Maybe I'm Amazed

I'm just a few hours back from the McCartney show. I'm tired, my throat is sore, and I don't think I have it in me to distill three hours of once-in-a-lifetime experience into a few paragraphs of pithy commentary. But here goes.

In the back of my mind, I was worried that this show would not, could not possibly, live up to the experience I had seeing the great man in 1993. Then I was awed at the idea of seeing actual Beatle in the actual flesh. Since then, I have been inordinately blessed to have seen both living Beatles in concert one time each. So when Paul walked casually onto the stage last night, I didn't have the surge of "Oh my God, that's really him" that I did in 1993.

There was also the fact that I had accidentally seen the first five songs in the set lists from another venue, so I had a pretty good idea what was in store early on. And, as it happens, the early part of the show was weighted with largely post-Beatles material, which I don't have nearly the emotional attachment to. Also, there was the lady sitting near me, who had decided to favor us all by wearing a generous slathering of her favorite perfume; a thick, sickly and cheap-smelling floral that kept intruding on my consciousness for the first 30 minutes or so of the show.

When all these factors are taken into consideration, I think I can be forgiven for the fact that I was 10 songs into the concert before the feel of the thing began to take me over. The emotional reactions I wrote of in my last post first reared their head during an especially playful version of  "Let 'Em In." The interaction between the band; the way the drummer kept flicking his head to the left, the center and the right, the exact same way every time, as he drilled his way steadily through the song's military-inspired snare part; and just the whimsical nature of the song, hooked me, and pulled me into the show.

After that, I seldom left.

Oh, to be sure, there were minor annoyances; the beer vendor who bellowed "Ice Cold Beer!" three feet from my face as I was trying to enjoy the epic pyrotechnic excitement that was "Live and Let Die" (jolted from my concentration on the song, I bellowed "Shut up!" back at him nearly as loud). And there was the steady stream of people who opted to spend the concert plying their own special trade route between the concession stand, their seats, and the bathroom. Ordinarily, I would have never have noticed this last bit but for the fact that the steps leading down from our section crossed in front of our seats, and we had a steady stream of heads briefly crossing in front of our field of view.

But these were all minor trifles, and easily ignored, in comparison of what we got to witness. The delight I felt at "Let 'Em In" increased more and more during the next two hours, until by the time we reached the second encore, my wife and I were both in a more-or-less permanent state of slack-jawed amazement. The surprises, the "you've got to be kidding me" moments came regularly; "A Day In The Life," "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" (which he's almost never done live), "I've Got A Feeling," "Day Tripper," "Helter Skelter" — the arrival of each left me stunned, except for "Helter Skelter," which, instead, triggered a burst of maniacal laughter.

The most moving moment for me was "Two Of Us." The Let It Be album has been growing on me lately, and this track, which opens that album, has always reminded me of John and Paul's early friendship as Liverpool teens. A close second, and one of my wife's favorite moments, was his intimate and sweeping rendition of Something, which was a beautiful, touching and genuine tribute to George Harrison.

When we reached Hey Jude, the I felt the sadness set in. This number has long been a staple closing number of McCartney shows, so I knew we were close to the end. I knew going into this night that, all things taken into consideration, I would likely never be in the same room with Sir Paul again. I dutifully sang along with the roughly 20,000-strong crowd until the bitter end. Then, as he waved from the stage and took his bows with the rest of the band, I said a quiet "Goodbye, Paul."

Thankfully, Sir Paul takes not one, but two curtain calls in his show, and my mood had lifted considerably by the second one, when Paul's simple, beautifully done version of "Yesterday" was answered a few seconds later with the raucous machine gun guitar opening of "Helter Skelter." When the band followed this with the "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band Reprise," it was yet another treat in a long night of treats, and it felt like an acceptable, and even fitting, way to end the evening.

Then the band bounced off of one of the chords from "Pepper," and into "The End" from Abbey Road — long one of my favorite tracks from my favorite album. And with that, any reluctance I had to say goodbye to Paul, and to the evening, disappeared.

Paul traded guitar leads with the other two band members until the band crashed into the soft piano ostinato, and I watched, stunned into motionless, as he sang the lines "And in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make." If he had asked me how I wanted him to end the show, I would not have dared to think of this.

And then, the song was over. Paul took his bows, told us he would see us next time, and was gone, leaving my wife and I, jaws open, shaking our heads at each other in amazement.

The show I saw seventeen years ago stood at the top of the heap of the dozens of shows I've seen during my life. Until last night, that is.

I walked out of the Bridgestone Arena last night convinced, as I am now, that I will probably never see a better concert for the rest of my life.

And you know what? I think I'm okay with that.