By rights it should have been Hamburg. As that German city had too many associations with The Beatles, however, it was decided that the European launch of Paul McCartney's new record, Run Devil Run, would take place in Cologne, a city that had strong connections in McCartney's mind with peace, quiet and a general air of responsibility. In keeping with the no-nonsense and fresh approach of the album, McCartney also wanted to dampen down any hype that might arise from his presence. Therefore, no full-blown gig from, say, inside Cologne's famed, neck-straining cathedral, but rather a low-key album playback in Ewerk, a refurbished factory on the outskirts of the city that now acts as a basic rock venue.
McCartney's new album is a brisk, tincan-kicking stroll down memory lane, with memory being the operative word and primary motivation. It doesn't take someone with a qualification in psychology to glean meaning from the smash-and-grab creative aesthetic that pervades Run Devil Run. It's the work of a man who has consciously harked back to a time when there was nothing in his life except freedom of spirit and teenage rebelliousness, and a growing (indeed, glowing) awareness that life could offer limitless possibilities.
No sense of impending responsibility, disappointment or tragedy interrupts the flow of the songs, although some can obviously be interpreted that way - particularly the three that he wrote following the death of his wife, Linda (the title track, Try Not To Cry and What It Is). "The thing about this album is that the songs aren't really classic rock'n'roll songs," says Paul McCartney, the most famous man in pop music. He's also the most successful popular music composer ever (according to the Guinness Book of Records) and a person who helped change the course of pop music forever. "They are the classics of my memory. All these tracks were selected because I allowed my memory to go back and write a list of about 30 songs. Songs I remembered. The album doesn't even touch on a lot of the very best, like What I Say, Good Golly Miss Molly, Tutti Frutti, or Long Tall Sally, which I could have done. But I just went on a memory trip.
"I got a memory of being in a fairground, and this rock'n'roll song playing, or being at some party and another song was played. So they're kind of unusual choices. I met Eric Clapton when I was out in Los Angeles recently. He hadn't heard the record, but he said to me that he had heard the songs were unusual choices, that even people who were into rock'n'roll might not know. So they're not all classics, but in my memory they are.
"It was purely done for my personal joy, exactly that. Some people have said that I should have done Good Golly Miss Molly, but I said, no, there is no `should have'. I wanted to make a record that was exciting for me and connected into what my memories were as a teenager. Coquette by Fats Domino - not many people know that one. Shake A Hand by Little Richard is not one of his big records, but I remembered it from a specific jukebox I always played when The Beatles were in Hamburg. I never bought that record, but I recall it exactly from that time. Another track, No Other Baby, was never in my record collection, but I remembered it so vividly that it virtually begged me to record it."
Throughout the interview, which takes place in a small ante room off the main venue, McCartney exudes the type of casualness that comes from having been interviewed thousands of times before. It's likely he has heard all the questions before, too. Indeed, some of his answers are so pat it merely reinforces the feeling, but he nevertheless shows no signs of indifference, arrogance or media ennui. The question of exactly why there is any need for him to meet the press to promote a record that will sell in its millions, regardless of actual merit, is not broached. It seems a point is being made. (Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da, life goes on? Perhaps, perhaps not).
Dressed smartly in a dark grey suit, his black-silver hair brushed back (the colouring occasionally accentuated by occasional sweeps of finger brushing), he looks every one of his 57 years. There is no doubting the immense emotional pain he has suffered since the death of his wife last year. He says he hasn't sung in a proper context since her demise, and values the time spent in making a record that was as much a trip down memory lane as a cathartic experience. Is he still the same Paul McCartney who grew up with the songs he covered on the record?
"I think so, yeah," he replies. "No matter what happens to you, you're still the same person inside. I've always felt that I'm the same person now as I was when I was five years old. I'm still the five-year-old - sorry about that! I've still got feelings from when I was five that have never changed.
"OK, I've been through all sorts of stuff, like growing up in Liverpool, getting into The Beatles, forming Wings, getting knighted and all that, but I don't think I've changed. Your exterior changes, your clothes change. Hopefully your socks change, but I'm still the same guy inside. Frightening, isn't it?"
And what would the young Paul McCartney make of the choice of songs on the record? "He'd love them. It was the young Paul McCartney who chose them. It was him, my memory from when I was about 15 years old."
Run Devil Run was recorded in five days last March. The working methods of McCartney and his apparently temporary and studio-only band (which included Pink Floyd's Gilmour, Purple's Ian Paice and former Pirates guitarist Mick Green) referred back to the early days of The Beatles's recording sessions at Abbey Road. Spurred on by reasons we can only too easily imagine, McCartney implemented a strict timekeeping, no-thinking regime of recording songs.
"As technology advances you naturally go with it," he explains. "Computers are there and you use them. You could use a pencil and paper, but word processors are easier. So I naturally got into recording the way everyone records. That's how you make a record these days - three months, computers, multi-tracks, flying faders. When I was making this one, I remembered how we recorded early Beatles records. It was exactly on this system - four songs before teatime - that this record was based. The best thing was that you got the evening off. That sounds stupid, but it's actually very valuable, you know. It was great at about 5.30 - you've got four songs, you feel very satisfied with what you've done and it's like, OK, what'll we do now? Let's go to the pictures! It was a very civilised way to work.
"I got a professional nostalgia for that way of working, and when I thought of it I got a picture of me and John Lennon coming into Abbey Road on a Monday morning and George Martin saying what are you going to do chaps, and us going, it goes like this. George and Ringo didn't even know the songs we were gonna do. It surprised me to remember that two members of the band and the producer actually didn't know what we were going to do. There was only time to make songs. And because you were working at a very quick pace, you devoured material quite voraciously. That meant you had to get on to the next thing, you couldn't sit around for two years - the record company just wouldn't accept it.
"Brian Epstein would come to The Beatles and tell us we were making a record next week. We'd insist on taking three days to write the shit. John and myself would quickly write the stuff and that's why George and Ringo never knew the material. We'd write 'em over the weekend and bring them in on Monday morning. OK, they were quickly written but, boy, were they fresh. Hot off the stove."
And the memories keep on coming. As we drift conversationally further into a life lived in the full glare of the public eye, McCartney's tone remains steady, his eye contact resolute. He smiles for the first time during the interview at the mention of his erstwhile Liverpool council house and how it is now under the aegis of the National Trust.
"It's amusing, really, but it's a huge honour. If the National Trust is going to do that you can't say no, for one thing, and you can't say it's a stupid idea, for another. It is a bit of a joke for me, though. Their reasons are interesting, because it was a place where a lot of The Beatles's music was formed. We used to rehearse there. My dad had been a musician, and he liked to see us rehearse. He understood the problems of finding a place to play. We also planned Hamburg from there. The tailor who lived next door made our first dreadful purple jackets that we wore to Hamburg.
"You see, the thing is, it's a little council house. It was a really good modern house for its day - cheap for not-well-off people. It allowed my mother - a nurse, who was very upwardly mobile and who aspired for our family - to move us into a posh area, so we would get a good environment at a cheap rate. I suppose that's another argument for the reasoning behind it."
And what of a life lived in the public eye for more than 35 years? Your work becoming so culturally ingrained that its brilliance is virtually taken for granted? It's beyond the comprehension of most people. What is that like?
"Yeah, it seems forever, like from the womb," he replies, mulling over the answer as if he really hadn't considered it before. "It's very weird - schizophrenic, two-sided. I deal with it by not being `him'. It goes without saying that I'm a very private person. This morning - and I knew I'd think of this - I was riding my horse around my farm. That was just myself and my horse, and that's `me'. I'm here talking to you, but it's `him' fielding the questions. Some or most people might think that it's a real problem, but it's OK, actually. There are a lot of advantages.
"Some time ago, I reached the point in my life where I thought it's now or never. The Beatles started to get famous in Greece. Now, Greece as a country had always been my bolthole during our increasing fame. We weren't famous there, so I thought, great, we can always go there for a holiday and no one will know us. But then someone rang Brian Epstein up and told him that we were No One there. That was that, really. So I made a decision there and then: I could either give up music or I had to live with the fame. It was the point of no return for me, a conscious decision of not going back."
Is it difficult to differentiate "you" from "him", then? McCartney's answer is immediate and emphatic. "No. I was talking the other day to someone about playing bass and singing at the same time. It's actually a similar thing - at least it is for me. You've got to be the lead singer doing I Saw Her Standing There - singing it, projecting it, thinking about the words, the audience - and at the same time there's another part of your body playing the bass guitar. It appears not to be connected, but it's a skill you get."
By this time, PR people are flitting about like gadflies. I have been given the wind-up sign, indicating that I have time to ask one more question.
McCartney raises his hand as if to stop the traffic and says "Two." The PR people dissolve into the background.
As someone who took elements of rock'n'roll and shaped it into so much of what we hear today, is there anything about it that still appeals to you?
"The best stuff still has freedom. Before it arrived, myself and my mates were listening to a lot of radio stuff that didn't seem very free. It was interesting, and some of it was melodic, but it was the wild freedom of rock'n'roll that was great. When that arrived, it fitted in exactly with where our heads were. We were just about to become teenagers, to grow up, so it was the perfect music for us. The whole package appealed to us. Being there when it first came about packed the soul with padding."
There is a song on Run Devil Run called No Other Baby. It has a special significance, doesn't it?
"It was a pure memory. As I said before, I still haven't got the record to this day. I looked it up for copyright reasons, and I was praying the person who wrote it is still alive. He is, a guy called Dickie Bishop, who lives in America. Got him a few bob, then! Anyway, I rang George Martin shortly after beginning the album and told him the gist of the record we were making. I told him we had done No Other Baby, and that, in looking it up, I had discovered it had been recorded by a skiffle group called The Vipers who, believe it or not, used to have Wally Whyton in its ranks.
"I said, `As I recall, George, didn't you once record a group called The Vipers?' He remembered recording them in, yes you've guessed it, Abbey Road. Talk about going full circle, eh?"
Run Devil Run has just been released. Paul McCartney's latest classical album, Working Classical, will be launched on October 16th in Liverpool, with the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Andrea Quinn and the Lorna Mar String Quartet.