Day in the life: The Beatles' Paul McCartney is shown on the set of the Ed Sullivan Show. McCartney turns 80 on Saturday.
It’s a funny old world when you realise the man who wrote When I’m 64 as an anxious teenager turns 80 tomorrow.
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The jolly little tune appeared on The Beatles’ gigantic eighth album, Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, released on May 26, 1967, three weeks before Paul McCartney’s 25th birthday.
The story goes that McCartney wrote the song on the family piano at his Liverpool home when he was about 14. It was a time when to be 64 seemed impossibly old, and in a way it was — the average lifespan for a white, first world man in 1956 was 65.
Yesterday, Sir Paul finished up his 16-date North American tour, which began in early April.
Tomorrow he’ll have a birthday party with family and friends, and then next Saturday he steps out in front of another 200,000 people to headline the iconic Glastonbury Festival in Somerset, UK — just another week in the life of an octogenarian rock star.
At an age when most 80-year-olds would be content with slippers and Ovaltine at 9pm, Sir Paul and his rock compatriot Sir Mick are jumping around on stage well past bedtime.
How do they do it? Paul is a vegetarian and Mick is a fitness fanatic, so that would help. So would having a billion dollars in the bank.
But in McCartney’s case I reckon there’s something else that has kept his engine running and in tune all these years — his affable, energetic genius.
Geniuses can be nutty, wild, maniacal and impossible to understand, but not so Paul McCartney. He’s just a normal genius. John Lennon on the other hand was a nutty, troubled genius.
Centre stage: Paul McCartney has kept up a hectic touring schedule during his 70s.
Photo by
Chris Pizzello
Being the most famous and lovable man in the world doesn’t seem to affect McCartney much. He’s not in and out of rehab; he doesn’t wear Spandex or dye his hair blue; and he doesn’t drive a yellow Lamborghini.
He’s made mistakes and has sometimes copped a media shellacking, notably when he got busted for marijuana possession at Tokyo airport in 1980, and during his messy divorce from Heather Mills in 2008.
But whenever media storms or tragedies hit, McCartney’s affable genius sees him rise above it. He’s just too nice to hate for very long.
Or perhaps a wall of public relations staff makes sure we never see him stumble.
As a Beatle he was the pretty one with puppy-dog eyes, but later he was accused of being a ruthless go-getter when it came to getting his music and his money under his control.
Last year’s Get Back film revealed him to be a subtle control-freak. He appeared as someone prepared, perhaps unintentionally, to upset others to get his own way.
All this wouldn’t matter a hoot if it wasn’t Paul McCartney.
Apart from all those early magical Beatles hits, it was McCartney’s restless energy and determination that kept the band going after the death of manager Brian Epstein in 1967.
Without him we wouldn’t have Sgt Pepper, Magical Mystery Tour, Let it Be or the final gem, Abbey Road.
McCartney has been with me all my life like a talented and charming older brother. And it’s not all about the music; it’s about the stories, the fun, the family and the secrets that only brothers can share.
When Lennon died in 1980 I was 25 and my youth came tumbling down. I fell heavily under McCartney’s spell as my only remaining brother.
I was as a motorcycle messenger in central London and I would often take my lunch break in Soho Square where McCartney had his music publishing offices.
I would sit on my bike eating a toasted sausage sandwich in the freezing winter and wait to see if McCartney would appear at the office door and walk jauntily down the street.
I could catch up with him for a beer at The Dog and Duck and he would reveal all the Beatles’ secrets — like what actually is that opening chord to Hard Day’s Night?
I remember a wet April Sunday in London in about 1985, just before I turned 30, when I took a drive with a fellow Beatles family member called Sue. Our mission was to find Paul McCartney’s country house near the village of Peasmarsh in Sussex.
Looking back, we could have been stalkers, but we had no plan to climb over any walls or knock on his door. We just wanted to share the same air as our affable genius brother. Google maps were 25 years away and we never did find his house, but it didn’t matter. It was enough to know we lived at the same time and in the same corner of the world as the friendly, but ruthless puppy dog Beatle.
Happy birthday, Sir Paul — here’s to the coda; When I’m 94.
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