Macca Mania

Apparently I took a photo of this in a store in Paris.

Let’s (it) be honest here: Who wants to see Paul McCartney play another football stadium?

His most important bandmates (John, George, Linda) are all dead. He’s 82 years old and participates in the constant beating of a dead horse around the legacy of the Beatles. He’s a commodity more than an artist at this point, and at least to me, the modern McCartney is completely divorced from the McCartney who catalyzed a creative revolution in the 1960s.

Plus, I am the world’s most obvious Georgehead.

Yet, I felt my soul split open when it was revealed that McCartney would be playing the Bowery Ballroom this week — a venue with a capacity of less than 600 people. I became single-mindedly focused on seeing Paul in a setting that felt worth it to me. I knew that it would be a complete debacle to get into these shows, but I knew that I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t even try. ¹

It was remarkable to see McCartney do something so cool and geared toward fan service. He didn’t clog up the setlists with his post-Wings work (sorry Paul, but no one cares). He played the hits on his first night at the Ballroom, which must have been a life highlight for every person in that building.

Once I made my strongest effort to get into one of these shows myself, I learned that McCartney and his camp had turned a rare and beautiful opportunity for fans into a three-night festival for celebrities and industry cronies.

However, I’ll admit my perspective comes from my own McCircumstances: I wouldn’t feel this bitter if I had been fortunate enough to get a ticket to ride. I’d be elated.

Instead, I am now simmering on my couch recounting the many times McCartney’s actions have demonstrated the cravenness beneath his formation-of-the-universe level of creativity. His nearly 70 years of success have been written with an iron fist. I have a litany of other people’s resentments to weaponize. We’ve all seen “Get Back.” That saga ended, too, with a surprise show.

But the number of people who actually got an honest box office ticket to see McCartney this week is significantly smaller than anyone anticipated. (A doorman did tell me overall capacity was lower than usual due Paul’s mega-soundboard and an extension of the stage.) Still, a fraction of tickets went to McCartney’s plebeian fans.

The rest seemed to go to family (fine) and a bunch of celebrities. I’m sure Joshua Kushner and Karlie Kloss are Beatles-enjoyers like the rest of us, but these are the type of people who already have access to the circles in which McCartney exists. Go away, you are welcome to pay $100,000 to see him perform at some charity gala.

Anyway, the revelation of these surprise shows created an absolute frenzy this week in New York. Beatlemania, it turns out, is alive and well — even in my generation. The first show was announced just five hours before doors, and people scrambled to get downtown before the allotted tickets sold out in less than a half hour. A doorman at the Ballroom said that very few tickets had been sold for that one, though he gave no specifics.

The next day — when everyone had figured out that Macca was doing a residency — sounded even worse. I was walking out my front door at 9:58 a.m. to get in a car to the Bowery when Paul announced at 10 am that tickets were on sale.

I was in a car on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway when a friend who had made it to the venue by 10:08 a.m. said he was so far back in the queue (innit, mate) that even he didn’t stand a chance. I had my Uber get off the BQE before crossing the Brooklyn Bridge and took a car in a circle back to my own home.

Lesson learned: I left before sunrise for my final chance.

The Ballroom doorman said that fewer than 150 tickets had been sold for that one, which was still more than had been distributed for the first show. So, doing some guesswork, it seems like maybe 250 tickets were sold to the public for maybe 800 spots or more in the venue?

It was clear by then that McCartney would be playing a third show at the Ballroom, so I set my sights on Thursday. It was a rare victory for my state of unemployment: Who the hell would care if I spent all day waiting in line to try to get a ticket?

Ultimately, that’s what happened and I didn’t get a ticket.

Despite my nearly lifelong attachment to George (my childhood public library had a copy of his memoir), the frustration I felt standing outside of the Bowery Ballroom ticketless is the type that can only come from wanting something deeply and waiting all day for a chance to have it.

The first people in line had shown up at 8:45 p.m. the previous night — right about when his second show was ending. They slept outside in Manhattan in a cold drizzle. Credit to them for doing the damn thing. I suggested that they form a group chat and name it “Apple Scruffs.” They asked, “what?” I winced.

(Sorry, my library also carried this legendary text.)

After I joined my friend Matt and his friends in the long and winding line — thanks to some very kind people who already had a feeling of hopelessness about their chances of getting a ticket anyway — I was somewhere in the 130s. It seemed fringey, but it was still less than 150.

Ultimately — and not until 1:30-ish — the venue handed out vouchers for tickets for the first 90 people in line. My friend Rachel, who’d arrived at 3 a.m., got the golden ticket. Matt and I, who were up to the 110s or so due to attrition, were told to disperse and head home.

Dizzy Miss Lindsey

Ninety public tickets. Who else will get to see McCartney at the Bowery Ballroom? I will simply not be happy for the “Haim sisters” — hangers-on who have put out one worthwhile album in their 12-year career.

I will be happy only for the active Scruffs who tolerated the elements and lack of information from McCartney and the venue just to have a remote chance of seeing the old man carry that weight in a space befitting the psychotic relationship between his former band and their fans.

I knew it was always going to be nearly impossible to get a ticket to one of these shows, but it’s the ratio of public tickets to a guest list that brings me into the grand cultural tradition of being insulted by Paul McCartney.

I sincerely believe that Jerry Seinfeld’s ticket should have been given to me, specifically. I deserve a good and unique experience for $50. Jerry has had plenty of those for free. Get in line and buy a ticket, brother.

1. You are all invited to my Spotify playlist of the Beatles’ psychedelic songs.