My Other Paul Shows
Thursday, August 6, 2009. I hadn’t attended two consecutive Paul McCartney shows since the US Tour in 2005. The second one of those didn’t go so well for me. However, I put those thoughts out of my mind as I once again prepared to bask in the history at Fenway Park. This was the show that I bought a ticket for during the Fan Club pre-sale event. So, there was no friend to accompany me. It was just me.
My friend Dawn and her husband had seats on the field for this show. And we agreed to meet up at some point in the evening. I had to hear what it was like on the field. Oh, and of course I had to give my friends a hug.
I got off the Green Line at Kenmore Square again, my IPod blasted a Macca mix so loudly that I was able to completely ignore the scalpers on the corner. I popped in to have a bite of Mexican food for dinner and then I headed on towards the park. I stopped off at one of the bars, only because the guy who hosts Breakfast with the Beatles here in Boston was in the middle of a Beatles event. I got in line and then I heard someone say my name. I turned around and there was a colleague from work in line right behind me. We had a laugh about that and then we were allowed inside. They went to eat; I went to find ChaChi, the Beatle Guy.
The object of the game he started was we had to come up with a trivia question—Beatles or solo—that could stump him. If we stumped him, we won a t-shirt. I had a serious case of déjà vu. I had to laugh. So, I called over to him:
“I have a question for you.” I said.
“Fire away.”
“What is the name of the long-time British journalist who appears on the cover of the Wings’ album, Band on the Run?”
He thought for a bit, and then he repeated the question for the crowd. “Do you guys know the answer?”
No one did. Goodness! So then he asked me for the answer:
“Michael Parkinson.”
“Oh, man! I knew that!” ChaChi lamented. “Give this lady a t-shirt.”
I just had to laugh. I took the shirt and a couple of other free mementos and then I left the bar. I figured that my work there was done. I took my time as I walked to the gate on Yawkey Way. I stopped to look at other places; I took another quick gander at the merchandise tables; I gabbed on my cell phone. I wanted to wait until the first big rush of people went through the security check. I didn’t want to have to wait in that line again. It was still quite warm, even though this time I wore the white t-shirt that I bought the night before.
When I finally decided to go through security, there was no line and I breezed right on through the express lane because I had no backpack or purse with me. After I went through, I went back up to the security guards and asked a favor.
“Excuse me. I know this sounds silly, but could I possibly have one of those Red Sox tags as a souvenir?”
When you do carry a bag or a purse into Fenway Park, they put a paper wristband around the handle to indicate that it’s been examined by security. The colors always change, but that night the bands were blue.
“Sure!” The nice guy said and then he gave me a couple of them.
I thanked him profusely and I said, “It’s not much, but I think the coolest things to keep are the smaller things like this.” He agreed.
My seat on this night was nowhere near the one I sat in the night before. Though, I have to admit, there was a much better view of the field from this angle and I wasn’t out in the sun. It was shaded because the seat was underneath the upper deck of the park.
I stopped to chat with various people as I made my way to my seat. One woman had the cover of the Beatles’ Abbey Road tattooed across her chest. I thought that was awesome, as I’m always inclined to stop and talk to folks about their tattoos. It’s comforting to know that I’m not the only person in the world who has a Beatle-related tattoo.
I sat in my seat for awhile and took some photos with my digital camera. Then, as if it was some kind of joke or something, my digital camera died. It died at a Paul McCartney show. I did not find this amusing at all, so I put the camera back in its pouch and I haven’t touched or used it since. Die on me at a Paul show, will you? I don’t think so. So, I was relegated to using my cell phone camera again; which wasn’t bad, it just didn’t have a lot of zoom power.
I did get up and explore a little bit more. I figured that I probably wouldn’t be back inside Fenway without either a miracle or another Paul concert, so I wanted to see as much of it as I could. I explored so much that I missed most of the opening act, but I figured it was ok since I’d heard their set the previous night.
Paul hit the stage and I completely lost my mind, as usual. I sang along with him; I took photos and I truly had a good time. In the middle of the show, I got a text message from Dawn saying she’d meet me afterwards. We agreed on a place and then I went back to singing.
I’ve said this before, but the show was amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a Paul show that wasn’t amazing. I sang until my throat was sore and my voice was hoarse. I danced until I was certain I would drop. But, I think the most amazing thing for me was that I realized how lucky and blessed I truly am. There are people in this world who never realize their dreams. I have exceeded my one sweet dream.
I met Dawn and her husband after the show and they brought me some confetti; which I greatly appreciated. Confetti doesn’t float back far enough for me to grab it from the cheap seats. The trains were jam-packed with Beatle people on the ride home, and we encountered some interesting folks to chat with. I always love to talk with other Beatles fans because you just never know what kind of story you’re going to hear.
I got home and immediately went to post on my Facebook profile. The note was entitled, “And in the End.” I think that the context sums up the entire 2009 Macca experience for me:
With tonight’s show at Fenway, my summer Macca roller coaster ride has ended. I’ve stood in lines; bumped into people; gotten lost on subways; been squished in tiny seats; have bruises all over my legs; eaten really expensive ballpark food; spent way too much money; bought more souvenirs to add to my collection; taken photos and video; almost lost my voice; met great folks; shared fun with some friends; and poured gallons full of sweat.
It’s been up and down, back and forth, upside down and backwards; a bit helter skelter. But I wouldn’t change one moment of it.
I have been so utterly blessed to be able to go to these shows and enjoy myself. I rarely do anything for myself, and this is the only thing I ever do for me. I love to see Paul McCartney. I’ve been going to see him since I was a teenager. I must send oceans of love out to the Universe and to God for the blessings He has given me this summer, and every day.
Yes, I do consider seeing Macca a Divine blessing. It’s not the easiest thing in the world to do, you know. The tickets are expensive, then there’s the getting there; there are people everywhere; lines out the wazoo for everything; merchandise is costly (but you just have to have it); trips; food; hotels—and that’s all before you start praying for the chance to actually meet Paul and say, “I love you, man.” Yet, it’s a blessing. We’re all part of a family; for a few hours of our lives we are bonded together by music, peace and love. For me, that’s what makes it all worthwhile.
Now it’s done. I’m exhausted but grateful and proud of myself for taking the time to celebrate, not only Paul, but myself. Every lyric, every cheer, every tear I’ve sang, screamed or shed has been a celebration of me: the kid in me whose Mom bought her a ticket to see Paul; the teenager in me who returned the favor; the adult in me who nearly died once at a show, and the fan in me who still wears her wristband from the NYC Secret Show as a bracelet. I also celebrate the part of me that cries at the slightest hint of sentimentality and the part of me that remembers the firsts in my life and keeps them close.
Lastly, I celebrate my outrageous side, the side that always wants to party and dance but never does. Every facet of me comes out during a Paul show. I can’t hide it nor can I stop it.
I think that’s what I like most: the utter freedom. It’s ok to sing along with every song, even if everyone else is doing the same.
Wait, no. What I like the most is seeing Paul enjoy himself up there on the stage. I wonder what it’s like to see us thru his eyes. Wouldn’t that be amazing for just one second, to see myself as he would see me from center stage? I wonder what he would think. Man, there’s a question for the ages.
So, I finally say goodbye to my summer fling with Paul. Thanks for all of the memories you allowed me to create, Paul. Thank you for never failing to be incredible; and for always giving 110% of yourself. Thank you for allowing me to celebrate my never ending affection for you and for myself.