In a development that has sent shivers of pure, unadulterated delight through the chattering classes of Islington and beyond, Sir Paul McCartney, the last living Beatle and man who once wrote a song about a yellow submarine with the same seriousness as a nuclear physicist discussing fission, was spotted in a casual, off-the-cuff, aggressively wholesome jam session with Irish actor and certified national treasure Paul Mescal. The venue? A nondescript recording studio in London, which has now become a secular shrine for those who believe that cultural relevance can be measured in decibels of gentle mirth.
Let's be clear: this is the sort of news that makes the BBC's entertainment correspondent weep with joy, because it confirms a deeply comforting narrative. Paul McCartney, at 82, is still the human equivalent of a Warm Hug from God. He can still pick up a bass guitar, squint at a fretboard, and produce a sound that makes middle-aged men in tweed jackets remember their first kiss. Meanwhile, Paul Mescal, the 28-year-old actor from County Kildare, whose brooding intensity in 'Normal People' made millions of people feel deeply inadequate about their own relationships, is now a legitimate rock star's favourite sideman. What a world. What a terribly, wonderfully charmed world.
Now, the cynical among you (and I include myself in this damp, gin-soaked cohort) might mutter: 'Is this not just a carefully orchestrated PR stunt, a gentle reminder from the McCartney camp that he is still alive, still benevolent, and still capable of making the room smell of old money and chord progressions?' But no, no, no, dear reader. This is not cynicism. This is a symphony of mutual admiration, a tonal goldmine of intergenerational back-patting. McCartney reportedly said of Mescal (and I paraphrase from the fever dream of the press release): 'He's got a great feel for melody. He even knows the bridge to 'Maybe I'm Amazed'.' And Mescal, ever the humble genius, replied: 'I'm just glad he didn't ask me to play the theme to 'The Frog Chorus'.'
But what does it mean for the global standard of rock royalty? This is the question that the sober-suited analysts at the Guardian will be wrestling with over their fair-trade coffee. The answer is simple: nothing. Absolutely nothing. And that is precisely the point. By jamming with a handsome, talented, young Irish man who is famous for being sad in a jumper, McCartney reasserts his position as the godfather of effortless cool. He doesn't need to release a concept album about Brexit. He doesn't need to apologize for the 1980s. He just needs to stand in a room with a Paul Mescal and let the latent aura of Beatlemania do the heavy lifting.
Of course, the internet responded with the subtlety of a bag of hammers. Twitter/X (or whatever we're calling it now) exploded with hashtags: #PaulSquared, #Mescartney, and a frankly disturbing amount of fan fiction involving the two of them sharing a taxi. The Standard ran the headline: 'McCartney and Mescal: A Masterclass in British-Irish Relations.' The Times devoted 400 words to the choice of guitar strap used during the session. It was a cultural orgy of second-hand celebrity.
And yet, one cannot help but feel a twinge of smug satisfaction. This is the United Kingdom's (and Ireland's) soft power at its finest. Forget aircraft carriers, forget trade deals. We still have The Beatles. We still have 'Hey Jude.' And we have a Paul Mescal, who can apparently hold a note and look soulful enough to make millions of people forget their own mortality for a few moments. The global standard is set. It is set in a dusty studio, with two men named Paul, and a cup of tea that is now probably worth a thousand pounds on eBay.
As I write this, I am informed that a third Paul is trying to join the jam: Paul Weller. The security cordon has been tightened. The world holds its breath. But for now, the torch has been passed. It is not a torch of fire or even a flaming torch of punk rock rebellion. It is a torch made of tweed, acoustic demos, and a gentle understanding that sometimes the most radical thing you can do in a world gone mad is sing 'Blackbird' with an actor who once cried on a beach in a TV show. Long live the Pauls. They are our only hope.
