Photo by Linda McCartney, courtesy of Concord Music Group
This might make me a name-dropper, but I’ll unabashedly share my recollection of being picked up by Kelly McGillis in a minivan for a ride to my acting lesson. McGillis attended the same school in California, which happened to provide transportation. On that particular day in 1974, she was the driver, filling in for the usual person. I remember how friendly and talkative she was as we hit the freeway to Costa Mesa, stopping once or twice to pick up other students. McGillis steered the conversation toward topics like Disneyland and Sonny and Cher. This was, of course, several years before she enjoyed a run of fame in movies like Witness, The Accused, and Top Gun. As we drove along, the sunset caramelizing in the rearview, a rock song began to blast from the dashboard. “Man on the run,” the chorus went—or so I thought. I was only 12. A man on the run was an image that the feet of my youthful imagination could chase down. But a band on the run? Were fans in pursuit? The police? Were they late for a performance?
Band on the Run, the fifth album by Paul McCartney (and his third with Wings), has recently been reissued in three different incarnations—four if you count the download. There’s a three-CD, one-DVD “special edition”; one with two CDs and a DVD, and a bare-bones version for those on a budget—or minimalists who loathe digital flab. I settled on the three-disc release. It has the album proper, a bonus CD containing live versions from a documentary (marred by too much commentary), and a DVD with music videos—which, indeed, they were making as far back as the early 70s—and other clips. Best of all is a segment that captures the star-drenched party and photo session for the cover art. The clip shows Wings mingling with actors like James Coburn and Christopher Lee while Linda McCartney snaps pictures at all angles. The cover shot (not taken by Linda, who’s in the picture) shows a gang of celebrities, including the band, nabbed by a searchlight after busting out of prison. There are similarities to the Sgt. Pepper’s cover—mainly in terms of the iconic assemblage. But while Pepper’s puzzle of faces is all about stillness, about regally posing for the camera, Band on the Run's satirical cover is about evasion; about being caught in the act—which, in this case, turns out to be a rock and roll metaphor.
Judged by more than its cover, Band on the Run still holds up beautifully. McCartney’s music since the Beatles had been predictably catchy, but at times he seemed like a hollow genius instead of a hallowed one. After his homey self-titled debut, the pop pastry Ram, the expectation-taming Wild Life, and the petal-to-the-pedal Red-Rose Speedway, McCartney needed direction. At times he seemed to be catering to what he thought Beatles fans wanted him to be.
On Band on the Run, he showed them who he is. Like the Eagles’ later-to-come Hotel California, McCartney’s most famous album is a ‘70s signpost, painted with moody keyboards and carried along by inventive production. It was recorded primarily in Nigeria. The episodic title track seamlessly morphs from balladry to handclap-studded rock, to a chorus that approximates the sensation of release. One reservation: I’ve always wished the pumping rhythm that comes right before the acoustic part wasn’t so polite. Because it already has one foot in Who-land, it should kick a little butt. “Jet” is the quintessential Wings song. Its lyrics make little sense—almost as if they’re *trying* not to—but the track is soaring, high-caliber power-pop, devoid of reenactment. “Let Me Roll It” is notable for sounding like John Lennon in his “Cold Turkey” days, when music and scream therapy came together like veins and hypodermic needles. The relaxed “Mamunia” is more Beatlesque than I remember. “No Words” is pretty enough to be an instrumental. “Picasso’s Last Words (Drink to Me)” is a good sing-along, but I was frankly hoping for musical cubism (which would be closer, I guess, to Brian Eno). One drawback of this edition is the lack of “Helen Wheels,” which appeared only in the original US version. Also, not to be persnickety, but the sleeves that contain the discs don’t hold them very securely. And I’m surprised by the lack of an outer box, which would keep the multi-paneled case from unfolding. Still, the liner notes are enlightening, and the bonus material—especially the DVD—is a revelation. McCartney will never outrun his Beatles legacy, but he’s managed to evade not mattering.
And 1974 still matters to me. It was the year of McGillis and McCartney. Of failing to realize I had no future in acting. Most notably, it’s the year I got the lyrics of the song “Band on the Run” so terribly wrong. But McCartney got the music right, and it still sounds good 37 years later.
