Paul’s nothing but consistent in his PR spin: just like his revisions of Beatles history, what might have been a reasonably amusing and informative program becomes another installment in The Gospel According to St. Paul.
Ed note: docweasel has been accused of being overly worshipful of St. Paul (see his review of McCartney’s live Tampa concert) so in the interest of balance, here is another opinion of the pretty Beatle and his works. This is a vintage review from the pre-website, lovingly reproduced here and coated with glucose.
WINGS (Paul McCartney)/Wingspan
One of the worst things about John Lennon’s death is that it seems there’s no-one left to tell Paul McCartney to shut the fuck up and stop being such a tosser.
Fresh from raising John from the dead and fucking his corpse with the Threetles and the various multimedia Anthologies, Beatle Paul now turns his attention to his “other band” in Wingspan, his documentary history of Wings.
(OK, let’s not quibble about the need for a Wings doco, or that a list of good Wings songs could fit comfortably on the back of a postage stamp. And let’s ignore the fact there’s a Wingspan compilation out- yeah, I would have thought the money from the #1’s album would have bought a lot of artificial legs too, but it’s apparently not enough for Macca)
(Does Paul’s new wench get the leg over much? – Ed)
Paul’s nothing but consistent in his PR spin: just like his revisions of Beatles history, what might have been a reasonably amusing and informative program becomes another installment in The Gospel According to St. Paul.
Here, in order to maximize “Mac-time”, Sir P. ropes in of the junior Macs, Mary, to pose carefully prepared questions which propel Paul off on a series of self-aggrandizing by-ways, engage in some mawkish happy family bantering bullshit, and steer him gently past any controversy.
Yep, from go to whoa, this was Paul’s version of Wings’ history. Nothing but throwaway references to the endless Wings lineup changes and legendary backstage fights. I mean, Wings saw more line-ups than an Oldham Police Station.
There’s less love lost here than at a Nepalese Royal Family gathering. C’you’d expect to hear from at least a couple of the lads from the band. Nope. Just Paul prattling on, aided and abetted by boring as piss amateurish home movies, and punctuated by frequent soundbytes from late missus Linda, as annoying as ever from beyond the grave.
Nothing but praise for Linda’s “courage” in joining the band while hastily skirting the fact she had as much musical talent as an orange. Nothing but a quick move along on Paul’s long time favorite puff – though we do see an mullet headed Paul being busted for growing dope and disclaiming knowledge – “we got a lot of seeds off a mate and some of them came up illegal”. Yeah right.
Same mate who packed your bags for the 1980 Japan Tour, Paul ? I mean, what sort of fuckwit would bring a bag of shit into Japan, a country that had already refused him entry for previous cannabis convictions?
Paul just walks down some set that looks a bit like a set trying to be a prison, complete with blue flashing lights, grins sheepishly, puts on that fucking annoying cute face and says, “yeah, I was an idiot”. Y’think? (Memo to Macca – your cute boy face mugging may have cut it in the sixties, but nowadays you look like Grandad giving the glad eye outside the local girl’s school. Give it up.)
And to top it off, I had to listen to Mull Of Kintyre – film clip and Top of The Pops versions.
Still, you have to hand it to Our Paul. There’s not many blokes capable of giving themselves a head job – especially over two hours.
It wasn’t a total loss though – I smoked a few cones (didn’t get arrested), ate a big fuck off steak in memory of Linda, laughed a lot, and went to bed humming “How D’ya Sleep”.
Just Another Day.