Sir Paul

Sir Paul

or Bill Murray, Eat Your Heart Out!

Part I

It was going to be a memorable trip. I had no idea what an understatement that would eventually become. In the summer of a year slightly before the world was in the grip of a pandemic, I saw my first Paul McCartney show. I had been invited by some friends, parents of players my son used to play youth baseball with, to visit them in Detroit, attend the show with them and to otherwise hang out, party, and catch up.

The drive from Indiana to Detroit was uneventful. I arrived in the morning. We spent the day together at their estate, playing tennis, swimming, eating and sunbathing. Finally the time came to go to the stadium. Comerica Park in this case.

Because they were going swing by Ann Arbor to pick up their daughter at the University of Michigan, I couldn’t ride in the helicopter because of capacity limitations. So I simply drove my Ford truck the short fifteen miles to the venue. Later, we met at the agreed upon place, and enjoyed the show together. It was everything one would hope it would be. Then as he was playing the last song in the second encore, Al nudged me and handed me something. It was a backstage pass.

I had never held one. I didn’t really know what to expect. I always thought it was something they only gave groupies. What it meant at that particular show was, you’d be taken to Pauls dressing room, and if you minded your Ps and Qs, you’d be shown in to Sir Paul for a handshake and a quick(and I mean quick) photo opportunity.

As it happened, Al’s and Carol’s pull was only good enough for us to be the last group of the night. Despite their outward appearance, their amount of wealth was meager and, actually a weird type of embarrassing within the circles of old Detroit Automobile industry wealth. So as it was, I was going to be the very last person Paul had to meet that evening.

As I watched Al, Carol and Erin finish their meet & greet,(we decided it would be too awkward for me to be the 4th wheel on their 3 person family event). We had decided it would be less awkward if I went up alone. As they were leaving the dressing room, Al, looked at me and said “See you back home in about thirty minutes!” I nodded and waved and they went off to their limo. Now it was my turn. Last in line. Story of my life.

I approached him, I did a concise bow, jutted my hand out and gave him a rather poorly executed handshake, while my brain screamed, “You’re actually physically touching Paul McCartney with your actual flesh!” My mouth uttered these words, “Sir Paul, it’s truly an honor to finally meet you face to face. Your work and the work you did with your three mates in your youth have brought much joy to my life. Please allow me to thank you from the depths of my heart, for your artistic contributions to all the people who could hear your song.”

At first he said nothing and gave me a blank stare. After an uncomfortable amount of time he cracked a smile and said, “I must say, nobody’s ever it said quite like that before, though they always say the exact same thing!”, and exploded in laughter! I nervously chuckled as he laughed. We then exchanged pleasantries and as one typically would in a situation like that and then I turned to go. I heard Paul say to someone, “Where’s Tony? He said he’d be here at eleven. Not a minute later?” His, Assistant said, “Tony had to leave suddenly. His wife went into labor about halfway through Silly Love Songs.” Paul said, “Well who’s going to drive the car to the airport? You know I don’t ride with anyone else.” At that moment, I decided, for absolutely no good reason at all, knowing it would be the most regrettable moment of my life, in spite of any and all good sense, I turned and blurted out, “Sir Paul, I could get you to the airport by 11:30 if you like. But we’d have to leave right now.”

I got that blank stare and silence again. But to my amazement, and to that of everyone in the room, seriously about fifteen people, he suddenly stood up grabbed a Detroit Tigers baseball cap off his dressing table and said, “To hell with it! Wes, take me to the bloody airport!”

He just stood up and and walked over to me, donned his cap and whispered in my ear, “Stay close mate. I know the way out. Been here a dozen times over the years.” So I walked out of Comerica Park with none other than Paul McCartney, for the express purpose of driving him to the airport as quickly as possible!

Luckily, I was able to locate my truck fast. Most of the other cars had already gone, so it was really easy to find it in the parking garage. Before I knew it I was out on the freeway headed straight up my route. “Do you mind if we have some music Wes?” Paul asked. The music from my ride to the concert was still cued up on my phone. It was naturally a McCartney playlist with a mixed bag of Beatle songs and others from the 70s and 80s. I said, “What would you like to hear?”. He said, “Just play whatever you usually listen to.” So I simply pushed play. The stereo cut into the middle of a live performance of The Long and Winding Road, which he had recorded in the late 70s. I couldn’t resist seeing his reaction, primarily his facial expression when this song sprang out. It wasn’t much actually. He put his fingers to his mouth and said, “I remember this one. It was in Sydney, Australia. Springtime. September . I had a good day that show. James had just been born.” It was a very happy time indeed!” It was a sweet moment. I was savoring it, knowing this was a once in a thousand lifetime opportunity.

But the moment was shattered when Paul’s phone started ringing. It was Paul’s assistant or someone like that and said, “Paul, you’re plane has been grounded. There’s going to be a lightning storm tonight and they won’t allow anyone to fly, not even us.” Paul was unfazed. “Well that’s unfortunate Gina. Go home Love. Wes here and I will think of something. I have a feeling he’s a resourceful lad.”

I turned and said, “Sir Paul, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. A hotel maybe…?

“Absolutely not! He said. I can’t walk into a hotel in a city where I have just played a show! They’d tear my to shreds! Where are you staying? You told me you live in Indiana. You’re not driving all the way home tonight are you? Are you daft?” “I’m staying with the couple and their daughter you met just prior to meeting me, up in north Detroit. Bloomfield Hills is the name of the town.” Then Paul said the most ridiculous thing. “Do you think I could crash at Carols and Allen’s place too?”

Before the concert Carol told me she had invited some people over. Some of which who were also attending the show and others who were not. Several, at least ten of Erin’s college friends for a late night soirée. I knew it, and still I said, “Sounds great. Let’s do that.” As we made our way north we sang a little duet of Venus and Mars and he laughed at me as I made a fool of myself trying to imitate his telephone ringing sounds in Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey. I was about to be the guy who showed up at an extremely upscale party with the surprise guest of the century! No. Scratch that, the surprise guest of the millennium!

Everyone has heard tales about how Bill Murray will sometimes crash some random event, and eventually whisper into the host’s ear, “…Nobody will ever believe you.” In this case, it increases the scale of Bill’s storied exploits ten-fold! As I approached Al and Carol’s house, It dawned on me I had better tell Paul what he was about to arrive to. Finally I said, “I should mention Sir, that though you’ll find the accommodations tonight acceptable, there is going to be an event in progress when we arrive.” As many as 40 people, but maybe as few as 25.” I felt sure he’d be supper upset. Again he was completely unfazed. “40 people?” He said, as he gave me a puzzled look. “I played in front of 55,000 at Shea Stadium. I think I can handle a lousy forty blokes!” Relieved, I simply replied, “Okay. Let’s do this.”, and turned onto the property.

Part II

Even though I didn’t have to,(I had a key to the kitchen side-door and we could have snuck in unannounced), I decided it would be best to go to the front door. The entryway was well lit but I had no idea who would answer the door after we rang. As luck would have it , it was Carol.

“Hi Carol! I found this guy out front thumbing a ride to Cleveland and decided I’d better invite him in!” Carol made no reaction to my attempt at humor. Any color Carols face previously had, ran out. Her mouth was agape and her brain had apparently stopped functioning. All she did was stare at him. Paul broke the ice by saying, “Carol! I had no idea I would see you again so soon! May we come in Love?” She shook off her stupor like a champ and let us in. “How silly of me! Please come in!” she finally said. After we entered I saw her half sit, half collapse on an antique sofa she keeps in the foyer. I said to Paul, “I’m sure you’ll do just fine without me for a bit Sir.” And I left him to check on Carol. When I sat down next to her, she grabbed me by my left shoulder and said weakly, “Why? ….why is he here Wes? Where did you get him?” “It’s a long story,” I said, “But I think your priority right now should be hosting the party you’ll be known for for the rest of your life kiddo!” “I’ll never be able to thank you enough. Even if we both live to be a thousand years old, I’ll still be in your debt.” Carol said as she looked me straight in the eye. “Fuck off you dork! You owe me nothing! It’s the least I could do for the free ticket and the backstage pass. Now let’s go have that drink we so richly deserve.”

Paul effortlessly mingled with he guests as I looked on. He has the gift of making everyone feel like the most important person he’s ever met while he’s speaking to them. I told myself to savor the evening. As Paul graciously spoke to the guests, and they ALL wanted to meet him, I just watched from the bar as I sipped Scotch.

Al and Carol were so stressed out. It was a little tough for them to enjoy anything because they were so focused on preparing the quest accommodations for him. They were making sure everything he could possibly need was in there waiting for him. I took the liberty of peeking in the guest room as Carol was finishing up getting it ready. It was perfect. Every toiletry you can imagine was there. A fresh bathrobe, a new toothbrush, just everything. As she was fluffing the pillows for the ninth or tenth time I told her, “The room is great. Stop stressing and get out there and host the party!”

Around 1 o’clock, Paul gravitated toward Al’s piano, a Baldwin baby grand from the early 1950s, and sat down. This was a natural signal for everyone to gather and quiet down. I couldn’t help but think that Paul is always thinking of making music even at times when he’s under no obligation to do so. He’s just a natural entertainer. I don’t think he can help it. If there’s a piano in the room, he’s eventually going to play it.

He started out with an alternative version of Lady Madonna that had extra verses with raunchier lyrics that I think he may have made up right on the spot. I couldn’t help but laugh thinking this old man still has such a playful sense of humor. Next was a spirited performance of Ob la do, Ob la da, then he switched gears and played Let Em’ In, which I thought was a perfect choice, under the circumstances. No surprise lyrics in that one. He asked for a glass of water and then did a traditional rendition of Another Day, which he dedicated to Carol and Al and made a tongue in cheek comment about ruining their party, which got a big laugh. He played Golden Slumbers which, the way I took it was a signal he was ready to be done. By that time he’d been playing for thirty minutes and I’m sure he was getting tired.

After his performance he had a small plate of food from the impressive spread that was laid out by Al. The only thing he had to drink all evening was water. I guess his drinking days are behind him. I even heard how he asked some lady where the bathroom is, “Could you direct me to the privy Love?”, which made me smile.

The guests were all well behaved. Nobody asked him to sign anything and though everyone wanted a photo with him, they were careful not to be too pushy about it. I believe Carol went around to everyone to say, “Nobody better do anything to embarrass me!” Luckily most in this crowd were not unaccustomed to seeing a celebrity in their presence, but usually it wasn’t one of this magnitude. Remember that skit on SNL when Chris Farley met Paul? All those worn out cliched questions he asked, like “Remember that one time when you were in The Beatles…..? Nobody did anything like that.

Around 2:15 the party was winding down, and by 2:40, all the guests had left. Carol was about to show him his room and as they were walking down the hall, he turned to me and said, “I’ll need you around nine to whisk me to the airport like you promised Wes.” “Sure thing Sir Paul. Sleep well.” I said. And as he entered his room he said, “You as well! That goes for everyone.” He then closed the door of the room Carol had prepared for him and did not emerge until 7:00 am.

Part III

When we were alone, Al, Carol and Erin got the whole story of how I came to be chauffeuring Paul McCartney around the greater Detroit area. After they both said THANKYOU about a hundred times, we decided on a plan for morning. “I think he’d just want you to act normal and do what you would normally do on a Sunday morning.” I said, thinking back to when I asked him what music I should play on our ride. Al and Carol didn’t get a wink of sleep that night, I promise you that. I, on the other hand, slept quite well.

As dawn arrived, Al was working on a breakfast spread of coffee, tea, muffins, toast, donuts and fruit. At exactly 7:01 Paul casually wandered into the dining room, fully dressed, albeit in the same clothes, looking neat as a pin. “G’morning Wes, Allen, Carol, Erin. Thanks for the room. It was lovely. What have we here? Breakfast?” It was like a dream that would not end when morning came.

As we all munched and sipped our coffee, we tried to be as cool as we could, letting him lead the conversation as much as possible. We told him what a great show he put on but he brushed it off saying, “You should have seen me 20 years ago. I was much better.” He wanted to know all about Al’s Baldwin and where he obtained it. Paul even made a point to ask Erin all about her studies and her career aspirations. He wouldn’t stop telling Carol how grateful he was for her hospitality. He was just so nice.

After breakfast he turned to me. “Wes, if you don’t mind, I’ll still need that ride. My driver, Tony is still indisposed. He had to fly to New York to be with his wife last night during the show. They had a daughter! Can you believe that?” I replied, “As I said last night sir, I’ll take you anywhere you’d like to go.” So at 8:55 am he said goodbye to Al, Carol and Erin and off we went to Detroit’s Wayne County Airport.

Believe it or not I had already began to get used to his company and was able to relax. This time I didn’t play his music. I decided on a Tom Petty record. All Paul said about it was, “Ah Tom. He was a good friend of George and Ringo. A terrible loss.” After about four songs I switched to Glen Gould playing Bach’s Goldberg Variations which I knew he’d enjoy.

He instructed me where to go when we got to the airport. At a security gate, I rolled down the window and a guard leaned in and said, “Mr. McCartney, your plane is waiting for you on the tarmac. You can drive directly to it.” So with an escort of airport security vehicles, I drove to his G700 where he turned to me, shook my hand again and said, “It’s been lovely Wes. I can’t thank you enough. Take care!” as a member of his staff knocked softly on his window. It wasn’t the curt goodbye he made that sticks with me. It was the eye contact he made as he said it. His eyes said, “You were very kind to me and I appreciate it.”

Then, he opened the door, hopped out and boarded his plane. Security ushered me safely off the grounds and my time of being in the presence of greatness ended anticlimactically.

I drove back to Al and Carols and we spent a couple hours basking in the afterglow. An noon we ate some more of the breakfast Al had made and then after a hug or two I was on my way down I-94 toward Indiana. He didn’t give anyone his phone number, an email address or any contact information at all. I suppose he figured, “They got more of me than anyone gets. That’ll have to be enough.” And it is enough.