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Old 08-28-2007   #1
mrmusic's Avatar
Join Date: Aug 2007
Location: West of Lincoln, Santa Monica
Posts: 42
Thumbs down Is Macca lame or fab?

Re: Notes on Review of McCartney's Memory Almost Full
Ah, Stephen, so now you're afraid that because you spoke truth to power someday you may have the thrill of a face-to-face with Sir Paul instantly shattered by his lighting into you for what you wrote.
A, he probably never reads his reviews. B, would he care? C, would he remember? (It's almost full, y'know.) D, would he associate your name, upon hearing it, with that review? E, you didn't trash his album that much. So your son's buddies hated it. But they played it twice! Probably once more than I could handle. It wasn't til the end that you wrote you yanked it out of the disc player and wanted to hurl it out the window. But you said more nice things about it before that than it surely deserves.
Here ya go -- if Paul McBurger reads what's written about him at AVRev, I'll now take the heat off you:
with the exception of about half of his first solo/eponymous album (which was mostly songs that were supposed to be on the never-made Beatles album Hot as Sun, and which he mostly wrote while still ostensibly a Beatle), very very very little of his output over 35 years is worth the gag response risk of even one listen.
"Live and Let Die" -- a one-off soundtrack shot, HIS ONLY REALLY GOOD POST-FAB SONG past "Maybe I'm Amazed," it takes the awesome James Bond mythos to inspire him to write a decent rocker.
Band on the Run? -- everyone points to, good album they always say -- don't make me laugh. Name one decent song. "Jet"!? Band with the Runs.
"Uncle Albert"? "Silly Love Songs"? Not only did John have a far more credible post-Fab 4 career, even George wound up with a catalog of more good songs.
The Beatles were truly a whole much greater than their parts, and it became clear with the first few solo releases by all four that they kept each others' lame proclivities in check.
Fear not, Stephen,Paul ain't the type to deck you. Back in my college days in Albuquerque, I found myself threateningly surrounded backstage by some lame name band I thought took way too many drugs to remember what I wrote about them the year before. Having escaped with only psychic injury, I should have given up music criticism right then. I would probably have a life and a bank account by now.
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