CityLife

James McCartney

James McCartney
Ruby Lounge
March 2, 2010

At 32, you might wonder what’s kept him, but James McCartney – yes, the son of Beatles legend Sir Paul – has decided to embark on a solo career.

For someone so wary of the limelight, it is brave move. Yet when his unassuming figure meanders onstage to greet a barely-full Ruby Lounge, the sense of anti-climax hangs in the air. 

He’s keen to point out his influences in a press release that lists PJ Harvey, The Cure and Nirvana as an indication to his sound, but that is mere wishful thinking; melodic, traditional singer-songwriter fare is closer to the mark.

One of the more noticeable aspects is how James’ voice sounds not entirely dissimilar to a young version of his dad’s, which means the opening few songs, all straightforward rock-by-numbers, could, with your eyes shut and the volume turned down, sound like some sort of early Quarrymen bootleg where a definitive sound is still being sought.

It’s afterwards things begin to go awry, with songs passing by without any noticeable merit. A couple of tracks from The Mix onwards attempt to put some meat on the bones, but descend into sub-grunge shouty/sweary nonsense that are as ill advised as they are unimpressive.

In fact, the entire gig has an unconvincing element to it: McCartney is notoriously shy, but says very little all night and barely cracks a smile, giving the distinct impression he’s uncomfortable with even this level of attention.

It makes you wonder why he’s bothering. The songs, the jaunty, piano-led, Lady Madonna-esque Spirit Guide apart, are solid but unremarkable, and by the time he scurries off the stage post-haste you can’t help but feel under-whelmed.

Minus the famous name, it’s doubtful anyone would care.

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