Anyone who has followed this blog for twelve months seconds knows I am a huge Beatles fan. I’ve been a fan since I was, as my mom would say, knee-high to a grasshopper.
My ever-so-thoughtful husband surprised me with two tickets to see Sunday night’s Paul McCartney concert with our daughter Jill. The way that sentence reads, it sounds like our daughter was in concert with Sir Paul. What I mean to say is I went to the concert with our daughter. Damn semantics.
Said thoughtful husband also booked a room for us at the Omni Hotel next door to the sold-out concert venue, Petco Park in San Diego. Our 19th floor room looked smack-dab into the stadium. Had he known that, my husband might have scalped our concert tickets and said, “How ’bout you watch the concert from your room? Here is a pair of binoculars.”
Who needs tickets to the concert with a view like this?
While enjoying a pre-concert beverage, Jill and I noticed a crowd gathered behind barricades lining the driveway leading to the backstage area. Whaddya know? A few minutes later the crowd erupted in cheers as a motorcade of black Escalades rounded the corner. Paul and his mates (how British of me) had arrived at the stadium for the sound check. My daughter and I screamed (yes, screamed) when Paul rolled down the passenger window and popped his arm out to wave to his fans. I would know that arm anywhere.
Adoring fans? Creepy Paul stalkers? Your call.
Jill and I proceeded to a rooftop bar near the stadium for additional pre-concert beverages (hmmm, I sense a theme here) where we could listen to the hour-long sound check. Unlike many other rock stars, Paul does his own.
The stadium was packed, and I mean packed, with 42,000 Beatles lovers. The youngest fan I saw was five-years-old or so, and the oldest fan was using a cane. Talk about a broad fan-base.
Do you suppose Paul still has any fans?
Sir Paul looks and sounds amazing. He and his talented band played (and I mean really rocked) for three solid hours. I can’t do anything that uses that much energy for three minutes, let alone three hours. Paulie-boy won’t be offended here if I remind you that he is 72-years-old. You would never know it. He is trim and fit, stylish as ever, winsome smile and wit are ever-present, and his voice is true and strong.
I’ll add here that other rock stars of Paul’s generation look like they have been chewed up and spit out by their partying lifestyles. Think Mick Jagger, Tom Petty, or Justin Bieber. Our Sir Paul still has élan. What other 72-year-old man can look alluring while sporting suspenders? My daughter said, “It is a little disturbing that I have a crush on a guy that old.”
The concert was an excellent mix of Beatles and Wings material, as well as a few songs from his new album. But the sweetest part of the evening was then he sang, “Yesterday” directly to my daughter and me. I’m not sure how he found us in the crowd, what with his aging eyesight and all.
At close to midnight, we exited the stadium for the one-minute walk to our hotel. Even at that late hour, we were too amped by the energy of the concert and there was no way, Jose, we could just go to bed. We joined dozens of our fellow concertgoers in the hotel bar for post-concert beverages. The energy in the bar was just as electric as it was in the stadium.
I said earlier that the sweetest part of the evening was when Paul sang “Yesterday.” That statement is utterly incorrect. The sweetest part was spending the evening with our daughter Jill and that my husband made it happen. Thanks, honey.
On my flight home yesterday, a woman about my age sat next to me. Without a “Good morning,” “Is this seat taken?,” “Move your damn purse,” or whatever, she blurted out . . . “I was at the Paul McCartney concert last night.” Guess what we talked about the entire flight home . . .
Robin Coyle 