It was 20 years ago today that I saw Paul McCartney perform live for the first time: 9 April 2003 at the Manchester Arena on his Back in the World tour.
Here are some memories of an incredible night and why I turned down the chance to meet the man himself beforehand.
“Would you fancy meeting Paul McCartney?”
No. Absolutely not.
Turning down the chance to meet my hero might seem a crazy thing to do. In fact, I would love to meet him and be able to tell him what his music means to me, but not in the circumstances which presented themselves back in 2003.
The spurned opportunity came about because the radio station for which I was working at the time was the sponsor/broadcast partner for the UK leg of Macca’s tour. Naturally, the powers-that-be at the station – taking time out from trying to anaesthetise the way that you feel – wanted to make the most of that association and get Paul on board to do something. Anything.
There was an open invitation for him to drop into the station for an interview, maybe record a ‘When Noddy met Macca’ special with our legend-in-residence, Noddy Holder. There was also talk, more talk, about a competition for listeners to go along to the soundcheck and meet McCartney backstage. This is where I came in. Or, rather, didn’t come in.
Our listeners would need a chaperone from the radio station and my obsession with Macca was well known: “Stu, would you fancy meeting Paul McCartney?”
I immediately said no. This isn’t how I wanted to meet him. If we were to meet, I’d need Paul to clear his diary for a couple of hours so that I could tell him in detail how his music has been the soundtrack to my life, illuminating the happiest moments and providing solace in the lowest.
I didn’t want a fleeting moment in which I’m the millionth radio guy to say hello to him and I didn’t want to be a bystander while some competition winners, who were only really there for the hits and the Beatles numbers, got to chat to him. Pah, I haughtily imagined, I bet those guys don’t spend their time mentally re-sequencing Wings albums to find room for Robbers Ball or Cage.
In the end, it didn’t matter. Macca lost his voice a week or so before the Manchester gigs and pared back his promo to save himself for the shows. I was starting to worry, though – all these years waiting to see him live and now he’s ill. What if he can’t perform? Or, worse, what if he performs but his voice is rough? Oh, jeez.
The excitement, anticipation and sense of occasion at the Manchester Arena is palpable. I vividly recall taking our seats and just soaking up the atmosphere; there’s a trumpeter playing somewhere offstage, incense hangs in the air and text messages from audience members are flashed up on the big screen.
The pre-show begins with a cast of characters walking through the audience while a mix of Fireman music plays. I love this. It’s so atmospheric and, as Paul says on the tour DVD, it welcomes the audience into his world.
The pre-show reaches its climax, a huge crashing chord sounds and the big screen flashes up the silhouette of a Hofner bass. The screen rises and there he is.
Fuck, THAT’S PAUL MCCARTNEY. I’m actually under the same roof as Paul McCartney. I’m literally shaking at this point and my heart is pounding. Paul and the band go straight into Hello Goodbye and Jet and they sound incredible, with thankfully no sign of that sore throat.
“Good evening Manchester. It’s great to be back in Lancashire.” Boom! One there for anyone still railing against the 1974 boundary changes and a reminder that, while youngsters like me were born in this new place called Merseyside, The Beatles were all actually Lancashire lads: when they weren’t busy changing the face of popular music and being fab, they probably loved rugby league and pies.
All My Loving and Getting Better are up next and my heart is still racing. A couple of duds from Macca’s rubbish 2001 album Driving Rain follow soon after to steady my pulse (don’t @ me on this point: “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, let’s go for a drive”. Urgh).
I’d been unable to resist the temptation to look at the setlist and reviews in advance so I knew a lot of what to expect from the show. However, that didn’t stop some genuinely surprising moments: when Let Me Roll It gives way to a jam on Jimi Hendrix’s Foxy Lady, I’m stunned. I hadn’t read anything about that and it absolutely thrills me: Macca is awesome on lead guitar.
Further surprises come with some setlist changes designed to preserve Paul’s voice after his cold. Out, to my disappointment, go Maybe I’m Amazed and Coming Up but in come Things We Said Today, I’ve Just Seen a Face and Two of Us. As the opening notes of the latter ring out, I excitedly inform my fiancée: “HE’S NEVER DONE THIS SONG LIVE BEFORE!” Thankfully, she was well used to my Macca nerdery by this stage and it didn’t put her off marrying me three months later with, of course, a McCartney song for our first dance.
How do you pick out highlights from a gig that is basically all highlights? The solo acoustic performances of We Can Work It Out and Blackbird are spellbinding, the full band arrangement of Calico Skies is delightful and I can feel the vibrations of a thunderous Back In The USSR throughout my body.
The home straight is beyond ridiculous: Let It Be, The Long and Winding Road, Hey Jude, Yesterday, Lady Madonna, I Saw Her Standing There – some of the greatest songs ever written performed by the man who composed them. It’s the equivalent of hearing Shakespeare read his sonnets out loud.
Tears roll down my face during Let It Be. I lost my dad unexpectedly a couple of months before the gig: when Paul sings “when the night is cloudy there is still a light that shines on me” it comforts me and breaks my heart in equal measure. Mine are far from the only tears being shed in the audience tonight: it’s that kind of evening and McCartney’s music is perhaps unmatched in its capacity to move the listener and reach deep into their soul.
And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. Paul brings the gig to a close with one of the finest lines he, or anyone else, ever wrote. The band take their bows and Macca scoops up gifts thrown onto the stage from the crowd – teddy bears, flowers and, amusingly, a box of Lemsip cold and flu drinks.
“See ya next time!” he shouts as he leaves the stage. It turns out that my next time will, in fact, be the very next night; a couple of complimentary tickets are left on my desk the next morning, courtesy of the wonderful Mr Holder.
I watch the same show the following night and, a couple of months later, join the huge crowds at Liverpool’s Kings Dock for Paul’s homecoming show. It’s been a privilege to see Macca live another seven or eight times since then, including amazing fifth-row seats on his 2011 tour, but nothing will ever match the giddy excitement of that first time.
It was wonderful to be there and certainly a thrill.
