The real kick is the inclusion of Beatles producer George Martin, brought in more for nostalgia and name than for anything else, and Ringo Starr; they show up like variety-show guests, for appearance and ratings. Martin hauls out the Sgt. Pepper's horns and strings for "Some Days," a rather sickening ballad in which McCartney actually sings "Some days I cry, I cry for those who live in fear/Some days I don't, I don't remember why I'm here." And then there are those silly motherfucking love songs with names like "Great Day," "Heaven on a Sunday," "If You Wanna" and "Really Love You" (which sounds like something from Meet the Beatles slowed from 33 rpm to 161U2). McCartney's legacy doesn't live on in McCartney solo recordings--it never has, and it seems it never will. Instead, look to Olivia Tremor Control, Yum-Yum, Eric Matthews--young pop fanatics who look to Beatles albums as the beginning of music, not the culmination. For McCartney, all that remains is the end--the end of the Beatles and, perhaps, the end of ever mattering again.

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