PM

We got O, the brand from Chicago.

Now PM for Paul of the Beatles.

This time, PM appeared on the balcony of the Ed Sullivan theatre, to reminisce the concert from the rooftop (Apple building in England, their last public appearance as a group).

45 years is a long time. Back then 73 million were watching the black/white show. Dave Letterman was joking about he wouldn’t worry about that problem (of having a huge network audience) any more.

It just so happened that I checked out the DVD Paul McCartney in Red Square last weekend.

And now to video stream his mini-concert in New York , to me, it’s like a serendipity.

Among his songs was Band on the Run. I listened to it when the 9 of us (extended families) were , on the way to US,

stuck in Wake Island (to this day, I still can hardly pinpoint its location on the map).

Band on the run. And we have been running ever since. It’s the best summer I should have had, but because of the context, I couldn’t make myself to enjoy the surf or the sand.

And Band on the Run did just that for me this morning.

PM was in his pink/white. Rest of the band in black.

It’s mid-July in Manhattan, the signature yellow cabs are still going back and forth.

New York onlookers stopped and enjoyed the impromptu “Woodstock”.

There was suspension of disbelief in the air: something stays the same, no matter what.

Gone John and George. Ringo is coming out with his new album. And PM is still singing, Helter Skelter among them.

For a moment, I am in touch with myself as well, knowing that the song, the performer and me, the audience are still here, even though time has flown on, since the beginning of Time. Something has been so “continuous” that I even if I wanted to, I simply couldn’t stand in the way of progress.

We need music and musicians, books and writers, films and actors. We need to suspend of our disbelief. We need to dream, again, and again. It’s a big part of being human. It’s better than swearing, just to feel better. Keep dreaming.

Band on the Run. Yesterday. Imagine. Dream #9. After all, what is life? My sweet guitar gently weeps, if I don’t.