What has McCartney got that makes people of all ages the world over respond, that makes the media sit up and bark soon as he strolls across the pond, that makes his comeback solo tour a notary-certifiable Event in a day when rock tours are dubbed Events every time you turn around? His albums are, by and large, some of the blandest discs ever piped into a waiting room, and even his hit singles are so eminently forgettable that the titles evade recall without research. The man obviously proved he had a gift for melody in the Beatles, but his lyrics are so dopey they end up making fun of themselves, and on top of all that he insists on trundling his musically illiterate photographer wife with him everywhere, insistently, both on stage and records. (pp. 36-7)

Like the King Family, the McCartneys in their celebration of suburban conjugal joys and hyping of their children are involved in a presentation of nuclear normalcy, a model for the present and future (as they see it) based on the conventions of the past. Just like Paul's music, in which Sgt. Pepper could draw rock from music hall and be hailed as an avant-garde masterpiece. To be sure, Paul and Linda are marketing themselves, but they are also marketing a lifestyle. What lifestyle? Father Knows Best. But unlike Father Knows Best, which was smug, there is a certain desperation underlying their presentation. They protest too much, and in their very bland rectitude there is a certain wild yearning after their idea of an ordered world. Which is, of course, very British and very middle class. (p. 39)

Much of the result is nursery school music (but there are rules in nursery school, of course, and Paul is a Do-Be), in line with Ram's cover design by Paul which looks like the wall of a child's room. Does he write these ninny-tunes as home cartoons and lullabies for his children? And if so, what does this say about the kind of artist who would devote his public output to such a scheme? From fairy tales with storybook characters ("Band on the Run," jailer man and Sailor Sam) to comic-strips ("Magneto & Titanium Man"), lines like "when I leave my pajamas to Billy Budapest" ("Monkberry Moon Delight") and "Man, I could smell your feet a mile away"—only a child could laugh wholeheartedly at that. Perhaps McCartney has really tapped the vast market available to the musical equivalent of Benji, The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes, Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory; traditional bubblegum music seems to be a played-out form anyway, and half these songs would be perfect Sesame Street fodder. They're cute, with a childish humor that's slightly out of kilter.

Of course, I realize that it is as silly as a McCartney song to analyze his lyrics in any kind of serious detail. The success of any given McCartney song depends not at all upon the lyrics, but on the hook, melody and how much conviction he can infuse into the subverbal core of his sonic truffles. That is, the songs, however fatuous, project an attitude, but that attitude is not to be taken seriously. Because it is irrelevant. As irrelevant as a Slinky. (pp. 39, 71)

McCartney is sterile. Sterility is both the selling point and insurance of ultimate obsolescence for McCartney albums. They're like electronic massages, from which you come away soothed but neither satiated nor fortified. It's this sterility which is fortunately missing from Wings' live presentation. Paul's cleanness and natural sense of showbiz simply makes the energy of his performance breezily expansive. Unfortunately, this amiably mild kick is delivered in Dachau franchises, to bedraggled and benumbed animals. Most don't notice the clash—they've got long hair at the Madison Square—but it renders McCartney's real accomplishment (the translation of his boutique ditties into a rousing party) ultimately meaningless. Kind of like bringing A Chorus Line to Folsom Prison. (p. 71)

Paul McCartney; of course, is the antithesis of all the danger that rock 'n' roll used to stand for. People like McCartney because he epitomizes safety—a nice safe boy, safe music, safe marriage, safe kids, safe tours, safe money. Listen to his description of a rock concert in "Venus & Mars / Rock Show," even the way he sings it, and you know how cutely, albeit affectionately, distanced he is from the tumult and the stoned, stunned ennui…. The man simply seems incapable of a gesture that is not arch. He's a plasticene porter, and for all his coyness lacks the obscene smugness of Elton John. But for all he sings of love, you don't sense much coming out of his music. It's more like a Mattel toy—shiny, synthetic but durable, break-resistant. (p. 73)