CLUB SANDWICH 82

necessarily mean that I know a Desmond or a Molly. I compose songs like playwrights write a play. They don't have to know everyone in the play, they don't have to know anyone in the play, it's just a product of their imagination. I remember George Harrison saying to me once, "I always have to write from something that's happened to me, something in my experience." Well, that's certainly a good way to write but I'm more fluid, more flexible than that. Sometimes.

            YOUNG BOY

            I hadn't seen Steve Miller since one night at Olympic Studios in 1969, when there was an unfortunate business meeting and a Beatles session broke down. On the spur of the moment Steve and I had got together and by about three or four in the morning we'd done 'My Dark Hour' together, which he released on his next album. I played it recently to my son James, who's interested in finding out what his Dad did back then, and he liked it. He even liked my drumming, although it's a little bit heavy on the tom-toms. So that reminded me of Steve, I called him up, we got our friendship going again, I told him I had a song and reckoned we could do it well together and he invited me out to his studio in Idaho. We had a great time there, hanging out and recording. Working with him again was like falling back into a pleasant old habit. Steve's tough to produce because he's a great perfectionist, but I just told him to whack up the guitar. I love his guitar playing.
            This was another song written when I'd set myself an arbitrary deadline. We were in Long Island and Linda was cooking with Pierre Franey for a New York Times article. I had taken my guitar, and was sitting around in a nearby room when a song came up. It wrote itself: I was thinking about all the young people I know, and remembering my own early days. There's a funny side story to this: I left the room after I finished writing the song and when I went back in there a few minutes later I got a shock because a girl was lying on the couch. She'd been there all the time, and I hadn't seen her.

            CALICO SKIES

            I wanted to write something acoustic, in the vein of 'Blackbird', something that could be recorded without drums or an arrangement. We were in America and Hurricane Bob had knocked out the power for about a week. That caused enforced simplicity: it was primitive and fun and I sat there with an acoustic guitar and wrote 'Calico Skies'.

            FLAMING PIE

            We had some funny moments during the making of the Anthology, when we remembered things differently. The biggest was "who thought of the name Beatles?". George and I both remember it the same way: John and Stu had come out of their flat in Gambier Terrace, Liverpool, and we were walking towards the Dingle, chatting, when they told us of their new name for the band. But, what with one thing and another, we didn't exactly say this in the TV and video series.
            I was working with Jeff Lynne on 'Souvenir' when we decided that we wanted to add some raw, heavy-ish guitars. We had the amps belting in the studio, playing the guitars in the control room with long leads, and while the engineers were getting the sound we started vamping and found a few chords and some funky riffs. I started shouting a little bit of a melody and so I asked the engineer to stick on a DAT tape. We just jammed, but then I suggested we turn it into a song. The words came to me a few days later when I was out horse riding with Linda, going through some birch woods. I was musing and dreaming about

WHY
Why now, and what's the thinking behind it?

            After his last album, when everyone was gearing up to do The Beatles Anthology, someone from EMI told Paul that they didn't need an album from him for a good couple of years. At first he was cross, thinking "typical record company", but then he realised they were right. He wanted to concentrate his efforts on the Anthology, making sure he did his bit. Also, he felt it would be unseemly to release a solo album in the midst of that collective activity.
            But although he had some time off, Paul still wanted to make music, so - working without deadlines - he wrote a song here and a song there, mostly on holiday, and soon had a collection of them. The Anthology had reminded Paul of the standards that the Beatles set - the same standards many new bands are trying to emulate now; it excited him and gave him an urge to make new music. It also reminded him of the fun way the Beatles tried to approach things. They were not a serious group. Sure, things grew tense in the end, but they always had humour.
            Having time, freedom, relaxation and humour was the key to Flaming Pie. Paul invited Jeff Lynne to come and do some work. Lynne asked, "How long? A month, six weeks?" but Paul replied, "No, two weeks. I'll be bored with you after a fortnight, and you'll be bored with me." He wanted to avoid the trap of getting into "the recording period" followed by "the overdubbing period" and "the mixing period". Making albums can become tedious in this way. Paul also enlisted the help of mates like Steve Miller and Pvingo, and family in the form of Linda and their son James.
            Realising that the atmosphere inside the studio communicates itself through the music, Paul made this album with the attitude that if he was having fun then, hopefully, listeners would too. Not having to sweat was the main thing for Paul. Most of the chords are simple, and the only stipulation he made was that he himself had to be happy with every song.
            Paul knows, however, that at the end of the day it's just an album. As he says, "If it does well, fine, but I'm not going to allow myself to worry about it." Indeed, as someone once sang, "What's the use of worrying? No use."
            ML