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Talk More Talk.

Tonight, I watched Paul McCartney & Paul Muldoon discuss their new book 'The Lyrics: 1956 to the Present' with journalist Samira Ahmed at Royal Festival Hall.

A picture from tonight’s show, courtesy of Macca’s Instagram. 

While I've visited the iconic venue several times in the interim, the last show I saw there was Brian Wilson's live premiere of the lost Beach Boys album 'Smile' in 2004. Something about 1960s bassists clearly gets me out of the house. Tonight's show was very different but no less entertaining. Macca was engaging and happy to let the conversation flow where it went, which included the odd diversion from his stock responses. The chat was more Beatle-heavy than I'd have liked, but that's just me. And being a former member of the world's biggest band does tend to overshadow things.

Tonight was the first show I've attended since the pandemic hit, besides September's Mostly Comedy obviously. I wore my mask on public transport and at the venue and took all the precautions I could, but you can't help but question if it's right to go at all. I guess it's about striking a balance while being as careful as possible. And I did a lateral flow test before leaving to be confident I wasn't endangering anyone myself and kept my French-kissing to a minimum. Do people still call it French-kissing? Stop a Frenchman and ask them.

Each time I see Macca live in some form, I wonder whether it will be my last. None of us is getting any younger (attic portraits notwithstanding). If it is, then that's sad, but I know I've been spoilt with opportunities across the years. I've seen him eight times since 1993 in venues of all shapes and sizes - from the relatively tiny Maida Vale Studios to the O2 - and have met him twice.  What alarms me is I'm only eleven years younger than he was the first time I saw him and seven years younger than my dad was when he took me. Fuck me: that can't be right.
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