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From The Standard, November 19, 2024:

It might have been the moment the snow came down from the O2 ceiling as Paul McCartney sang Wonderful Christmastime. Or when the footage of The Beatles played behind him during Now and Then.

Or when he talked about George and did a ukulele version of Something. Or when he duetted virtually with John for I’ve Got A Feeling. Or all of Hey Jude.

But at some point the Joy-Blubber descended. The Joy-Blubber is when you’re somehow crying and laughing and making faces that should never, ever be photographed. Last night the sensation was brought on when the performance and music and memory (ok, and a few pints) combined.

And this show is a masterpiece of performance and music and memory (and you don’t have to have seen The Beatles for the memories, so woven are they into our lives that it’s a Proustian rush of cassette tapes in the car, bouncing on the sofa to Top of the Pops, that one Christmas party where you fell in love with a photocopier), a well-honed work of art that balances all elements of McCartney’s unbeatable songwriting career, with some serious emotional kick underpinning it all. […]

Look, there’s some sniffy things happening at the moment, whispers of an over-lauding of The Beatles, of their canonical status being somehow oppressive, the documentaries ‘too much’, Scorsese’s Beatles ’64 the latest, and with individual films about each member to come from Sam Mendes (Paul Mescal heavily rumoured to be playing Paul).

Yet I’d defy anyone to see this show and not be blown away.

Paul McCartney is 82. 82! Yet this is a three-hour performance that doesn’t let up, an ecstatic run through his history that starts with Can’t Buy Me Love, takes in Jet and Dance Tonight and Blackbird.

He takes time to muck about, quip, play a Jimi Hendrix guitar solo and give full display to the showman he’s always been, one of these working class kids schooled in musical hall then wilfully corrupted by rock ‘n’ roll wild men like Little Richard.

His band sounds fantastic, all pleasingly stealing the show at various moments, particularly drummer Abe Laboriel Jr. Helter Skelter was heavy as anything. Love Me Do was stripped back, as devastating in this manner as it was when it first shocked older radio listeners and thrilled young ears in 1962.

And a one-two of Live and Let Die – is that level of pyro legal? (McCartney puts his fingers in his ears and crouches for cover when the final big bang hits, comically asking the crowd if they’re alright afterwards) – and Hey Jude is quite unbeatable. The latter, sung with my arm around my son, was an unforgettable personal moment, one I’m sure echoed by the other 20,000 people in the room.

And when all’s said and done, when all the bullshit and documentaries and discourse and debate and gossip and all the rest of it is put to one side, you are left with the songs. And they cannot be denied.

But what’s incredible is that McCartney is still performing them in as electric and warm way as this. While Bob Dylan is also still around touring, McCartney doesn’t have that grumpy, needling edge of messing with the old songs to defy what the people want; he doesn’t have anything to prove. Instead, he’s doing what he loves to do and that is giving people as much giddy delight as possible.

If I could give it six stars I would.

From The Standard, November 19, 2024

From New Statesman, November 19, 2024:

It’s generally metal bands that use fire on stage: James Hatfield from Metallica burned his face with it once. The heat is always a surprise: from Row U on the floor of London’s O2 Arena, the skin turns crisp at the multiple jets of flame which shoot rhythmically in time to the high, stabby riff of “Live and Let Die”. There are fireworks, too – crack crack crack! – as the musical chaos builds and McCartney cranks the piano like the Wizard of Oz. There is little you can say, watching someone like this on stage these days, apart from “they’ve still got it” – but there is something particularly mystifying in seeing an 82 year-old doing a three hour set. McCartney carries the air of immortality: in his body – in the flat stomach, the perfectly tailored clothes (he’s an expert in layers) and the six colourful bracelets on his wrist – and in the powerful insouciance with which he surveys his grand past. Statements range from the banal (“I used to see Jimi in the sixties in London… great guitar player”) to the vivid: “Can you do a Beatles scream? That’s it. Imagine trying to play through that.” 

Everything he does and says is related to the great life but with a shrug. He picks lightly and humorously across the stage, like he’s trying not to burst bubbles with his toes; he makes that little “wooo” with his o-like mouth, if he doesn’t have anything more specific to say. The same apparent effortlessness powers his set, where 33 songs come short and fast as bullets; yet we get the luxury treatment, too: “Wonderful Christmas Time” features a real “choir of children” and fake snow falling from the ceiling. There is only one misfire, as I recall: the plodding “My Valentine”, written for his “missus” Nancy, and accompanied by a video of Johnny Depp doing sign language. Johnny, whom no rocker has yet realised doesn’t make them look good! Many take the opportunity to rest in their seats at this point, including the woman in front of me who has a small personal plackard explaining she has travelled 5000 miles from South Africa for the gig.

There was a moment, about ten years ago, where you often heard that McCartney’s voice was shot. These days, as with Bob Dylan, the shotness just adds to the atmospherics. There is wondrous energy in being in the same room as him, to hear songs that will exist, in new forms, in the future, still being played by the person who wrote them. And the McCartney insouciance is the cherry on the Christmas cake: even his 1982 love letter to Lennon, “Here Today”, sounds dashed off. 

From New Statesman, November 19, 2024