Paul Du Noyer
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd./Hachette
I was tempted to just link to Steve Braunias’ spot-on assessment of this book – just leave you with that review; it does essentially sum it up. Here, collected in one place, are many of Paul McCartney’s dullest interviews, most of them commissioned, scripted damn-near, promotional occasions, the writer Du Noyer is only ever tongue in cheek when it’s between a pair of McCartney’s, and since it’s when Macca is still talking you can probably guess which pair.
So why am I now prattling on and added a bit extra around a pretty-much-perfect review? Two reasons – I’m concerned, slightly, that Braunias might have been in the John Lennon camp and I’m not, so I felt like I needed to work through this on behalf of Paul fans. And – linked directly to that – I’m that much of a masochist that I started reading this book after reading a review that I knew was most-likely correct.
I’m not sure that review – and I’ll link to it again here, because you must read it if you haven’t already, it’s so good – was quite harsh enough on Du Noyer. He’s the worst kind of suck-up hack, mixing metaphors, botching them – he says some nonsense about McCartney never getting the feathery end of a critic’s quill (wouldn’t that be the bit you can’t write with?) And his sucking up reminded me of the book about James Blunt written by a family friend who acknowledged more than once that he was quite likely a “Creepy Uncle”-type and was super-stoked he’d slept with Janis Joplin, so much so that he compared James Blunt with Joplin. I thought that creepy uncle guy was the worst suck-up ever. Paul Du Noyer comes close. And no doubt often.
(Also: further proof there in that link to a review of the Blunt book that I’m a masochist when it comes to reading books I know I won’t really enjoy).
All of that said, I like McCartney’s music so much – especially a lot of the under-appreciated/maligned Wings and solo stuff – that I learned one or two things here I didn’t already know. Hardly worth the reading time though. Hardly revelations. And served up in that annoying fob-off-meets-foppish Macca put-the-grate-(right)-in-ingratiating way.