I should preface this. I should preface a lot of things in fact, usually with ?She was already dead?, but in this case, I need only disclose that I’m not a critic.
Critics are invariably asteroidal pricks, and I’m not. I really am just the world’s greatest. So it was my birthday, see, and I was taking my Ma and Da to see Paul McCartney in Hyde Park.
We had a long lunch. What did we have? I hardly think this is the time*. This lovely lunch, (and it was a lovely lunch), aside from being an enjoyable part of the day in its own right, did impact on a full appreciation of the entire Sunday lineup. We missed Joshua Radin, who I’m only vaguely aware of; some almost-certainly-antipodean archangel of banality, whose soporific noodling about misplaced affection would have sent me on a willing one-way trip to a Swiss hotel room, and the divorcees and homosexuals in the audience into some massive, shuddering orgasm.
We arrived to the tail-end of Elvis Costello, who I can honestly say seemed to be enjoying his set a good deal more than the audience. I mean it was pleasant enough, but you know, whatever. Following Costello was a surprising Crowded House, who in between being absolutely charming, dryly witty and self-deprecating in a way seemingly only New Zealanders can be, graciously took us on a giant set of ‘guess the advert’.
I should disclaim that at this point, the England football team were in full backwards-stride (I’m sure you’ve all forgotten by now) and so some of the less familiar or advert-y tracks came with an impromptu counter-melody of expletives directed at a screen showing the game, which was a shame, really, as they were for the most part the superior ones.
Crosby Stills and Nash disappointed horribly, singularly justifying why society treats the elderly with snide contempt. Three old blokes playing the same sixteen bars before a ropey guitar solo with the aural consistency of farm slurry. There were many of these instances, and I can only assume they represented individual songs.
But then Paul McCartney. “Good evening Hyde Park. I got a feeling we’re gonna have a rocking time tonight!” And was he right?** A relentlessly flawless set; briskly skipping between Beatles, Wings and solo. Two tracks of the recent album Fireman were outed, with the giant displays confirming this throughout, to avoid… confusion (?), and were promptly forgotten.
Musical tributes to John Lennon, George Harrison and Linda McCartney were affectionate and heartfelt, and tracks like Blackbird, played without the band, were the ultimate reminder of why the man is simply the greatest songwriter of the pop era. Banter and trademark daft-daft daftness peppered the daft parts, and whilst much about the set was expected, it did not feel wholly predictable.
Big erection moments included the electric Back in the USSR, pyrotechnic Live and Let Die, and herculean Hey Jude sing-along, and all in the crowd were hopelessly drawn into the warmth and jigging of mellifluous musical security from a master who is now 68, but whom all could fantasise of as a peer. Two rapturous encores later and Macca was finally finished for the night, and for the tour; which some say could be one of his last. It seems like McCartney would be incapable of finishing even an egg on anything but a glorious high note, and an evening where sunshine poured from both sky and stage made it the perfect conclusion to Germany beating the crap out of England in the World Football Cup.
Yay football!
* An excellent rib of beef.
**Yes, he was right.
This was a guest post by Iain Haywood, mastermind of the genius that is Rock Soap Opera
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GeorgePBurdell says
Neil Finn is only New Zealander in Crowded House…and he lives in England