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And I can almost feel that I remember things from my birth. I don't know if this is true, this is probably just pure speculation, but I have a vision of a sort of white-tiled room, and chrome clinical instruments, and the clanking noise of those things on chrome trays…" McCartney stops himself at this point and offers a commentary in the third person—"Come on! Is he crazy or not? What I'm saying is, to me it's a vast panoply of a wonderful legendary tapestry, life. There's just so much in this story, and it's still going on, it's still changing, it's still evolving. My feeling is that as long as I'm managing to proceed through it with some sort of pleasure, then that's always been enough.

Sometimes it's been more than enough—it's been vast prizes, vast satisfaction. I couldn't really describe what it is, but it's just time stretched out and all these millions of little occurrences that have happened, and that's me.

So yeah, I'm still that little kid. I really do still feel embarrassingly like that, because I know how old I am, and I look in the mirror, I see how old I am. It's this ever changing thing, and I sort of vaguely find myself quite satisfied with it. I wouldn't say totally, because that's Valhalla. That's asking for possibly too much.

But, yeah, I have a lot of good things going on in my life and I generally have a pretty good time. And I feel amazed by all these things, you know. I mean, in the '60s, when we were tripping away, I remember once in London taking acid and going through the trip—you know, all of that, as anyone who's ever taken that shit knows what I'm talking about, just the whole intense vision of what the world is, other than how you see it normally.

And I remember at the height of it seeing this thing that was like a spiral going up in, in my brain, and it was beautiful colors, like multicolored gems going up this spiral. And then, shortly thereafter, [scientists] discovered the DNA helix. I certainly have a feeling, not only my own birth, I've seen my own DNA. McCartney had a very public and rancorous divorce with his second wife, Heather Mills, in after nearly six years of marriage.

They have a daughter together, Beatrice, now McCartney's first wife, Linda Eastman, whom he married in , died of cancer in McCartney married his third wife, Nancy Shevell, in So you're saying you discovered the structure of DNA before anyone else—you just didn't tell anyone?

This flight of fancy is only slightly spoiled—or perhaps, looked at another way, enhanced—by the fact that DNA's double-helix structure was actually discovered in , when McCartney was 11 years old. And he was microdosing. I was asked just the other day, and I thought, 'You know what, I've got the grandkids and stuff.

There's enough going on. I'm okay.

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McCartney goes on to say that, nonetheless, when he was encouraged to microdose by his friend, "it brought back that feeling of peer pressure from the '60s," and this reminds me that out of the Beatles, McCartney was always painted as the reluctant one, the sensible one—and, indeed, he was the last of the four to take acid. I heard it changes you and you'll never be the same again. I thought: 'Well, that could be a double-edged sword. I'm very practical, and my father was very sensible and raised me to be a sensible cat.

But you certainly weren't the same again. You certainly had insights into what life might be.

And he knew me well enough that if I said no, I meant no, and I'm not frightened of being uncool to say no. Thinking about that balance between caution and going full tilt makes me think of what you once said about you and John Lennon and the cliff's edge. He once said that to me. You jump, and tell me how it is. I'm more careful in everything. My dad is a very strong factor in this.


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He was an ordinary working-class guy, very intelligent, very good with words, but his whole philosophy was to think it out a bit. So that, that turned out to be my sort of way. Whereas John, you've got to remember, didn't have a father. John didn't even have an uncle. He went to live with the uncle—the uncle died. His dad had run away. So John felt like he was a jinx on the male line, he told me. I had a father.

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He was always spouting to be tolerant. These were words he used a lot, and I think I listened. So, to take an extreme example, is it really true that John tried to convince you that you should both do trepanning? Trepanning is the process of drilling through the skull to the brain.

At various times, people have advocated the benefits of voluntary trepanning, though mainstream medicine considers these to be, at best, spurious.

He nods. We'd all read about it—you know, this is the '60s. The 'ancient art of trepanning,' which lent a little bit of validity to it, because ancient must be good. And all you'd have to do is just bore a little hole in your skull and it lets the pressure off—well, that sounds very sensible. And I wouldn't go so far as to say, 'You're fucking crazy,' because I didn't need to say that. But, no, I'm not gonna trepan, thank you very much. It's just not something I would like to do. I don't think so.

I don't think he was really serious. He did say it, but he said all sorts of shit. Did he really come to that meeting near the end of the Beatles and say he was Jesus Christ? I think I would have remembered that. He was the kind of guy that could do that. I don't remember him actually ever doing it. I mean, on the Sgt. Pepper cover he wanted Jesus Christ and Hitler on there.

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That was, 'Okay, that's John. It's a laugh. We're putting famous people on the cover: 'Hitler! He's famous! Winston Churchill's your hero, John. So he was just fucking about. That was John.


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  • He was very witty, very wonderful, and would like to push the envelope, and it was entertaining to be around someone like that. These are cool people. But you can't always do everything they suggest. In , Peter Blake, the artist responsible for the sleeve, pointed out that actually the Hitler cutout Lennon had asked for was made, and can be seen in the session outtakes—in the finished version Hitler was completely obscured by the four Beatles standing in front of him.

    Nearby, he also has his own recording studio, situated in an old windmill on top of a hill with bracing views out over the sea. Right now, everyone is mingling around its tiny kitchen. McCartney, who is just back from a holiday in the Greek islands with his wife, 13 listens to a ticket-sales update from his British publicist, Stuart Bell, for some big shows he is playing later this year. Before our previous meeting, McCartney had just returned from a short holiday on the island of Ibiza.

    He shares with me a convoluted theory he subscribes to whereby instead of retiring "which I don't fancy at all—I'm just having too much fun" he takes multiple holidays to spread his retirement time out between his ongoing work. When I point out that he really doesn't need to justify any of this, and that he would have every right to sit on the sofa for the rest of his life if he really wanted to, he retorts, "Yeah, but you'd get a sore arse.

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    He adds that it's not just him—he's just been reading a book about Shostakovich Julian Barnes's novel The Noise of Time. And he's considered okay. McCartney leans over a table laden with vegetarian sandwiches and snacks, lifts a corner of the clear wrap off a plate of coffee-cake slices, and tries to extract a segment so that it will look as though he hasn't. There we are. A few minutes later, he holds a pink rose under my nose—one he has just picked from the bush outside, a rose that is officially called the McCartney Rose.

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    He then points to a 3-D printout of his head someone sent him from Brazil that's sitting on a shelf next to a smaller figurine that I can't quite properly see. His old record company, EMI, gave him the rose—which is to say that they paid for its creation and naming in his honor—on the occasion of his 50th birthday.

    And so the midafternoon break goes, until McCartney straightens up and suggests to the others, "Shall we go and play some more? That is what they are here to do today. Shoes, his own, by Stella McCartney.

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    You'd have to be completely immune to the past 55 years of music history, and to Paul McCartney's pivotal role in it, not to be somewhat mesmerized by watching him, just a few feet away, rehearse his way over several hours through 30 or so songs. Mostly, they are re-familiarizing themselves with old favorites, which they generally try to play as closely to the original records as possible, but they're also still figuring out a handful of new songs, and occasionally they throw in fairly obscure cover versions—for instance, "Miss Ann," a song from Little Richard's first album that the Beatles would sometimes play in their pre-fame days.

    There are moments that seem even more surprising. When I walk in at the beginning of the rehearsal day, they are in the middle of a long instrumental jam, one that seems very loosely based around the verse chords of the Wings song "Letting Go," during which McCartney noodles and solos on electric guitar 16 at great length in a way that you never really see in public, as though he's in a slightly more prim version of Neil Young and Crazy Horse. It's not a work of grand genius, but it's captivating and deeply odd, and it exists only for these three or four minutes, never to exist again.