We pressed play on the new Paul McCartney album on the day of its release. Road noise, conversation, and my ancient iPhone’s occasional conniption fits—it can no longer handle the Music and Maps apps at the same time, apparently—interrupted the flow here and there, but thankfully not everywhere, while we flew along the highway in Virginia. Diane and I have Macca memories longer than the road that stretched out ahead, including an unforgettable 1990 concert at Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia, yet I was surprised when she—far less a fan than me—suggested we give The Boys of Dungeon Road a go. His voice is weathered now versus then, as happens with growing old, but the gravelly, occasionally frail vocals fit his lyrics, which often find him contemplating matters of the past; the melodies, meanwhile, also conjure the long ago—from his Fab days of yore to his flight through the ‘70s to the “Vintage Clothes” he wore in the aughts, not to mention the “Flaming Pie” he served in the late 1990s.
It was somehow fitting, that first listen, that we were en route to what I euphemistically call “our old stomping grounds,” aka Philly, to see another lifetime favorite, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, in concert and that another new album from yet another longtime companion, Neil Young, had preceded The Boys of Dungeon Road. Too, the journey into the past was to reunite us with old friends; we were awash in memories accrued over decades upon decades and expectations of new ones being formed. But to borrow a few lines from one of Macca’s new tunes, “And nothing stays the same/No one needs to cry/Nothing can reclaim/The days we left behind.”
First things first: Let me take you down to the final months of my pre-teen years—i.e., the spring of 1978, when I was consumed by pro wrestling, the oldies, and all things television. While watching the tube (Abbott & Costello or the Bowery Boys, most likely) one rainy weekend afternoon, a commercial for Wings’ London Town upended the order of everything. “With a Little Luck” leapt from the TV’s speaker mid-ad, hooked me, and reeled me in. I bought the 45. Purchased the LP. Picked up a previous Wings album. And, soon thereafter, immersed myself in all things Macca and the Beatles. I’m not the biggest fan that ever walked the Earth, but fan enough to own 11 of his 13 “Archive Collection” sets, the vinyl version of One Hand Clapping on vinyl, and last year’s eponymous Wings compilation, too.
I’ve listened to Dungeon Road a fair bit since that nostalgia-soaked weekend—enough, I’m sure, that the album will be at or near the top of my most-played albums list in Apple Music for June. What most surprised me, going back to that first listen, were the soliloquies that accent the proceedings. The opening “As You Lie There,” for instance, finds him musing in a monologue about a missed connection from his teen years. Other tunes, too, find his singing trickling to to a talking cadence, while “The Days We Left Behind” is spoken-word in spirit if not practice. The album, in that respect, is a master class in song arrangement; it weaves together the frayed edges of his vocals to make them whole. There’s also a somber feel throughout—even when he shouts. The memories, too, are many and varied: “Down South” recounts a hitchhiking adventure with pals; “Home to Us,” in which he gets by with a little help from old pal Billy Shears, celebrates his and Ringo’s home town of Liverpool; and “Salesman Saint” pays homage to his parents.
“Lost Horizon” is a standout track to my ears; it explores how the errant sounds of everyday life can thrust us back into the days that used to be. A train whistle, the chimes of a clock, the braking of a bus—they can all take me away, at any rate. Not every song strolls along the left banks of memory, however. Macca’s penchant for whimsy is on display, too. “Ripples in a Pond,” another favorite, swims through the concentric circles of love, while “First Star of Night”—like “With a Little Luck” so long ago—is sheer optimism set to an engaging melody. The trippy “Mountain Top,” on the other hand, is a psychedelic pastiche that mentions magic mushrooms, “pumpkin pies in the sky,” and multiplying butterflies. (Would’ve been funny if he sang “butter pies” instead. Just sayin’.) “Momma Gets By,” which closes the album, is a masterclass in crafting a heartfelt lyrical portrait.
All that said, at times the production sounds a tad flat. These are performances that should breathe like the ocean at night, with the instrumental passages and harmony/backing vocals flowing in and out like the tide. Instead, we’re immersed in standing water. It’s enjoyable and worthwhile, don’t get me wrong, but lacks the sonic oomph that the songs deserve.
The Old Grey Cat 