Paul McCartney Opens The Book Of Love Songs With Kisses On The Bottom
What do you do when you are the Cute Beatle approaching 70? Ageand those decades of inhaling herbis finally catching up to those pipes, yet vanity or stubbornness prevents you from simply clipping on that capo to sing your classics in a lower key. Oh, and your name is Sir Paul and you're the only survivor of pop's most valuable (in every sense) conglomerate who is not Ringo. 
There are some obvious choices. A reality show? Been there, done that. A Rick Rubin-produced warts and all expose? You would find that Paulie's gritty is everyone else's pretty. As the son of a dance hall bandleader, James Paul McCartney always deferred to the Great American Songbook's greatness. Moving from the stadiums (where, for a $500 ticket, he will do his damndest to hit a younger bloke's high notes) to LA's Capitol studios, where he crooned into Nat Cole's old mic, he is not only aging with dignity but with a subtle beauty young Paul may have missed a few decades ago, when the temptation to show off his octaves (and Little Richard-inspired holler) would be too great.


























