Lovely piece in the Washington Post the other day about Paul, his new oratio is it, and of course the writing trailed off into all else that has happened and is happening—then gathered on this marvellous ending note, this opening up into the night but also into what must be, still, a wonderful heart. An antic moment that seemed very much of the Beatles as they were, and perhaps part of McCartney's genius is that this has never changed. I would imagine so. And I would imagine that anyone with the weensiest crimp in her heart might feel a twinge of envy that, unacknowledged, might grow into something morbid indeed. Especially if one knew one had done some very tacky things. This just about tells us that Paul is a good man. Good to marrow, and probably still an innocent, in all the best ways. I do not doubt there is much goodness, or much that wanted to be good, in his can't-be-too-soon ex. But—how shall we put it—she hasn't done the work. A pity. But the world doesn't want what she's offering. The world, in the face of all the death and shit and sorrow, wants this:
An hour later the session wraps up, and McCartney bounces up to the orchestra, clapping and laughing and thanking everyone. Then he wraps himself into a warm overcoat and scarf and hops into an SUV driven by John Hammel, his friend since the early 1970s. As they drive off, he opens his window and leans out, beaming, and sings a loud chorus of “Ecce Cor Meum.” The street is dark and empty, and McCartney's joyful serenade echoes off the old stone buildings.
link: Paul Rehearses
