I Think About This Interview Frequently.

80s PAUL MCCARTNEY APPRETIATION!!!!😭💗💗

Paul McCartney, backstage in 1976

by Harry Benson

Some favorite fics about the Beatles' first US visit.

Feeling in a fic rec mood today, do not be alarmed. It's Eyes of the Storm season, and I thought I'd share some favorites set during that time...!

Hear Them Say (@boshemians). George is sick before the Ed Sullivan show and observes himself and his bandmates through a feverish lens...

the best of times, the worst of times (@crumblingcookies). The Beatles are treated badly at the British Embassy in Washington; Paul and John steal a moment.

Plant a Seed (@eveepe). If I had to choose one smut [with feelings!] story to read for the rest of my life, it would be this one. Prompt fill: "John fucks Paul in his gay little sailor outfit from these Miami pics." Yes, but it's so much more.

Sorry Girls, He's Married (@midchelle). "The morning after the Ed Sullivan Show, John is in a strange mood. Cyn is asleep. Paul makes a bad choice."

How You Were Diverted (candle_beck). Not sure this classic needs an introduction. Another excellent George POV during the band's first visit to NYC. Paul is handling John, John is handling intruders. Not a fluffy story.

A Little Distance (@fishfingerpies). In Miami, John and Paul finally don't have to share a bed anymore.

Miles Away (candle_beck). I'm cheating a bit with this one, since this is a story made up out of vignettes about Insomnia — the Beatles through the years, awake and asleep — but it's bookended by the year 1964 — and I love this writer, so...

I'M JUST A JEALOUS GUY

-

Lennon's jealousy has found himself showing aggression towards McCartney's various girlfriends over the years.

Peggy Lipton: John snarled at her when Paul brought her to dinner with the Beatles.

Jane Asher: John has clashed with on multiple occasions.

Linda McCartney: John, in 1971, publicly declared was not, in his opinion, “particularly attractive."

-

In 1986, Paul recalls John asking him to not sleep with Yoko Ono.

PAUL: "I mean, he warned me off Yoko once. You know, “Look, this is my chick!” ’Cause he knew my reputation. I mean, we knew each other rather well. And um, I felt… I just said, “Yeah, no problem. But I did sort of feel he ought to have known I wouldn’t, but.. You know, he was going through “I’m just a jealous guy”. He was a paranoid guy. And he was into drugs. Heavy.”

-

Robert Rosen, who read the diaries in 1981 after Dakota employee Fred Seaman stole them, was shocked to find that Lennon wrote about Paul "almost every day."

ROSEN: "Obviously I knew about the rivalry with McCartney, and the jealousy, but I think the extent of it... how often he thought about McCartney, and how jealous he was... I found that pretty shocking."

-

PAUL: I understood what happened when he first met Yoko.  He had to clear the decks of his old emotions. He went through all his old affairs, confessed them all.  Me and Linda did that when we first met.  You prove how much you love someone by confessing all the old stuff. John’s method was to slag me off.” 

John slagged Paul off to.. prove his love to Yoko?

-

In regards to Lennon’s early-70s defacement of Paul’s McCartney’s wedding photo,

PAUL: “Well, I mean, I think that starts to show the sort of pain he was going through. I think… […] If someone took your wedding photo and put ‘funeral’ on it [as he did on that manuscript], you’d tend to feel a bit sorry for the guy. You’d think, wait a minute.”

-

I was dreaming of the past,

and my heart was beating fast.

I was feeling insecure,

you might not love me anymore.

PAUL: [John] wrote ‘I’m Just A Jealous Guy’ and he said that the song was about me.

This is one of my favorite GIFs istg 😭

“I was pretty lucky on the LSD front, in that it didn’t screw things up too badly. There was a scary element to it, of course. The really scary element was that when you wanted it to stop, it wouldn’t. You’d say, ‘Okay, that’s enough, party’s over,’ and it would say, ‘No it isn’t.’ So you would have to go to bed seeing things.

Around that time, when I closed my eyes, instead of there being blackness there was a little blue hole. It was as if something needed patching. I always had the feeling that if I could go up to it and look through, there would be an answer. Now, I could go on about how the wordplay in Bing Crosby’s song ‘Please’ – ‘Oh, Please / Lend your little ear to my pleas’ – might be informing the wordplay in ‘And it really doesn’t matter if I’m wrong I’m right / Where I belong’. The fact is that the most important influence here was not even the metaphysical idea of a hole, which I mentioned earlier, but this absolutely physical phenomenon – something that first appeared after I took acid. I still see it occasionally, and I know exactly what it is. I know exactly what size it is.”

— Paul McCartney on “Fixing a Hole”, The Lyrics

I did a little concert for somebody in Hollywood. Paul McCartney was there. I've never met him before, but I'm a fucking fan of The Beatles. I'm in the back smoking, and they're like, "Sir Paul would like to meet you." I'm like, "For real? Hold on," and I put that blunt out. Cuh walk in the room like, "Don't put that down."

Snoop Dogg on meeting Paul McCartney

society has forgotten just how hot paul was in his 20s. if i was john i would have a hard on at all times

11 for the writing prompt!

Thank you so much for the request! I didn't know if I'd get any! This turned into something longer than a drabble.

11 Warm Soup and Fresh Bread (from January prompts here)

The trees in Central Park were stark black against the snow as Paul, laden with packages, emerged from a taxi on 72nd Street. He pulled his scarf close against the wind gusting down the broad avenue, pelting snow in his face. There was still a Christmas tree in the high arched entryway to John’s building, he noticed, as the doorman tipped his hat toward him. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. McCartney,” the man murmured, unimpressed by a world-famous rock star, probably since John and Yoko owned half the building. “I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

Paul nodded and hurried inside to escape from the blowing snow. In a burst of optimistic nostalgia, Paul had decided to stop in at the Dakota first thing, even before checking into his hotel. Something about the harsh winter weather, maybe a bit of loneliness from leaving Linda and the kids back in the UK, or perhaps the holidays stirring up wistful feelings of missing John. In any case, something had propelled him to the Upper West Side directly from JFK and he’d hurriedly picked up some gifts on the way so he wouldn’t arrive empty-handed. 

Despite his sense of purpose, Paul felt some trepidation and his heart thudded as the elevator carried him up to John’s place. John might not even be here. Might not even want to see Paul, what with his ever-fickle moods. Paul tried to throw off his nervousness. It was just John, wasn’t it? The key was mentally erasing the last few years like they never happened. Good luck with that, he thought.

A lackey opened the door and ushered Paul into the blinding white living room as he took the packages from him. Pulse racing, Paul glanced around, looking for signs of John or Yoko. “Is, uh, John here?”

“I’ll let him know you’re here,” the lackey said, then disappeared into the apartment. 

When he heard a familiar Liverpool voice, Paul was smoking a desperately needed cigarette, checking out the art and wondering whether the lackey’s failure to mention Yoko meant she wasn’t here.

“What’re you doing here?” Feet bare. John was in a tattered T-shirt and pajama pants. “About to watch me favorite game show.” Smoke floated up from a cigarette in his hand and the sweet, acrid scent of weed emanated from him.

Not exactly welcoming. Paul giggled nervously. “I brought gifts,” he said, as if that would explain his presence. “F.A.O. Schwartz. For Sean.” He peered at John’s eyes behind the granny glasses, trying to figure out if John was on anything else. You never knew.

John glanced at the pile of packages. “Oh, so you did.” He gave Paul a watery smile. “Kind of you.”

They eyed each other warily. Applied themselves energetically to the act of smoking. Putting the cigarette between their lips, sucking and blowing out. There was a familiarity to it, smoking with John, the rhythm soothing.

But Paul’s sense of discomfort remained. “Maybe I should go.” He couldn’t read John at all. This was the worst idea ever. He’d made an appearance, gone through the motions, he could leave now, no harm done.

“No, no, no. Come on, sit.” John sat on the white couch, pulled over a glass ashtray sitting on the coffee table and gestured to an armchair opposite him. 

“Okay.” Paul perched on the edge of the chair, still tense. He tapped ash into a green porcelain ashtray on the side table next to him. Looked out the window at the severe black and white landscape of the park, empty in the inhospitable weather. “Yoko and Sean here?”

John shook his head. “Out on the island. Yoko hates the city during the holidays. Too many people.”

“Ah.” Something in Paul softened and let go, knowing Yoko wasn’t here. “Would’ve liked to have seen Sean. How’s he doing?”

John’s face broke out in a bright smile and Paul’s heart melted. “You should see him, man. He’s amazing. The things he says. Could listen to him all day. Sometimes I do.” John chuckled ruefully.

“Smart, eh?” Maybe he’d stay after all, Paul thought.

They shared a grin. All parents think their kids are the best.

“And adorable,” John added. 

“Of course,” Paul said. “He’s got you for a father.” Oops. That was a bit much. 

John rolled his eyes. “Nothing to do with me.”

“You should send me some pictures some time.” 

John’s gaze shifted away. “Yeah, I should.”

Silence rose again. Puff, blow out; puff, blow out. Now the park wasn’t even visible, the snow falling thickly. John crossed his legs and looked out at what was quickly becoming a blizzard, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. 

Paul smashed out his cigarette, then jumped up and headed toward the window, escaping the feeble conversation. He contemplated the flurries, still wondering if this had been a good idea. After a moment, there was a brief touch on his shoulder, then John’s warm presence closed in right behind him. Paul inhaled sharply and tried to relax.

“Getting bad out there,” John said. 

“Yeah. Glad my plane got in before it got worse.” 

“You came from the airport?” John said with a note of incredulity. 

Paul flushed, glad he wasn’t facing John. “Yeah. Spur of the moment.” 

“Linda and the kids?”

“Back home. Linda said she needed a break from traveling and I had to deal with some business here.”

“Huh.” John stepped up next to Paul. Both continued to stare at the swirling whiteness outside. John rocked on his bare feet. “She let you off the leash, then? Trusts you in the big city?” With a smirk, he knocked his shoulder against Paul’s. 

“Could say the same of you.”

“Oh, Yoko definitely doesn’t trust me,” John said. “She has her ways of keeping tabs on me, don’t ask me how.”

“You okay with that?” Paul asked. “I guess so, you’re here.” 

John’s mouth tightened. “We have our arrangements.”

“The inscrutable Ono Lennons.”

“That’s right, got to keep things mysterious. Don’t want the public to get any ideas about what really goes on here, after all.”

“Just the happy house husband, I hear.” Paul looked askance at John.

“Ain’t it the truth.” John snorted.

Paul wasn’t sure what that meant. It was hard to imagine John being happy, well, at all, much less sitting at home taking care of a toddler all day. “Seriously, are you happy?”

Skirting the question, John said, “Actually, I bake a mean loaf of bread these days. Been perfecting my baking skills.”

Paul burst out laughing. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“No, I’m not!” John sounded genuinely offended. “What’s so surprising about that?” 

“Uh, because the most complicated thing I’ve ever seen you make is toast.”

“Turns out homemade bread makes the best toast.” He grabbed Paul’s arm and hauled him away from the window. “I’ll show you.”

As he led Paul to the kitchen, John said, “I’ve had some dough rising all afternoon. You’re just in time for the sublime experience of smelling bread baking. And then eating it!” He flashed Paul a big grin and it had the same effect on Paul that it always did: a surge of warmth in his chest, the feeling that despite everything, all the heartache and disappointments, there was only one John and Paul was damn lucky to have met him.

The kitchen felt much more lived-in than the austere living room, mugs of old tea sitting around, green plants at the window, old cat food in a bowl on the floor. As soon as they entered, Paul was hit with the yeasty scent of bread dough. “I can smell it,” he said.

“Fantastic, right?” John rubbed his hands together. “Make you a cuppa while we wait?”

“Ta.” Paul could feel the tension in his body release.

*

Over the next hour, the apartment gradually become suffused with the homey scent of baking bread, something Paul never would’ve associated with John Lennon. They’d had some tea, then wandered back to the living room when John wanted to play some records for Paul. Paul sifted through the stack and found his most recent album. He pulled it out and showed it to John with a raised eyebrow, his pulse surprisingly elevated.

“Yeah, yeah, you found me out, I’ve been listening to it,” John admitted.

“So you don’t hate it?”

John sighed and adopted a put-upon look. “Some of the songs aren’t half bad.”

Internally, Paul yelled, “YES.” Outwardly, he said, “Huh,” in a noncommittal fashion and put the record back in the pile. He’d take what he could get.

As they listened and chatted about the music, their conversation got more animated. It felt like old times as they got excited about certain tracks. “The bass line on that one…did you hear what he did? That little lick at the end of the phrase,” Paul said. “Need to remember that.”

“Yeah, but what about the rhythm in the piano? And when the chorus comes, it’s like POW, hits you right in the chest,” John replied. “That chord change…”

“…on the bridge,” Paul finished.

“Yeah, that one! Love it.”

*

A little while later, John pulled the bread out of the oven and inspected it for doneness. “Perfect,” he pronounced and set it on a rack to cool.

Paul picked up an oven mitt. “World’s Best Dad?” he read out loud. 

John’s pale complexion took on a bit more color. “Birthday gift from Yoko. Kind of a joke.”

“Uh huh.”

“Anyway, moving on…” John rummaged in the refrigerator. “Got something to show you.” He grabbed some ingredients. Paul noticed a block of tofu and a tub of miso.

“Bestill my heart. Are you going to make fucking miso soup? You, John Lennon?” Paul put his hand on his chest as if he were having a heart attack.

“Shut up, you,” John said mildly, as he pulled out a cutting board and started preparing the ingredients. “I’m a proper househusband, I am. Don’t you believe the papers?” He winked at Paul.

“Oh right, of course.” They both knew the papers were rarely accurate when reporting anything about the Beatles. Especially when it was a Beatle himself putting out the BS. John and Yoko had been doing that for years. Which was why Paul never knew what was really going on with him. This was a unicorn moment, getting to spend so much time alone with John. Paul had been a bit down over the holidays, probably drinking too much, but now he could feel the darkness lifting a bit. 

*

“You’re right. Toast from homemade bread is something else,” Paul said when they finally got to eat the bread, slathering a slice with butter and taking a big bite.

“Told you,” John said through a mouthful of toast.

Bowls of steaming, golden miso soup were laid in front of them, garnished with delicate bits of tofu and seaweed that Mr. John Lennon had cut up himself. The fragrant loaf of wholemeal bread was on a board, several slices cut and ready to devour. They’d moved on to beer, their glasses on the table half drunk. 

Paul looked at the spread and said, “You know what? You’re not a half-bad househusband, after all.” He smiled at John, filled with a sense of well-being. “Thanks. Everything’s delicious.”

John beamed at him. Then he wiped a pretend tear from his eye. “Gosh, Mr. McCartney, I never thought I’d hear you say that.” He batted his eyes. “I guess the saying is true, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

Paul threw the World’s Best Dad mitt at him. Then he picked it up from where it had fallen next to John’s chair and as he got up, he whispered into John’s ear, “You always had my heart, silly bugger.” With the mitt, he swept his hand over John’s head as John stared at him, mouth slightly open. Then he ruffled John’s hair like he didn’t mean it, as if he could take back the words, breaking the moment.

TBC

IN EVERY SINGLE INTERVIEW 😭

(This is a reupload from my pinterest lol)