Something sad about seeing Paul McCartney sing his old beatle songs as part of the giant commercial that is Superbowl. Not that's it's any surprise - the cute beatle has always been the most savvy, the richest, the biggest commercial success. Even after Jacko takes his share. Yet sad nonetheless, that a year after boobgate the most family friendly, toned down, safest and least offensive act the organizers found (and you know they looked very, very hard) was Sir Paul's tribute to the Beatles (and Roger Moore as double O seven). This is the man for whose fans the word hysteria gained popular usage, he was just so damn hot. Unlike many of his peers, Paul's voice is still strong and clear. And he's surrounded by world-class musicians. But where the hell are John and George? Oh, wait, yeah, that's right. Not only is Paul not the Beatles, he's not even the best one. I'm not sure I'd even put him in my top 4. I can understand having your hayday and living on the royalties ever-after, but to keep putting it out there like as if it's fresh and exciting, that's just annoying. And he didn't even show any flesh.
Labels: 2005, non-fiction, politics, Toronto