Mary McCartney

The Liverpool crucible of postwar resilience Paul McCartney attributes the unique chemistry of The Beatles to the specific cultural and historical climate of Liverpool following World War II. Born in 1942, McCartney grew up in a city physically scarred by bombing but socially defined by a refusal to be defeated. This environment fostered a particular brand of humor—a defensive, quick-witted mechanism used to "keep their heads above water" when circumstances were bleak. This communal stoicism wasn't just about survival; it was an active choice to find joy in the aftermath of destruction. This resilience became the band's primary weapon when they faced the international press. When the group arrived in America, they met a cynical New York media landscape ready to mock them. However, the "Liverpool upbringing" had prepared them to give as good as they got. The humor that had once lightened the mood during air raids and postwar rationing translated into a charismatic defiance that won over global audiences. The city's history of Irish influence and its status as a major port created a "special" identity, distinct from the rest of England, instilling in the young musicians a sense of importance and distinctiveness before they ever hit a single note on a stage. A musical education through oral tradition Long before the era of digital streaming or even accessible radio, the acquisition of musical knowledge in Liverpool functioned as a physical and social exchange. McCartney describes a world where music was a rare commodity, often brought back by Merchant Navy sailors returning from American ports like New Orleans. These sailors carried records that were otherwise unavailable in the UK, creating an underground currency of rhythm and blues that bypassed traditional gatekeepers. This scarcity dictated the way the band learned their craft. They didn't study sheet music or attend formal academies; instead, they engaged in a mind-to-mind transference of ideas. If one person knew an "extra chord," others would travel to their house to learn it. McCartney notes that almost none of the major 60s groups could read or write music, relying instead on a method he calls "bic," akin to the Irish oral tradition. This immediacy meant that when the band entered the studio, they were translating raw ideas directly from their brains to their instruments. The sophistication of their later work—shifting from basic C and A minor chords to more complex G minor structures—was a result of this organic, competitive growth within a small, self-selecting group of enthusiasts. The literary architecture of pop songwriting While The Beatles are often discussed in the context of rock and roll influences like Little Richard and Buddy Holly, their songwriting was equally informed by a rigorous British grammar school education. McCartney highlights how being "exposed to things like Lewis Carroll, Charles Dickens, and Thomas Hardy" acted as a subconscious sponge for their creative output. This literary background allowed them to transition from simple "I love you" songs to what McCartney describes as "novelistic" or "filmic" compositions. This influence is visible in the construction of characters like Eleanor Rigby. Rather than writing from a purely personal perspective, McCartney adopted the role of an observer, drawing from his childhood experiences of helping elderly pensioners on his housing estate. These women, who told him stories of the war and showed him crystal radios, became the blueprints for his empathetic, character-driven narratives. Even his use of rhyming couplets was an unwitting nod to his Shakespeare studies, specifically Hamlet. The famous closing lines of the *Abbey Road* medley—"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make"—mirror the structural finality of a Shakespearean scene, demonstrating how classical education underpinned the most popular music of the century. Songwriting as an act of psychological survival McCartney’s relationship with his instrument has always been more than professional; he describes the guitar as a "therapist." This psychological bond became evident with his very first composition, "I Lost My Little Girl," written at age 14. Looking back, he acknowledges that the song was likely a subconscious response to the death of his mother, Mary McCartney. The act of sitting in a private room and "talking" to the guitar allowed him to process grief and trauma that the stoic, postwar culture of Liverpool might otherwise have suppressed. This theme of choosing joy over darkness permeates his entire body of work, including his new material on The Boys of Dungeon Lane. During the COVID-19 lockdowns, he found himself writing songs like "Life Can Be Hard," but intentionally steering the melody toward the light. He attributes this to the wartime ethos: the necessity to "carry on" rather than be defeated. This "salesman and saint" duality—referencing his father’s work ethic and his mother’s community service as a midwife—remains the moral compass of his creativity. It is a philosophy that views art not just as an expression of pain, but as a deliberate tool for communal uplift. The malleability of history and memory In a candid reflection on his own legacy, McCartney warns about the "morphing" nature of history. He shares an anecdote about a hitchhiking trip with George Harrison where Harrison received an electric shock from a milk float battery, leaving a zip-shaped scar on his backside. Years later, George’s widow, Olivia Harrison, recounted the story but insisted it was Paul who had been shocked. This serves as a metaphor for the broader "Beatles history," which McCartney acknowledges has been rewritten and distorted by countless biographies and accounts. He compares this to the Bayeux Tapestry and the death of King Harold, questioning how we can ever have "accurate history" when even those who lived through the events begin to misremember them. For McCartney, the truth of his life lies less in the disputed timelines of biographers and more in the emotional resonance of the music. The songs serve as the most reliable evidence of the spirit of postwar Liverpool—a city that taught its children that even when bombs are falling, the most important thing to do is keep laughing and keep playing.