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Rating: Yesterday in Verona, in the spectacular setting of the Arena, once again the musical miracle took shape linked to a charming very British gentleman known to many as James Paul McCartney, considered by some to be Will Campbell, who once called himself Ramon.
For years Paul and the Roman amphitheater have been courting each other, then pretending nothing happened when one or the other backed out for unknown reasons... but finally it happened, I was there, and I can testify. We're here for that, right?
The concert started unusually half an hour late, and it's partly my fault. I was among the handful of die-hards who waited for him at the airport, where the king landed considerably late on a private jet, then decided NOT to stop to shake our hands. However, he pulled up next to us, rolled down the window, and had a short chat, smiling and kind. Thank you anyway, Paul, I will never forget it.
Only Italian date, pricey tickets sold in a nanosecond, audience in ecstasy. In the front rows, you could see Laura EASTMAN (sister of the unforgettable Linda) and, among others, Cremonini, Mengoni, Red of Pù, Phil Mer, Walter Savelli, the drummer of the Apple Pies, Elisa's bassist, the 4Fabs, Zanetti (!!!), and an almost endless series of more or less known folks who obviously have the beat in their blood.
At the start, the walking legend gets announced by a big voice (horrid bass) that intones a famous phrase from his sixties repertoire, while he appears with an elegant long jacket and his trusty hofner bass slung across his shoulder. I've seen more engaging show openings, honestly, but the others didn't have Paul. When he appears, you realize that sometimes dreams can come true, that legends exist, and that an anonymous June evening can become a date that many will remember as long as they live.
Indeed, beneath the now relentless wrinkles and a slightly (but not too) emaciated appearance, it is truly him, that guy who, with three friends, turned the world upside down a few years ago, giving us POP. His eyes and smile, that pleased look... it seemed to me like I had someone I’ve known forever in front of me, a family member. And the fact that everyone around me experienced, with teary eyes, the same emotions was electrifying.
It starts with "8 Days a Week," the evening's first novelty. Not quite the right choice of an opener, according to my very personal judgment, but the roar of the crowd clearly indicates I understand little about showbiz... then it continues for almost THREE hours, during which the old man does not drink a sip of water, does not miss a beat, jumps and hops skillfully, captivates the audience. I noticed a couple of voice drops, but I'm half his age and do more, singing the same songs. We know MACCA is a perfectionist, rehearsing even his phrases for the audience, partly in Italian, in the studio. So, the show is pretty much the same as the last 20 years, with the same skits and jokes, the same recurring but captivating irony, and the disarming confidence of someone who has been on stage for 55 years or so.
The repertoire was evenly divided among pieces from a group whose name I can't recall of guys dressed as beetles, pieces from the never-forgotten Wings, and others from his long and prolific solo career. Paul switches from one instrument to another with a grace that almost makes you angry. I note the novelties I most enjoyed, including, in no particular order, You Mother Should Know, Lovely Rita, All Together Now. Hearing Paul sing and play "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite," famously conceived by John, was stunning and emotional. I was delighted by old favorites like High High High, Listen to What The Man Said, I've Just Seen a Face.
Then the classics... with Obladì Obladà, I seriously feared the ruin would collapse. From there on, tracks like Lady Madonna, Let it Be (wonderfully executed), Get Back, Ticket to Ride, Band On The Run simply drugged the audience. A little cocaine probably would have cost less but would never have had that effect. I saw people crying, screaming like mad, I was hugged by strangers... Paul turned the Arena into a Dantean whirlwind, alternating sublime melodies (like Oscar My Valentine), with pure POP (The Long & Winding Road from an anthology), to high-class and powerful rock with Live & Let Die, Helter Skelter and so on.
I can't refrain from warmly encouraging the 4 fools who, with foam at the mouth, battled because people should sit and not stand to hop to the rhythm imposed by the King to go to hell. I think they realized on their own they chose the wrong location, and when the crowd’s desire to try to touch the heaven where Macca hails from prevailed, some simply left (to make their jewels jingle elsewhere...).
I would add that at that stratospheric level, in my opinion, two winds and two strings to support WIX's tireless keyboard should be added. The Band, on the other hand, is Guinness-worthy, with Abe on drums being a show within the show.
I'll close here, because those who were there know, and those who weren't cannot really grasp, with my words as enamored, what we felt yesterday.
50 years ago, Paul McCartney must have sold his soul to the devil in exchange for unconditional access to the ethereal container of immortal melodies. He did well, because, at the risk of sounding excessive, I can confirm that with the energy and touch only the devil could have given him, Sir Paul yesterday managed to let me and all those around me (many of whom were barely more than teenagers) touch heaven, even if just for a little while.
Thanks Paul... keep on rocking!
Give a look to: www.the4fabs.com; www.shasmahal.wordpress.com
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