Just started reading The Lyrics by Paul McCartney, courtesy of the Louisville Free Public Library. The waiting list for the book book was really long, so I signed up for the ebook version. Got it within a couple of weeks. And got to it right away...as I usually do not, because (1) I really want to read this and (2) I only get it for two weeks, and I know that there is no chance that I'll get to renew it. And since it's over 900 pages long, that is going to be a challenge.
One of the many interesting things about this book (actually "these books" as it is a two-volume set) is that it was edited and introduced by Paul Muldoon, a poet my son introduced me to when he was studying abroad in Belfast. He's a good poet, and I like him...even though he did send me a rejection letter for my poetic submission to The New Yorker, where he is (or at least was) Poetry Editor. The poem was "Humpty Trumpy," and that's probably all that you need to know about it. But it could have been a beautiful friendship, Paul Muldoon. Just sayin', sir.
ANYway, I actually read several pages of lyrics and commentary before I circled around to the introduction. And therein I found some very good stuff, such as this bit:
"William Wordsworth’s brilliant dictum that ‘every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished’."
But I was also put off by Muldoon's determination to link Paul McCartney with the greats of English literature. Much of his introduction seemed insincere to me...fulsome and obsequious, with references to Wordsworth, Shakespeare, Yeats, Barthelme, and others, seemingly designed to elevate McCartney's status as a writer. I love Paul McCartney's songs. I listen to Paul McCartney songs every day of my life. Seriously. I think he is one of the greatest songwriters of all time. But his lyrics are not great poetry.
It makes me think of the first time I picked up Bruce Springsteen's Nebraska album. I had a friend who worked in the record store, so after I bought it I opened it up and took the disc out of the cover so that we could read the lyrics together. She and I were both appalled. The lyrics were so paltry, so terrible, that we didn't even want to listen to the album. But I was a Springsteen guy back then, so even though I could have gotten a refund out of this, I took the album home and began to play it. It took a few spins, but gradually I adjusted to it and came to love this album dearly. In fact, to this day I'd rate it as one of my two favorite Springsteen albums. (The other being Lucky Town, if you're asking.)
But the thing is...the lyrics aren't great poetry. In fact, they don't even stand on steady feet without the music.
And you really see that in some of the lyrics chosen for this book. I mean..."Arrow Through Me"? "Birthday"? "Check My Machine"? Somebody's fucking with me, right?
Or no...because really the point of these songs is for Paul McCartney to tell his autobiography via his lyrics, so he's choosing songs that are anchored to moments in time.
And I would have enjoyed Paul Muldoon's introductory comments a lot more if he'd come at it from this perspective...instead of trying to puff up the whole thing with hot air. Paul McCartney doesn't want or need your gonorrhea, Paul Muldoon. Keep it read, for fuck's sake.
Other than that...this looks like it's going to be an interesting book.
News as it happens.
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