Paul McCartney
McCartney II

THE REVIEW

Far apart today to get even closer tomorrow

Far apart today to get even closer

Far apart today to get closer

Far apart today

Far apart

In a restricted line at the supermarket, you can sense smiles disguised as nervous experiments.

And I with a maybe that I carry along, a second shadow. Will we rediscover who we are?

My plans to deface the facade of the church of Mereto di Tomba with a sacred cow with the inscription: ‘hands off the frico’ are postponed.

Sorrowfully thinking about which album to review track by track in the old-fashioned way. And maybe the review is even a duplicate. Why not, my pockets have always been full of wasted time, without realizing that I was changing and that same time was changing with me.

The album is special to me, I don't deny it's embarrassing, possibly the worst of the Albion Paul, but it contains magic that only a fab four could secrete:

Coming Up is a postmodern vaudeville with oboes (they must be oboes oh boy) that climb shrill like Paul's nails-on-blackboard falsetto. The introduction couldn't be better: “it's coming” Paolo warns us, the look on the cover doesn't hide it. Where's the nearest bathroom?

Right after, there's Temporary Secretary, the story of someone determined not ending up under the desk and thus it ends, with a mischievous synth that goes up and down, Paul tries hard to recreate the honk of a strangled goose in a chorus with unbalanced volumes and utters a series of nonsense that could make a Dream Fìatah text envious.

On The Way stubbornly and oppositely turns to rock blues where our hero sings drunkenly with an echo interspersed by vitriolic guitar stabs. A song as deep as a Fabio Volo book.

Waterfalls, here Paul sings decently but sings too much, and the keyboard carpet is quite nice, but when the guitar kicks in, everything takes on a surreal connotation as if he's gone back to the days when George was bugging him with the sitar. The problem is after two minutes he's already getting on your nerves and the lyrics are painfully lame.

NOBODY KNOWS is instead a disco-country ballad from the best bars in Merso di Sotto when there was (or used to be) the frog leg festival. Here Paul almost gets everything right; in being ungraceful and hoarse, he gives us a gem to wiggle to in a scabies-induced frenzy for those three minutes.

Front Parlour is an instrumental that we can summarize in the still-frame of the cover. Paolo has eaten heavily, and you can feel it. It seems like the theme of a lysergic exact time.

Summer's Day Song is an infernal litany to stay insomnia-ridden or to exacerbate migraines, the lyrics are sweet but tied to the "melody" it's scary.

What to say about Frozen Jap, nothing you want to say.

Bogey Music, here we go again, one of Paul's highest peaks, I wonder about the embarrassment felt by the musicians despite the more than decent compensation. It has only the name bogey and it's misspelled and not by chance, it's an unintentionally psychedelic mantra.

Darkroom sounds like a song I've heard before (clearly better than this), but I challenge you not to be indifferent to Paul's vocal gargles under the effect of an amaro del capo aged in plywood barrels.

Then finally for god's lord almighty the album closes with a nice composition: One Of These Days. Anyway, our hero tries his best to ruin it but fails. The simplistic lyrics hold up thanks to the melody, the singing renders everything as always surreal and psychedelic without trying, yet here it gives the song a touch of paranormal grace. "One of these days I'll look around and know what's right," he seems to already regret making this album. "Breathe fresh air ever after," oh yes Paul there's stale air and it's useless to play dumb.

In short, you could generously save two and three quarters of a song, but I am mean and give it top marks because I wore out this album, even twisting the needle on my father's record player (on Nobody Knows I remember well). To young ears it sounded okay, rather unique even. There are ideas, but most went down the drain. Maybe Ringo composed this album and Paul put his face on it, or maybe the real Paul who had been replaced composed it. I don't care, I put it on today and it made me want to cry.

We'll breathe fresh air ever after.