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Well, you get to a certain age and you feel that you’ve gone beyond cynicism.

You realise that everything’s to do with money. You find it hard to stomach millionaire rock stars and their whims, whether their intentions are noble or decadent, or an annoying mixture of both.
 
And it’s been so easy for people to knock Paul McCartney. He’s seen by some as a bit naff – “the Alan Partridge one” of the Beatles. In my eyes, he seems to suffer simply because he’s not John Lennon. For my money, Paul McCartney appeared to be getting on with things post-Beatles, like Lennon – going on tour, writing songs, that kind of thing. But he did this without resorting to the sort of self-obsessed (and Yoko-obsessed) publicity stunts that Lennon did. 
 
And, och, sue me – Wings were good. And the Frog Chorus is a great children’s song. It’s hard to stop singing it, isn’t it? Even now. 

Bom. Bom-bom (baa-ee-ow).
 
So anyway, there I was, at a stadium show on a perfect summer’s night, watching this 68-year-old man belting out almost three hours of absolutely timeless, classic tunes. He got over a technical hitch right at the start of the show – where the band seemed to be standing around waiting for the speakers to come on – by chatting to the audience like a favourite uncle. Rolf Harris couldn’t have done it any better.
 
The Wings stuff was well-received (Jet even made me forget about Alan Partidge, if only for a moment), but oh lord, when those Beatles tunes came on… Talk about an embarrassment of riches. All My Loving. Get Back. Back In The USSR. The Long And Winding Road. Blackbird. Yesterday. Paperback Writer. Wonderful nods towards John and George, with Give Peace A Chance and the mandolin-led Something.
 
And then Let It Be came on, just Paul and his piano, in the sudden peace of the late evening. I had a Wee Moment. I don’t usually get those, any time of day or night, drunk or sober. There was just something about it. A bit personal, a bit universal.
 
And the highs somehow kept coming. Live And Let Die almost tore the roof off, a dazzling thrill ride complemented by a dazzling cannonade of fireworks and flames. Hey Jude came on before the smoke cleared, and I may always treasure the video I shot of the mass singalong at the end, my voice squawking over the top of everyone else.
 
As had been rumoured, the Loretto School Pipe Band accompanied Mull of Kintyre, to the sound of the house being brought down. Some of those tartaned-up kids trooping past on the big screen looked absolutely terrified. But then again, they were appearing onstage with one of the Beatles. Which is a bit like saying you wrote a play with Shakespeare, or painted waterlilies with Monet.
 
By the time it all ended, note perfectly, with The End, I felt almost absurdly good about myself and the entire world. It was just a stadium rock show. It was just another millionaire rock star. But in the end, money was absolutely no object. There was the gold-dust of art, and what it means to us all.

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