MTV had become a significant force in the entertainment industry in the past few years, with Paul embracing the concept of video films to promote his songs, often commissioning lavish productions, such as the 1983 video for his single ‘Pipes of Peace’, in which Paul played both a British and German soldier in the trenches of the First World War, the video shot to feature-film standard with 100 extras. Recently, MTV had pioneered a spin-off concert series, whereby rock acts who normally used amplified equipment played live in front of small audiences using only acoustic instruments. Previous MTV Unplugged guests hadn’t adhered strictly to the format, using electric pick-ups, even some fully amplified instruments. ‘Paul decided this was cheating and [we] would do it absolutely straight, which was technically very challenging,’ says Robbie McIntosh; ‘there were no pick-ups, everything was done on microphone.’ Hamish Stuart recalls: ‘I had an acoustic bass. I had to be very static - if you move that much away from the [mike] the bottom would drop out of the band.’ Paul rehearsed with his band for three weeks in advance of the recording in London on 25 January 1991, and the show turned out to be one of the most enjoyable he’d played in a long time. McCartney helped make it special by choosing to début the very first song he wrote, ‘I Lost My Little Girl’, all one minute thirteen seconds of it. Rock ’n’ roll favourites and selections from his solo career and the Beatles also featured. By dint of being forced to put over old songs in a new format, the likes of ‘And I Love Her’ were rejuvenated. Paul was so pleased with the result that he asked for a recording of the event to be put out as an Unplugged album, the first of what became a very successful series of such records, with contemporaries including Eric Clapton and Bob Dylan following. So successful was the MTV experience that Paul took his band out on the road that summer to play a series of small gigs, in such out of the way places as St Austell in Cornwall, which included an ‘unplugged’, that is to say acoustic, set.
Linda continued to play with the band, though she was very much in the background during Unplugged, where mistakes would have been glaringly obvious. With the kids growing up (the youngest, James, was now 13), Linda’s energies outside the home were concentrated on her relentless ‘go veggie’ crusade, which had taken on a surprising commercial dimension. On the back of the success of Linda McCartney’s Home Cooking, reportedly the best-selling veggie cookbook ever, Linda had, as touched upon, linked up with Ross Young, a division of United Biscuits, to market a line of Linda McCartney frozen dinners, which she launched at the Savoy Hotel in April 1991. Consequently, Linda spent a great deal of time in her kitchen creating and testing new veggie recipes, giving samples of her meals to friends, family and neighbours to gain their reaction and, hopefully, convert them to a non-meat diet. Reactions were muted. On a trip to Kintyre, Linda gave the McCartneys’ vet, Alastair Cousin, samples of her veggie sausages. ‘I didn’t like them at all to be honest, but I didn’t say as much.’ Mike Robbins recalls an evening when Paul and Lin visited him and his wife Betton the Wirral, then walked down the lane with them to visit Joe and Joan McCartney.
[Paul] linked arms with [Bett] in the dark walking down the pavement, down the village, and I walked behind with Linda and she said, because she was always plugging, ‘When you going to go veggie, Mike?’ I said, ‘Oh, I’ve never tried it. I’m always open to [the idea].’ ‘Oh you’ve gotta try veggie.’ A week went by, a bloody big van arrived at the front door with a box that big. It was all her products that she did, Linda McCartney products, every one, and we lived off it for about a week. As [Bett] said, ‘It’s all very nice but you’re still bloody hungry after veggie food.’ … So we ate it all and never went veggie, couldn’t be bothered.
Despite apathy from friends and family, Linda’s veggie food proved surprisingly successful with the British public, becoming a multi-million-pound business that made a rich woman even wealthier over the next few years. There were hiccups, notably when traces of meat were discovered in her pies in 1992, apparently an act of sabotage, while Ross Young found that Linda could be a demanding business partner. One day when Carla Lane was visiting Blossom Farm, she mentioned to Linda that a friend of hers had tried the veggie sausages and found them ‘a bit greasy’. Linda picked up the phone immediately.
She said, ‘Hi, is that Richard? OK. I want the sausages off.’ And he must have said, ‘What?’ ‘Yeah, OFF - O, double F!’ Then he must have said ‘Why?’ ‘Never mind why.’ Then a pause. ‘No, now. Not tomorrow. Now. Off the shelves. OK? I’ll be back with you. OK. Bye.’ And that was it. That’s how fast she moved when there was anything she was keen about. Off they came and they came back with less grease, apparently. It’s amazing how she did it [laughs] - she gave that man the Devil.
It was a different woman who sat in Liverpool’s Anglican Cathedral listening to a rehearsal of Paul’s oratorio in the spring of 1991, tears coursing down her handsome face as she allowed herself to be swept up in the music, causing daughter Mary (now an attractive young woman of 21, working for Dad at MPL) to look at Mum in surprise. Linda shrugged unapologetically.
The family were attending a full-scale run-through of Paul’s Liverpool Oratorio three months in advance of its première, Paul having decreed that he had to hear a performance because he couldn’t get the music from the score. This way he could change anything he didn’t like. Aunt Joan was one of the Liverpool ‘relies’ invited to the demo. ‘Who would ever have thought it would come to this? A McCartney in the cathedral! ’ she was heard to exclaim approvingly, looking around at the great building. Paul beamed back. Having achieved so much, he still felt the need to prove himself in front of his family. He was clever. He was talented. Look, he’d even written a noratorio, as he deliberately mispronounced the word in a self-mocking reference to his initial ignorance.
The première itself was held on a soft summer evening in late June, not at the Philharmonic Hall, though the Phil commissioned the work, but again in Sir Giles Gilbert Scott’s Anglican Cathedral. Since its completion in 1978, the cathedral had become the dominant landmark on Merseyside, the grandest possible local venue for the première of Paul’s work, which was performed by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra and Choir, conducted by Carl Davis, the featured soloists including two of the most famous singers in the classical world: soprano Dame Kiri Te Kanawa and bass Willard White.
Beforehand, Paul found time to meet Michael Portillo MP, minister with responsibility for Merseyside in John Major’s Conservative Government, showing the minister around the Liverpool Institute. LIPA needed public sector backing, so it was important that politicians were onside. Paul showed the minister the class where Fanny Inkley had tried to teach him Spanish, reciting her rhyme about the ‘tres conejos [three rabbits] ’, which caused Portillo to reply in fluent Spanish, evidently enjoying Paul’s company. Few were immune from the charms of a Beatle, from being Beatled as it were, especially those now in middle life who’d grown up with the fab four. Paul’s ability to attract and win over influential figures in this way helped LIPA considerably. Several other eminent people had been lured to Liverpool for the première of the oratorio, including Labour Party leader Neil Kinnock, and Paul didn’t waste the opportunity to promote his vision for LIPA with one and all.
Paul sat behind his celebrity guests for the actual performance, flanked by Linda and the kids. George Martin and Paul’s faithful roadie John Hammel sat nearby, John keeping an eye open for anybody making an uninvited approach to the boss. The first impression of the piece itself - which opens with ethereal strings and percussion - was that, despite Paul’s interest in the avant-garde, his Liverpool Oratorio was a traditional work, conventionally arranged and performed by orchestra, choir and soloists. As the story developed, one heard echoes of Edward Elgar as well as the Beatles. The music was varied, the playing and singing excellent, the second (‘School’) movement bright and engaging, with the same natural use of Liverpool vernacular language that characterised the Beatles’ lyrics: ‘The most important thing I found was/sagging o
ff!’ There was humour here, and pathos, with a demanding violin part for Malcolm Stewart in the sixth movement, after which the ‘Crisis’ section seemed attenuated and melodramatic; then a big, warm-hearted ending, the ultimate message of which was:… people still want a family life,
Nothing replaces the love and affection.
Hurrah! Applause. Paul bounded onto the rostrum to hug Carl Davis, congratulate the singers, and accept the acclaim of his audience, as he would at a rock concert. The oratorio was a success. Like ‘Penny Lane’ and ‘Eleanor Rigby’, two of his best songs, the work was rooted in the place Paul knew and loved, with a concomitant authenticity in music and libretto, though it was hard to know how much credit was due to Carl Davis, how much to Paul himself. Paul had foreseen that critics would mock him for his classical pretensions, but the reviews weren’t at all bad. ‘The orchestral writing is too much like background music,’ wrote Michael John White in the Independent on Sunday, noting that the pace was slow and the texture thin. Yet White enjoyed the ‘honest innocence’ of the oratorio. Plans were made for further performances, in London and elsewhere, with a CD release on EMI Classics, by dint of which Paul crossed the Rubicon from pop to the classical division of the old firm, the management of which commissioned him to write a new orchestral piece for its 1997 centenary. Classical music would be part of Paul’s music-making for years to come.
TRYING TO GET OFF THE GROUND
Shortly after the Liverpool Oratorio première, Lee Eastman died of a stroke in New York aged 81. Eastman had enriched himself and his English son-in-law greatly during the past 21 years, not least by establishing the highly successful music-publishing side of MPL. The company now owned no fewer than 25,000 original compositions, songs as diverse and famous as ‘Unchained Melody’, ‘The Christmas Song’, ‘Your Feet’s Too Big’ and ‘The Ugly Duckling’, in addition to the Buddy Holly catalogue and a portfolio of hit musicals including Grease, which alone made McCartney millions when it became a movie in 1978. Over the years, Paul had developed a high regard for his father-in-law’s acumen, marking his debt by giving the old man a Rolls Royce on one occasion, which was just about the most extravagant present Paul ever gave anyone.
Paul and Linda came to New York for the funeral, staying in Long Island into August when the area was hit by Hurricane Bob. (During the ensuing power cut Paul composed the song ‘Calico Skies’, which was put to one side for several years.) There were financial ramifications for Linda now her father had died. Lee had been an extremely rich man, his wealth mostly in publishing rights and art. Philip Sprayregen estimates the value of his stepfather’s estate in the hundreds of millions. So long as Lee’s widow survived him, most of this wealth was held in trust for Lee’s children and grandchildren, Linda standing to inherit her share as and when Monique Eastman predeceased her. In the meantime, John Eastman was a trustee of the estate, also taking over control of Eastman & Eastman, from the Manhattan office of which he continued to advise Paul. The men were close. Apart from being brothers-in-law, they had worked together since Apple days, and spent their summer holidays together, watching their children grow up. Paul’s partner in LIPA, Mark Featherstone-Witty, remarks that he found out early on in his dealings with Paul that, along with George Martin, John Eastman was ‘one of the relatively few people Paul wholly respected and would listen to’. Unfortunately, Mark’s own relationship with Paul was not nearly so good.
As we have seen, Paul promised £1 million to LIPA ($1.53m), but more than ten times that amount was needed to complete the project, and finding the money proved difficult, with Paul quickly becoming impatient. That November, Richard Ogden urged Mark to give Paul some good news soon. Under pressure, Featherstone-Witty sent out over 600 letters in Paul’s name asking the great and the good for donations, including, at Paul’s suggestion, Her Majesty the Queen. ‘It was like one of those wonderful English exercises, because I used to be an English teacher, Write in the style of … I tried to write in the style of Paul McCartney to the Queen. What an exercise. It was for real, too.’ Paul also wrote personally to select friends and public figures, including the Prince of Wales. As he noted in his letter to Charles, he felt some reluctance soliciting favours from well-known people, as he received such letters himself and knew how difficult they were to reply to. Also he didn’t often have cause to write personally to people in the normal course of his career, so he was out of practice. Composing the letter made him feel like he was back at school. His two-page, handwritten missive did have something of the schoolboy about it - the tone familiar and jokey to start with, but also businesslike in the detail - signed with an elaborate autograph and a smiley face, as if His Royal Highness would appreciate a Beatle’s signature. Or maybe not. The prince didn’t return any money.
The Queen did send a personal donation, however, not a huge amount, but a gesture that encouraged others to follow her. Celebrities ranging from Chevy Chase to David Hockney also gave to LIPA. George and Olivia Harrison gave an undisclosed donation, via their charitable foundation, but Mark Featherstone-Witty had no direct contact with George who, despite being a Liverpool Institute old boy, showed precious little interest in LIPA. Meanwhile many ordinary people sent in money, including fans who paid to have their name inscribed on an auditorium chair. Paul agreed to attend three fundraising lunches in London and Brussels in 1992 to drum up more money, leading EMI to donate £100,000 ($153,000), the biggest cheque yet. At a fundraising lunch at the Groucho Club in London Paul found himself sitting opposite a familiar-looking gentleman who turned out to be Donald Warren-Knott, formerly British consul to Japan, now running an Anglo-Japanese foundation. They’d last seen each other through a glass screen in Kojimachi Police Station. It was one of those Dickensian recrossings of paths that happen so often in Paul’s life. ‘We both thought it rather [funny],’ says Warren-Knott, regretting that his organisation wasn’t able to make LIPA a grant. Indeed, at the end of this fundraising drive Mark Featherstone-Witty had only collected £500,000 ($765,000) in addition to Paul’s £1 million pledge, which led to some awkward moments with his Lead Patron and staff.
One of the strangest of these incidents came at the end of 1992 when Mark Featherstone-Witty attended the MPL Christmas lunch. Mark took an accountant friend to the meal, a McCartney fan he’d known for years, which led to a strange and unpleasant row. By Mark’s recollection, Paul’s manager Richard Ogden summoned him into the MPL office the next day where he read him the riot act for bringing an unwelcome guest to Paul’s party. ‘What do you mean by bringing someone who was so obviously gay to Paul’s Christmas party? Have you any idea about the responsibility you carry in this project? ’ he allegedly asked.
‘What are you talking about?’ replied Featherstone-Witty, explaining who his friend was.
‘But he was gay, you stupid fucker!’
‘No, he isn’t.’
‘You’ve got to be careful. You can’t do anything that would embarrass Paul …’
That Mark would be admonished for bringing a gay friend to Paul’s party is extremely strange. Richard Ogden says Mark has the story wrong: he didn’t berate him for bringing a ‘gay’ friend to the party, just for bringing somebody who hadn’t been invited, and the conversation was not in his office, but at the party itself. He stoutly denies any homo-phobia on his or, for that matter, Paul’s part. But Mark stands by his story. He says he has no idea what motivated the outburst. Maybe Richard was over-reaching himself in an attempt to protect his boss at a time when their own relationship was becoming rocky. Whatever the reason, it was disconcerting. ‘I thought it was odd, but I never got to the bottom of it,’ says the LIPA chief, adding that it would be surprising if Paul was homophobic, ‘because he can’t be completely blind to the fact that so many people around him were gay, and lesbian for that matter …’ Yet Linda’s gay friend Danny Fields believes Paul did have such an antipathy, when he knew the star (though, as we have seen, Paul was good friends with the gay art dealer Robert Fraser for many years). �
�One of the reasons Paul didn’t like me, he didn’t like gay. Didn’t like gay near him,’ states Fields. ‘He knew that his wife would babble to the gay like a girlfriend and he didn’t want her to have girlfriends. He didn’t want her to have any friends, and they had no friends.’
Paul had started to think about doing something for Liverpool around the time he became 40. In the summer of ’92, he turned 50, and LIPA still seemed far from being a reality. As his chief fundraiser continued to try and raise the money required, Paul returned to what he knew and liked best, making rock ’n’ roll records. In advance of a new world tour, McCartney took his road band into Hog Hill Mill to make Off the Ground, a serviceable, tuneful, well-made CD that, like so many releases from the back end of Paul’s career, made little impact on any but his diehard fans, of whom, luckily, there were still many. Paul’s idea with Off the Ground was to make a band album, his first since Back to the Egg, recorded quickly with Hamish, Robbie, Wix, Blair and Linda, using a couple of songs left over from his collaboration with Elvis Costello, and getting Carl Davis to help with arrangements. The result is bland. ‘I think Flowers in the Dirt [is] a better album,’ opines Robbie McIntosh. ‘Off the Ground we recorded all in one place and it’s kind of got a slightly monochromatic feel to it, everything sort of sounds the same, one track after another.’ Yet the guitarist enjoyed working closely with Paul on the stand-out ‘Hope of Deliverance’, a call-and-response folk-style number that was released as a single in Britain and the US to little effect, but became a big hit in Germany, where Paul commands a considerable following. ‘Biker like an Icon’ benefited from an intriguing lyric, while the words of ‘Looking for Changes’ constitute an uncompromising attack on vivisectionists, the song sparked by a grotesque photograph of a cat with a scientific device implanted in its head. At a time when activists allied to the underground Animal Liberation Front were taking direct, sometimes violent action against British vivisectionists, Paul’s song seemed to encourage retribution:I saw a rabbit with its eyes full of tears
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