In July 1985, a devastating famine in Ethiopia prompted Live Aid, to this day the biggest charity pop concert ever staged. Simultaneous outdoor shows in Britain and America, featuring a multitude of top names–among them Queen, Bob Dylan, Madonna, Mick Jagger, Duran Duran, Elton John, U2, Led Zeppelin, Phil Collins, Spandau Ballet, the Who, Elvis Costello, Eric Clapton, the Beach Boys and Tina Turner–were watched live by almost 200,000 people and televised to an estimated 1.9 billion in 150 countries. With glorious weather at both venues, it was like a rebirth of ‘All You Need Is Love’.
Because of the five-hour time difference, the marathon opened with a British segment from London’s Wembley Stadium, which then linked up with the American one at Philadelphia’s John F. Kennedy Stadium. Despite formidable younger competition, the only possible choice for the British finale, just before 10 p.m., was Paul, alone at a white piano singing ‘Let It Be’.
He suffered sound problems from the beginning, so was forced to give a rather souped-up version of his mother’s dream-hymn. Over-the-shoulder videoing allowed millions to share his view of Wembley’s huge, living darkness, from which faint boos signalled that many people couldn’t hear. Towards the end, David Bowie, Pete Townshend, Alison Moyet and Live Aid’s organiser, Bob Geldof, joined him as impromptu backup singers. Afterwards, when the other UK artistes congregated onstage, he and Townshend saluted Geldof’s achievement by hoisting him onto their shoulders.
Only later would the full story emerge of what ego-clashes and back-stabbing had gone on behind Live Aid’s seeming altruism and unanimity. As if for old times’ sake, there was even a breath of historic Beatle rancour. Originally Paul wanted George to join him in ‘Let It Be’, a nice thought for the man whose Concert for Bangladesh had first motivated rock stars to unite for good causes. But to George, the song was too redolent of his bruised ego in the Beatle wars of 1969–70. Paul hadn’t wanted him to sing on it 16 years ago, he responded when Geldof made the request, so why would he want to now?
After the Give My Regards to Broad Street disaster, Paul had sought refuge in his new windmill studio on Hog Hill and his fifteenth album since leaving the Beatles. Rather than draw on his banks of existing material, he wanted to write a complete new set of songs with a new collaborator would also be a co-producer.
The perfect candidate seemed to be his VIP sideman Eric Stewart, who’d had extensive production experience at 10cc’s Strawberry Studio and whose major composing credits included ‘I’m Not In Love’ and ‘The Things We Do for Love’. Accordingly, Stewart was asked down to Peasmarsh as co-writer and co-producer of the album that would become Press to Play. ‘Bring your acoustic round and we’ll have a plonk,’ was how Paul would remember the invitation.
But when Stewart arrived at Hog Hill Mill, he found he wasn’t the only one to have received the call. In the eternal quest for contemporaneity, Paul had also recruited Hugh Padgham, a young producer currently enjoying great success with Genesis, Peter Gabriel and the Human League.
The two rival co-producers did not fall out–that, indeed, was the trouble. Early in the sessions, Stewart felt that one of Paul’s vocals wasn’t as good as it could be, so he switched on the intercom and said so. When Paul asked Hugh Padgham’s opinion, Padgham was at first reluctant to criticise such a colossus but, under pressure, admitted that he agreed with Stewart. ‘Hugh, when did you last make a number one record?’ Paul inquired coldly.
Yet that autocratic Macca could always be replaced by democratic Paul, whose accessibility and informality seemed too good to be true–but weren’t. At Christmas time, he was a familiar sight at Hamleys toyshop in Oxford Street, standing in line like anyone else with armfuls of purchases for his children. One day when travelling into London by train, he saw an elderly woman on the platform struggling with a heavy bag and insisted on carrying it for her.
His thoughtfulness, and sheer sweetness, could be overwhelming, as his designer–editor friend David Litchfield discovered when leaving for a holiday in France. As a goodbye gift–though the trip was only for two weeks–Paul composed and recorded a short instrumental piece, with seabird sound effects, and gave Litchfield the tape, as he said, ‘so that you won’t forget me’. The tape later got mislaid in a house move, but Litchfield recalls: ‘It was a lovely, haunting tune, rather like the theme to the Deer Hunter. He called it Seabird or Seadance, probably because I was working on a movie script called Seadance at the time.’
If that was pure Paul, the circumstances of its recording were even more so. He’d been at Abbey Road studios one day, testing some amps, and got talking to a delivery-driver who was a classical violinist on the side. At Paul’s invitation, the man had fetched his violin from his truck, Paul sat down at the piano and the two had made the track together.
Little of the same sweetness was to be felt by the young co-producer/engineer of Press to Play. There was only one now since Eric Stewart–shocked by Macca’s frigid put-down of Hugh Padgham–had bowed out of the album a few days later, so ending an otherwise happy and fruitful relationship extending over five years. Padgham soldiered on alone with a growing feeling of being able to do nothing right.
As a forty-third birthday present, he’d given Paul the Trivial Pursuit board game, not thinking that its pop music section was bound to feature questions on the Beatles. Paul was incensed to find one of them was about his mother’s death.
The month after Live Aid, he received some news that drove all thought of album-making from his mind and turned up the Macca-control even higher. His erstwhile collaborator Michael Jackson had bought ATV Music and so now owned the Lennon–McCartney song catalogue. As Padgham–relieved not to be the offender for once–would later recall, ‘The air turned blue.’
Since his failed attempt to buy ATV Music with Yoko in 1981–82, Paul had seemed as intent as ever on getting back his ‘babies’. An additional spur was discovering that he couldn’t sing ‘Yesterday’ and the other Lennon–McCartney songs in Give My Regards to Broad Street without first clearing the rights with ATV. The fact that he and John’s estate took a share of the copyright-fees didn’t make it any less galling.
Lord Lew Grade had by this time been ousted as boss of ATV Music’s parent company, Associated Communications Corporation, by its Australian majority shareholder, Robert Holmes à Court. And in 1983, Paul had approached Holmes à Court with another bid to regain control of his songbook. This time, there was no mention of any partnership with Yoko: he believed her interventions had stymied the previous attempt–just as she believed his had–and they were no longer in contact.
Forty years Grade’s junior, Holmes à Court had grown up with the Beatles and was thrilled by the prospect of negotiating with Paul. He seemed refreshingly simple and approachable, although Lee Eastman recognised this as a favourite pose among predatory tycoons and urged caution. Nonetheless the two got on well, so much so that Holmes à Court cherished hopes of Paul hosting a charity telethon on the TV channel he owned in his native Perth.
Yoko was also turning the charm on ATV’s new boss, with no obvious purpose other than perhaps to disrupt Paul’s dealings with him. She invited Holmes à Court and his wife, Janet, to the Dakota and gave them a guided tour, ending at the white piano on which John had played ‘Imagine’. So moved was Janet Holmes à Court that she arranged for ATV to make Yoko a gift of the song’s copyright.
Those 1983 manoeuvrings came to nothing, however: Holmes à Court was committed to halting Lord Grade’s previous asset-stripping and in any case Paul still wasn’t interested in buying the whole of ATV Music, only the Northern Songs company inside it.
By 1985, Holmes à Court had been unable to reverse Associated Communications Corporation’s losses and was regretting his involvement in the British music industry with its culture of small exertion and vast expense accounts. To shore up ACC, he had no choice but to follow Grade’s example and put its one reliably profitable (through Lennon and McCartney) division ATV Music up for auction yet again.
Initially, there were three main prospective bidders: EMI’s publishing arm, EMI Music; the Swedish producer Stig Anderson, whose records with Abba had outsold the Beatles during the Seventies; and the Japanese pop mogul Shoo Kasauno. But Paul was widely expected to weigh in alongside them, possibly in an alliance with his new best friend Michael Jackson.
His little lecture to Jackson on the joys of owning song-copyrights could not have been better–or worse–timed. Soon after Jackson’s visit to Peasmarsh, the Thriller album (on which Paul had appeared) made him stupendously rich, with around $100 million to play with. At Columbia, the record company he and Paul then shared, he’d been strongly advised to invest his new wealth in publishing and was now doing so under the guidance of its president, Walter Yetnikoff (last seen signing Paul for $22.5 million, plus the Guys and Dolls catalogue as a welcome-aboard gift).
When Jackson heard ATV Music was up for sale again, he instructed his lawyers to go after it, but not–he later insisted–before contacting Paul and Yoko in turn to check that neither was in the running. Yoko allegedly replied that for her to pursue Northern Songs would create too many issues with the former Beatles, while John Eastman said it promised to be ‘too pricey’ for Paul. Jackson would also claim to have personally forewarned Paul of his intentions.
In the end, the King of Pop was the only bidder for pop’s Crown Jewels. The thought of the Thriller millions made Holmes à Court continually raise the price and at one point Jackson backed away, allowing another would-be buyer briefly to enter the frame: none other than that former Apple loiterer Richard Branson. The deal was eventually done with Jackson for $47.5 million. By then, Northern Songs’ catalogue was light two titles–not just ‘Imagine’ but also one of Paul’s undisputed masterpieces. Holmes à Court kept back ‘Penny Lane’ because his daughter’s name was Penny.
To Paul, all this felt like a betrayal by someone he’d considered a friend, although Columbia’s president Walter Yentikoff, who’d been as close to the transaction as anyone, maintained that Jackson had acted squarely and above board with him throughout. ‘Paul had the resources to buy back the songs,’ Yentikoff commented later. ‘He simply chose not to.’
But in time he saw the funny side of having his good advice rebound on him so monumentally. He’d tell the story with a spot-on impersonation of Jackson’s child-falsetto, saying, ‘I love your songs, Paul’ on one day and on the next, ‘I bought your songs, Paul.’
His dissatisfaction with Columbia had been simmering for some time before his record company seemed to side with Michael Jackson against him, and with the Press to Play album he returned to the Beatles’ old home, Capitol/EMI.
After Eric Stewart’s departure, a starrier-than-ever throng of sidemen had been invited to Hog Hill Mill, among them Pete Townshend, Phil Collins, Split Enz’s keyboard-player Eddie Rayner and Carlos Alomar, the Puerto Rican guitarist–producer best-known for his work with David Bowie, who spent a week as the McCartneys’ house guest. Alomar would later recall being welcomed by Paul with ‘a nice big spliff’ but then spending bucolic times together, flying kites or drinking warm draught beer at village pubs. All in all, he thought, Paul’s lifestyle seemed less like that of an international megastar than a local farmer.
Press to Play was released in August 1986, its cover a silvery black and white portrait of Paul and Linda like a still from a 1940s film noir. It reached number eight in Britain but failed to make the American Top 20 and, at fewer than a million copies, was the poorest-selling McCartney solo album to date.
The only notable single from it was ‘Press’, described by the Los Angeles Times as ‘one of the most playful, positive songs about the joy of sex ever written’. The video showed Paul at his most endearing; white-trousered and feathery-haired, riding a London Tube train among a crowd of unsuspecting real-life passengers–a situation with which he was anyway quite familiar–charming astonished females of all ages, tipping buskers in the sympathetic spirit of one essentially in the same game, at one point even giving directions to a lost tourist, before disappearing up the long, lamp-lined escalator at St John’s Wood station.
Paul-ness also permeated MPL’s next film release, a documentary about his teenage idol Buddy Holly, intended to counteract Hollywood’s risible 1978 biopic starring Gary Busey. This first serious investigation of Holly’s brief life was a quality product with contributions from everyone of significance to it: his older brothers, Larry and Travis, his fellow Crickets Jerry Allison and Joe B. Mauldin, his widow, Maria Elena, his close friends Don and Phil Everly and guitarist Tommy Allsup, who’d almost taken the same charter flight that killed him.
Holly’s influence on the early Beatles was commemorated by a few bars from their version of ‘That’ll Be the Day’ on the 1958 home recording Paul had bought from John Duff Lowe. But he himself appeared only in the–completely convincing–role of still-faithful fan, seated with a guitar on a bale of straw in one of his barns, replicating the magical Holly hiccups that had first got John and him started.
He now had another new manager, the last he would ever employ. On the recommendation of his lawyer/brother-in-law John Eastman, he’d hired 37-year-old Richard Ogden, formerly British head of Polydor, the German record label on which the Beatles had first recorded.
Ogden took over at a moment when Paul’s reputation had been eroded by flops like Give My Regards to Broad Street and Press to Play and a new generation of British solo singers like Phil Collins and George Michael were cornering the international market. His advice to his new boss was not to bank on stored-up Beatles and Wings goodwill but to get out and promote himself with interviews and photocalls as aggressively as any of those young rivals.
Paul agreed, with the stipulation that he must own the rights to all photographs taken of him. This soon proved unworkable: during a promotional visit to Spain he landed at Barcelona airport to find around 5000 people, including dozens of photographers, blocking his way to his limo and virtually no security to shield him. As he struggled through the crowd, one man kept hitting him on the back of the head with an acoustic guitar, and saying, ‘Sign my guitar, Paul.’ Afterwards, Richard Ogden prepared himself to be fired, but instead found Paul glowing with exhilaration.
With no new product at hand, Ogden persuaded EMI to issue a compilation album, Paul McCartney: All the Best, a thumbs-up of a title, featuring tracks with and without Wings back to 1970, including ‘Mull of Kintyre’, ‘Say Say Say’ with Michael Jackson and Rupert Bear’s ‘Frog Song’. Released in late 1987, it peaked at number two in Britain, denied the top spot by George Michael’s Faith, and eventually went double platinum. It would have sold more had Lee Eastman not initially blocked its release in America, maintaining that compilation albums signified that a performer’s career was over.
Ogden had been hired to manage Linda alongside Paul, specifically the photography career she pursued in an on-off fashion. In this he felt slightly redundant since she already had a first-class photography agent in Robbie Montgomery, a London-based New Yorker who represented many of Britain’s leading photographers including David Bailey and Clive Arrowsmith. Montgomery worked hard to get her assignments on their level, but was often thwarted by her reluctance to stray far from Peasmarsh and her animals.
Yet when her passion for animal rights or the environment was stirred, she could produce an image every bit as eye-catching as her studies of Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison in the old days. She contributed to an illustrated book from the Council for the Preservation of Rural England, along with Bailey, Don McCullin and Lord Snowdon, and to Lynx, the campaign against the use of animal fur in haute couture. Lynx employed visual shock tactics which for a time all but wiped out the British fur trade. Linda’s poster was a prime example, headlined ‘Rich Bitch, Poor Bitch’ and juxtaposing a fur-clad model with the mangled body of a fox.
Robbie Montgomery’s greatest coup was to secure her an exhibition at the Royal Photographic Society’s prestigious gallery in Bath. To publicise its opening, Montgomery hired a young PR man named John Gibb with whom she’d worked on the Council for the Preservation of Rural England book and who now came up with a stunt worthy of the Sixties and Sgt. Pepper. Beside the M4 motorway between London and the West Country lies the enormous Queen Mother Reservoir whose grass embankment is plainly visible to passing traffic. On this Gibb proposed spelling out ‘Linda McCartney’ in flowers, with an arrow pointing westward towards Bath.
Paul loved the idea and, as always when Paul loved an idea, money was no object. Gibb and a team armed with 25,000 flowers worked all night to create Linda’s outsize byline, miraculously unobserved by police cars or highway maintenance gangs. Next morning, rush-hour traffic on the M4 came to a standstill as drivers of every kind of vehicle stopped to view the display. ‘People even arrived on buses to look at it,’ Gibb recalls. ‘Finally, the police told me I’d be arrested if I didn’t get it covered up.’
There was somewhat less spousal support, however, when Linda decided to write an autobiography. It was to be called Mac the Wife and ghosted by Lesley-Ann Jones, a young journalist who had interviewed her, sympathetically, for the Daily Mail. They met again when Linda visited Great Ormond Street Hospital to open a new wing for terminally ill children and Jones was sent to cover the event despite being heavily pregnant. Spotting her and realising her delicate condition, Linda beckoned her out of the media scrum and they went around the new wing together.
The autobiography was contracted to a British publisher, Arlington Books, and Jones began interviewing Linda at Peasmarsh, often taking her baby daughter, Mia, along with her. However, Paul seemed hostile to the project for the light it promised to shed on his marriage. Once, she recalls, ‘he thumped the table and said, “There’s only one effing star in this family!”’ Soon afterwards, the project was cancelled.
From the late Eighties, many of Linda’s pictures featured the terrain which originally inspired her to take up photography. Paul had further enlarged his enormous property portfolio by buying an estate near Tucson, Arizona, where she’d lived with her first husband, Joseph Melville See, fallen under the spell of the seminal photojournalist Hazel Larsen Archer and appeared in the Arizona Daily Star with her very meaty recipe for meat loaf.
This fourth McCartney home was located in Pima County, about 45 miles north-east of Tucson in the foothills of the Rincon Mountains; a classic Wild West landscape of mesquite bushes and giant cacti where rattlesnakes, gophers and scorpions lurked and coyotes howled after dark. It comprised 150 acres of private desert and a modest stone house which Paul had repainted in 1930s-ish pink and turquoise but otherwise did little to alter. Backing onto it was the Tanque Verde dude ranch–i.e. for city dwellers seeking a taste of frontier life–whose stabling Linda could use for her horses.
Mel See had never left Arizona, and now lived in the Tucson Mountains, a few miles to the west. He had not remarried but in 1985 had entered into a ‘permanent engagement’ with a former beautician named Beverly Wilk, a divorcee like himself, who shared his passion for geology, archaeology, architecture and collecting ethnic art.
Since he had allowed Paul to adopt his daughter, Heather, contact between them had been rare, and it did not greatly increase after the McCartneys acquired their Tanque Verde property. ‘We visited them a couple of times and Paul once came to our house,’ Beverly recalls. ‘Heather still hardly knew her father, and there wasn’t a lot of warmth toward Mel from Linda. I got the feeling she would have liked it if he disappeared.’
Paul had never socialised much with his neighbours around Peasmarsh, preferring to entertain consignments of friends from London and overseas or of his Liverpool relatives. But that changed in 1987 when Spike Milligan came to live in the nearby village of Udimore.
Back before rock ‘n’ roll, Milligan’s lunatic Goon Show on BBC radio, co-starring Peter Sellers and Harry Secombe, had given a generation of British schoolboys their first heady sniff of anarchy. The Goons were a bond between Paul and John as strong as Elvis or Buddy Holly and were at the heart of the Beatles’ early stage act. Part of the band’s great luck was meeting George Martin, who had once made comedy albums with the Goons and so instantly recognised their musical equivalent.
Since the end of the Goon Show in 1960, Paul had followed Milligan’s solo career as a playwright, poet and children’s author with equal admiration. Indeed, it was a Milligan pensée–‘black notes, white notes/ and you need the two to make harmony, folks’–that triggered the only really successful ‘big-issue’ McCartney song, ‘Ebony and Ivory’.
Now nearing 70, Milligan–like Paul–had fled London to escape bothersome fans and found refuge with his third wife, Shelagh, in an Udimore byway called Dumbwoman’s Lane. Rural life had not quenched his misanthropic comic spirit: he proclaimed his 1960s-built home to be ‘the ugliest house in the world’ and had changed its name from Carpenter’s Meadow to The Blind Architect.
Paul approached him as a devoted fan and the inheritor of an equally bizarre address in Peasmarsh, Starvecrow Lane. Linda, of course, knew little about the Goon Show, but was won over by a sign in the Milligan kitchen reading ‘Vegetarians are nice to meat’.
They became regular visitors to ‘The Blind Architect’, whose cluttered interior displayed gifts from other, equally admiring Beatles–a ‘Love and Peace’ banner from George, a book on trauma therapy autographed by John and Yoko. Paul enjoyed playing a rare Broadwood grand piano, dating from 1883, which Milligan had rescued from a London building-site. Soon he had a standing invitation to let himself into the house and use the Broadwood if the Milligans were away or even just sleeping late.
After Milligan’s death, his effects were found to include a handwritten poem by Paul dedicated to ‘The Poet of Dumbwoman’s Lane’. With it was a caricature subtitled ‘the Nutters of Starvecrow Lane’, a male and a fair-haired female both giving self-identifying thumbs-up signs:
The voice of the poet of Dumbwoman’s Lane
Can be heard across vallies [sic] of sugar-burned cane
And nostrils that sleep through the wildest of nights
Will be twitching to gain aromatic delights…
The welcome could be less warm if Milligan was in one of his frequent depressed moods or absorbed in composing some new piece of Goonery. One morning, he answered an unexpected ring at his front door to find Paul accompanied by George and Ringo, who were visiting Peasmarsh and both equally keen to pay their respects.
‘Not today, I’m busy,’ he said, shutting the door in their faces.
No longer did Paul regard his Beatle years as a war zone from which he’d only just escaped with his life and never wanted to think about again. These days, he would recall them in any detail an interviewer liked, even exploit them in the perpetual struggle to keep himself at the top of the charts.
Writing the title song for Spies Like Us, a Hollywood film comedy co-starring Dan Aykroyd and Chevy Chase–which made number seven in America–might seem to have given little scope for this. Yet its video was like Trivial Pursuit for advanced Beatlemaniacs, with a nod to Wings.
Paul was shown arriving at Abbey Road studios on a bicycle, disguised by a hooded duffel-coat, bifocals and a droopy ginger moustache; then arriving all over again by taxi, wearing a trilby hat and a moustache now horizontal and black. Clips from the movie barely interrupted a sequence of him alone in a studio playing drums as well as guitar, just as on ‘The Ballad of John and Yoko’. The closing shot pastiched both the Abbey Road and Band on the Run album covers, with Aykroyd, Chase and Paul on the famous zebra crossing like escapees caught in a prison searchlight.
Reconciled to his Beatle past he might be, but reconciliation with his fellow participants was still apt to falter. Since he had taken the lead in the British High Court, they had all sued each other so often that litigation no longer seemed a noteworthy event. ‘George phoned me the other day and said, “I’m suing you,”’ Ringo told a chat show host around this time. ‘I told him, “OK, but I still love you.”’
In January 1988, the Beatles were to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in only the third such ceremony ever held. Paul had accepted an invitation to the event at New York’s Waldorf Astoria hotel and had rounded up George and Ringo to appear alongside him. But it had since emerged that under his new Capitol/EMI contract, he would receive an extra one per cent from Beatles backlist sales. As a result, he was being sued jointly by the two of them and Yoko. His response was to issue a statement that he’d be boycotting the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame investiture: ‘After 20 years, the Beatles and I still have some business differences which I had hoped would be settled by now. Unfortunately, they haven’t been, so I would feel like a complete hypocrite, waving and smiling with them at a fake reunion.’
The induction ceremony was performed by Mick Jagger, and watched by most of the great names from the Anglo-American rock fraternity who had the Beatles to thank for their careers. An unusually forthright and heartfelt Jagger confessed how Lennon and McCartney had motivated Keith Richards and himself to try songwriting one long-ago afternoon in Soho by casually knocking off the Rolling Stones’ breakthrough single, ‘I Wanna Be Your Man’.
George, Ringo and Yoko were joined onstage by John’s two sons, 25-year-old Julian–now a recording artiste engineered to sound uncannily like his father–and 13-year-old Sean. After a few woozy words from Ringo, George made a formal acceptance speech giving no hint of the litigation hovering in the background: ‘It’s unfortunate Paul’s not here because he’s the one who had the speech in his pocket. Well, we all know why John can’t be here and I’m sure he would be and it’s hard to stand here supposedly representing the Beatles. It’s what’s left, I’m afraid. But we all loved him so much and we all love Paul very much.’
Still, the feeling of an angel-faced elephant in the room was inescapable. George thanked the Rock and Roll Hall of fame by quoting the ‘Paul’ song that had kicked off Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band: ‘It’s wonderful to be here… it’s certainly a thrill’. And the silver-clad Yoko, who spoke next, didn’t bother with diplomacy. ‘I wish John was here,’ she began. ‘He would have been here, you know. He would have come.’
The evening ended with a superstar jam of near-Live Aid dimensions featuring, among others, Jagger, Bob Dylan, Elton John, Bruce Springsteen, Neil Young, the Beach Boys, Little Richard, Billy Joel and Mary Wilson of the Supremes. Included in the ten-song set were Dylan’s ‘All Along the Watchtower’, the Stones’ ‘Satisfaction’, the Beach Boys’ ‘Barbara Ann’ and the Supremes’ ‘Stop! In The Name of Love’. But the show-stopper was Paul’s ‘I Saw Her Standing There’, with Jagger, Joel and Springsteen sharing the vocal.
The stage was so crowded with guitarists and stand-up vocalists that Elton John at the piano could scarcely be seen. As he pounded away in obscurity, Elton’s thoughts must have gone back to his Thanksgiving concert at Madison Square Garden in 1974, when John had sung ‘I Saw Her Standing There’ in caustic tribute to ‘an old estranged fiancé of mine called Paul’.
Now he was estranged again, and here again was ‘Well, my heart went boom as I crossed that room’–naturally known by heart by three of the world’s greatest performers–as potent, as joyous, as ever.