CLUB SANDWICH 84

THE HMV SINGING SESSION

Widnes 1962. Liverpool 1963. Boras (Sweden) 1963. Paris 1993. London 1997.
Mark Lewisohn witnesses a rare and remarkable event

            Those of a deeply cynical disposition might say that he did it just to promote Standing Stone. But while it is true that the idea was conceived with promotion in mind, Paul McCartney's session of record-signing and hand-shaking at the HMV Oxford Circus store in London on 16 October was typical of the man. An artist can promote a new record in any number of ways, but Paul continues to place himself before the public, the people he cherishes, in order, all right, to promote a record, but, much more than this, to spread a lot of happiness.
            Doubting Thomases only had to see the faces of Paul's fans as they realised, usually a minute or so later, that they had met their idol, obtained his autograph, shaken his hand, exchanged greetings and points of view. I saw those faces: tears of joy, gleaming smiles and sheer, unadulterated, radiant delight. I kept thinking: Paul doesn't have to do this. He could have been at home, with his feet up, in front of the fire, still much loved by his fans, and selling only a few less records.
            One can look fancifully at the connections: some people suggested that a "debt" had to be re-paid to HMV since it was because Brian Epstein took a Beatles tape into HMV's other Oxford Street store back in 1962 that the Beatles came to the attention of George Martin and EMI. Some say that HMV needed a big-name celebrity to re-open the Oxford Circus store after its temporary closure for an internal redesign. Others say that Paul had to be there, to receive the Composer of the Century award from the HMV managing director.
            Really, though, no "debt" was due, someone else could have opened the store and the award could have been handed over in private, with a photo released to the press. The point to be made, once again, is that Paul really needn't have put himself out but for the fact that he wanted to meet the public face to face.
            It was, of course, a scrum. All around the store, Oxford Street heaved with people, jammed on the pavement outside, packed on the pavement opposite, bursting on the tiny island in the middle of the street. People over the road, above M&S and other shops and offices, were hanging out of windows. Traffic speed was reduced to a snail's pace. As each red double-decker bus crawled by, people on the top deck craned to see what was going on and took photos.
            Fans had started queuing the previous afternoon, those early-comers waiting through the night in order to meet Paul. One by one, as they arrived in front of him, he recognised familiar faces and was pleased, clearly, to have the opportunity to meet and say hello after all this time. He was the essence of friendliness and courteousness to everyone - he smiled, shook hands, added personal greetings to his autographs (happy birthday, etc), winked conspiratorially at people, listened carefully to what they said to him and chatted back. Little children were hoisted up to say hello. Paul posed for photos. One of the policemen on duty presented himself for an autograph and a picture. Paul signed record sleeves (Flaming Pie and Standing Stone) and also posters, photos and even one giant Flaming Pie fly-poster. He conducted some of the so-called "LIPA Scruffs" - a hardy band of McCartney fans, who sang aloud lines from 'Beautiful Night' - enjoying their enthusiasm.
            Inevitably, a few who had queued were disappointed. But Paul sat behind a desk, scribbling with his marker pens, for 70 minutes, which is tiring work and a lot of signing. When it was over he grabbed a microphone and thanked everyone for coming along, saying, sincerely, what a fine time he'd had.
            His decision to do this proves once again why Paul remains so popular. He's not "above" his fans but cares and puts himself out. It was another remarkable event in a storybook life.