Notes from the Small Pond: Taking in a McCartney concert has its moments

This past Saturday night, my wife and I were lucky to have been invited to join some professional colleagues in the Green Bay Packers executive suite at Lambeau Field for the Paul McCartney concert. Several individuals told me they wouldn’t be caught dead at Lambeau Field, even if their Lord and Savior, Donny Trump, were there, due to their devotion to the Purple and Gold. I reminded each of them they were idiots because they are and sometimes idiots need reminding because they readily forget. Because they’re idiots.

Inside the suite, there were people, some fancy, some nice, some both, tons of food and drink and an atmosphere of electric goodwill and commonality, spanning generations, and, although there was certainly more gray hair and Hippie Vibe than there were piercings and Millennial Angst, there was definitely both.

And then:

Stuck inside these four walls …. sent inside forever … never seein’ no one nice again …. like you … Mama, you …. Mama, you ….

And the place goes silent in anticipation of the inevitable acoustic strumming:

Well the rain exploded with a mighty crash as we fell into the sun; and the first one said to the second one there, I Hope You’re Having Fun.

You know the rest ….

Inside the suite, the two individuals with the best seats in the house looked at their phones. These two were not exuding the Hippie Vibe. Instead, one was pulling up videos of some woman eating sticks of deodorant, clip after clip of this woman, popping off the cap of a perfectly good stick of Right Guard, chomping into it like a horse eating a carrot, chewing and swallowing, then back to another bite. And another. Ad nauseam.

The other was trolling Tinder. The two shared their respective phones’ imagery and fell into fits of hilarity as if being tickled by a troupe of orange-faced Munchkins.

Meanwhile, on stage, Sir Paul McCartney was telling the story of when he and The Beatles released “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.” They’d released it on a Friday (May 26, 1967 — Summer of Love). On Sunday — two days later — Paul and the rest of The Beatles were at a show in London, as spectators, where a visiting Jimi Hendrix was playing, along with a host of other soon-to-be rock ’n’ roll legends at a small, intimate venue, in downtown London. Hendrix’s opening piece was a cover of the title song of the album the Beatles had just released, again — two days earlier. He nailed it. Of course. And when it came time for the guitar solo, Hendrix played on for five straight minutes, levering his whammy bar like the demon he was.

Back in the suite, the two non-Hippies watched deodorant being consumed and considered Right or Left. On stage, Sir McCartney explained how any experienced guitarist knows that after a violent beating like the one Hendrix had just given his guitar with the crazy distortion and whammy action — any guitarist knows that instrument will be rendered hopelessly out of tune, which is why, these days, most lead guitarists have several guitars at the ready. That night, Hendrix had just the one.

As McCartney explained, after Hendrix finished the song with another psychedelic flourish, and after the crowd stopped screaming their impassioned approval, Hendrix looked around the stage and into the crowd, appearing somewhat unsure of himself. Here’s how McCartney, in his perfectly perfect British accent, told the rest of the account on Saturday night at Lambeau Field:

Poor Jimi looked a little unsteady. He just sort of wandered around the stage a bit, like he was looking for something. Then he peered into the crowd again, shielding his eyes from the lights. He called out, “Eric?! Eric? You still here?”

That’s when John [Lennon] nudged me and pointed, giggling. There was Eric Clapton, who’d just come off stage, having played prior to Jimi. Eric was having a drink and trying to hide behind the crowd, turning his back toward the stage, presumably to avoid Jimi recognizing him.

“Eric!” Jimi yelled. “Hey Eric, I know you’re here! I see you back there, man!”

Eric finally relented and turned to the stage, clearly annoyed.

“What do you want!” he yelled at Jimi.

“Can you please come up here and tune my guitar — I love how you tune it like a piano!”

The crowd went crazy, of course.

As did the crowd at Lambeau. Except for the two. Instagram Stories, Baby.

Poor Eric. ….unless you’ve put on a show like this, it’s difficult to understand: once you’re done, you’re done. You’re spent. All you want to do is come down off the high you’ve been on being on stage. You just want to melt in. … And that’s all Eric wanted to do, melt in. He knew that if he went up and tuned Jimi’s guitar, the crowd would demand they play a few songs together. Eric just wanted to melt in. By the way, Eric is an amazing guitar tuner….

Lambeau crowd roars again.

Finally, after about 10 minutes of Jimi’s browbeating, Eric gives in and climbs on stage and grabs Jimi’s guitar. Everyone loved it. Even Eric, eventually.

The Lambeau crowd showed its appreciation for that awesome, inside-baseball story. And Sir Paul nodded, understanding the gift he’d given.

And then he played “Listen to What the Man Said,” and I used the occasion to steal a kiss from my wife at the appropriate spot in the song. Corny, I know. But if you’re of a certain age — and if you’re reading this, you likely are — you get it. If you don’t get it, you might be busy watching videos of a skinny guy from Japan eating 111 hot dogs in eight minutes, or Swiping Left.

Parnell Thill is a Cloquet-based author and marketing executive. Winner of a Minnesota Newspaper Association Better Newspaper Contest “Columnist of the Year” award in 2017, his book “Killing the Devil and Other Excellent Tricks” is available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, local booksellers, the Pine Knot News office and at killingthedevil.com.