? Why?

Well. *sigh*

The future is a mystery wrapped in a riddle tied tightly in another mystery. In a sense, endings are beginnings. Beginnings are not celebrated as endings unless you consider crying at weddings a behavior that acknowledges that fact.

What I DO remember is scratching my head at everything you did after The Beatles: “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey,” “Jet,” “Silly Love Songs,” “Let ’Em In,” ad infinitum. Then I loved them. Bob Dylan had the same effect on me. I was like, “What the fuh are you talking about?” And then it became normal. I think you always knew that, so kudos for being ahead of the curve.

Hey, we drive slow out here in the hinterlands. Honk-honk, sloooooww.

Paul. You’ll enjoy this:

My parents hated your group The Beatles. I wonder about it to this day. What was it that made them that way? I think it was because you represented change. And they feared change. They were Depression Era babies. They saved everything out of fear. Change doesn’t play well with fear. Oh no, never.

But they knew I loved you, so Christmas of 1976 they gave me your Wings Over America LP as a present under the tree. I was overjoyed—and surprised. But that’s love, right, Paul? It’s listening to the people you love and giving them what they need. They knew I needed to hear your voice.

And I needed to hear you. Always have.

My friend Dan and I saw your show in Orlando. We also saw you before, with Wings in 1976, and again later in the ’90s. I loved that you played “Blackbird,” and many other early songs.

But you absolutely had me in tears when you pulled out George’s ukulele and played “Something.” I loved George. I love his song. I love that you played it. That totally made my night.

Dan (left) and I at your show in Orlando, Saturday, May 28, 2022, (Photo by Dan Rogers). We saw you in 1976 and later, too.

And I was amazed that you put it out there for all of us (for EVERYONE) to see. I can’t recall the last time I felt that connected to other humans—and goddamn it, you did that. All by yourself.

Oh, and with George’s help. And John’s. And Ringo’s. And Mal’s. And George Martin’s—okay, I’ll stop now, but we don’t get to do anything in this life without other people. Paul, I call that Daytalking and it’s something that I directly connect with you and other artists and friends who’ve made it real to me. It can be a struggle, but we have to make it work.

You’d agree, right?

“We Can Work It Out.”

Yes. Yes we can.

I have super vivid moments when—as a human on planet Earth living along with you (which is an amazing thought, and true!)—I am doing laundry and writing something like this and feeling both connected and distracted at the same time. Then I sort of laugh because, well, that’s human. We’re all lovely messes. The worst side of the scale is being judgmental and dismissive. But there’s also the fair and considerate side—I don’t think in the years I’ve known you I’ve ever seen your bad side, but hey, your mileage may vary. I’m all over the map, my friend. It’s weird, but imagining you doing laundry right now cheers me up, like off your Got Back tour. You just go home and rest and realize you’ve done some amazing work. And then you pick up a guitar while the dryer continues to beep for your attention. And you keep noodling that song.

Hells bells, the dryer can wait.

Right?

Right.

It’s life. And we’re both living it. I love that.

Sometime in the early 1970s I bought your first solo LP, McCartney. I couldn’t stop listening to it. It drove my parents crazy, me spinning it on the turntable in my bedroom.

Your LP felt like a raw nerve, exposed. My favorite song was “Junk.” Tears me up every time. It’s amazing. It encapsulates so much of being, belonging, and not-belonging. But then shit, you’d written “Eleanor Rigby” so you had game on that—boom. Everyone loves “Maybe I’m Amazed,” but truth be told it took me a while to warm to it. And here’s a weird fact: “Kreen-Akrore” is the sexiest instrumental number I’ve ever heard. It warms my nether-regions to this day. How did you pull that off? Drumming? Raw humming and deep breathing? Sparse guitar? Those are my best guesses. It’s primal, sexy—I love it. Dammit, Paul. Good stuff—beautiful, human stuff.

Now let’s fast forward.

Ram, Red Rose Speedway, Band on the Run, Venus and Mars. Holy crap, I could barely keep up!

I had favorites on each, so I’ll pick one from each, in order: “Dear Boy,” “Single Pigeon,” “No Words (For My Love),” and “You Gave Me the Answer.” On that last LP, “Crossroads Theme” came to mind (heck, I’m American so I didn’t realize it was the theme song of a daytime drama, which we call “soap operas”) when, at the Orlando show, you dropped confetti while fireworks lit up the sky behind the stage. It would’ve been perfect. Soaring. Amazing. But you’d already done that.

I got that.

Smart moves, my man.

Paul McCartney in Orlando, FL, Saturday, May 28, 2022 (Photo by StoryShed Media LLC).

My mind. Blown.

But wait.

You did sort of lose me in the 1980s and ’90s. When I was visiting my then-girlfriend in Britain, “Coming Up,” was on the radio all the time. I saw your face on double-decker buses. “Hey! There’s Paul! I love it!” But you lost me to stuff that I wasn’t connecting to (not worth mentioning, frankly). Time works its magic, and now I can’t get “No More Lonely Nights” outta my head. Bravo, mate.

So. We’re on the road again. Both of us, in the world, with everyone we love and hope to love and things to learn about and taking each step forward. You, toward 81, me 63. I can’t believe it. But the truth is the truth.

You’ve been like an older brother—one I desperately needed. Your lessons emerged through your songs, concerts, media appearances, the way you’ve lived your life. Your generosity, attitude, creativity, peaceful demeanor—gifts for all of us. Thank you.

And of course, it was music. Literally, the hands of love.

Feeling grown up, yet?

No, never mate. Uh-uh—ain’t goin’ there. “Older than I feel now.” Wow. When you were young. So, back to age: it’s a number. You are who you are: “This is him.”

But there’s 73 million people watching you. That’s crazy. Internet crazy. But from you to me, true. As Dave Letterman, a fellow Hoosier from Broad Ripple said to you, “…not that my impression accounts for anything other than my impression,” but fame and notoriety wears a person out.

In that sense, I’m relieved not to have ever had those problems. And I don’t want them now. But Paul, you’ve borne that cross with grace and dignity and humor. It’s been a lesson for all of us. Thank you for that.

And happy birthday. I was glad to be around for it.

See ya ’round campus, mate!

Hey subscribers: Big welcome to new folks: Alex, Brian, Alicia, Jon, Nikko—overjoyed you’re here! New friend Alex has a Substack I’d like to promote, and urge you all to go check it out here. He was born in Odessa, Ukraine, but now lives with his wife and new child in Los Angeles, CA. Welcome, Alex and all new subscribers! So glad you’re here.

I’m finally recovering from late spring exhaustion and wanted to get this piece on Macca up before it faded into the woodwork.

Look for a forthcoming new book review and interviews later this summer.

Thanks for subscribing to StoryShed’s Substack. Big hugs and much joy.

See you all again soon!

Best, MM