Several weeks ago, my PopMatters article entitled “Paul McCartney: An Auteur” caused quite a stir. In that piece, I attempt to position Paul McCartney as an artist of the highest standard, one whose entire body of work must be taken seriously. Many of the comments I received criticized my lack of reasoning and found fault in positioning McCartney as a man who can do no wrong. I also received some feedback asserting that the Auteur Theory can only be applied to film due to the director’s position within a system of producers, screenwriters, actors, etc. The reasoning behind rejecting auteurism in music: it is laudatory that a director working within a hollywood studio system would be able to consistently leave a personal stamp on each of his films, but what is so impressive about a musician placing a personal stamp on his/her solo albums? This logic is sound; however, I wish to apply another aspect of the theory to music. Instead of using auteurism in the sense of a distinct creative vision persevering through studio interference, I believe it can apply to music in the way it forces an audience to evaluate an artist’s entire output.  Without this theory in place, I may not have been aware of many “lesser” films by great filmmakers. I recently viewed Scorsese’s New York, New York. Based on its disappointing box office returns and lukewarm reviews, one would think this was a poorly received, self-indulgent and anachronistic musical not worth watching. Rather than approaching it as a stand-alone film, auteurism forces us to perceive it as part of something greater: an important step in the development of a filmic genius. Placed in its proper context as the coked out artificially retro experiment between Taxi Driver and Raging Bull, New York, New York becomes a must see. I see no reason why this aspect of Auteur Theory can’t be applied to music. An album should not be examined as a stand-alone entity, but rather a piece to a larger puzzle. The artist’s personal and musical history must factor in the appreciation of a serious work. And all works by an artist/band containing genus must be considered serious works. You would be right to say that the “Auteur Theory” can not directly be applied to music. The musician does not shine in the spite of writer/actor/studio involvement like a film auteur can. Given this, perhaps the word “Auteur” is not the best word choice for this form of musical criticism. There are other connotations Truffaut’s Auteurism held that could be applied to music; however, specifically the genius identifying. I believe one could alter Truffaut’s famous one liner to my preferred brand of musical criticism: There are no good and bad albums, only good and bad musicians. In this way, I believe the greatest musicians can transcend the status of a rock star or a popular artist into the realm of fine artists.

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In the year 2300, alien inhabitants will revere Paul McCartney in the same way Mozart and Beethoven are today. Paul McCartney is an artist of the first rank. The notion that he is talented yet slight (particularly regarding his solo years) simply doesn’t exist except through the lens of Rolling Stone’s post-breakup Lennon worship. McCartney’s effortless mastery, with no suffering artist gimmick, robs him of the serious consideration he deserves. Paul McCartney just isn’t hip. This week’s Pitchfork reviews of McCartney and McCartney II are steeped in irony: they give the album that molded the entire sound of pitchfork branded indie of the late 90’s-early 00’s a 7.9; while an album that eclipses the presently hyped synthpop-chillwave fare received a 7.2. McCartney doesn’t get much love from the Rolling Stone old boys club either. An album like Ram is far better than the likes of the usual “top 10 album” mainstays like OK Computer and London Calling. Ram is the only solo Beatles album that maintains the impeccable standard of the 65-69 Beatles’ albums; the run that was largely orchestrated by McCartney. Argue whether Lennon or McCartney wrote better songs during this period if you must, but make no mistake: McCartney was the visionary behind every Beatles album starting with Sgt. Pepper.

McCartney’s solo run alone would rank him among the great innovators of 20th century popular music. McCartney (1970) is the album indie popsters make in their dreams. Here, McCartney, the iconoclast, had the effrontery to ditch Abbey Road production in favor of ushering in a Lo-fi sound. Band on the Run found him putting out a #1 smash in his sleep. McCartney II is McCartney’s avant-garde masterpiece. Pitchfork claims “Coming Up” could have been a Talking Heads song, which is a stretch considering The Talking Heads never wrote a song as good. Tug of War is no slouch, while Flaming Pie is his late period classic. Even at his worst, McCartney is always interesting. If The Beach Boys can get away with half dud/half gem albums, why can’t McCartney? Wild Life is saved by “Some People Never Know” and “Tomorrow”; Venus and Mars by “Venus and Mars,” “Magnetto and Titanium Man” and one of the highest achievements of 20th century popular music “Listen to What the Man Said”; Speed of Sound by “She’s My Baby” and “Beware My Love”; and so on. The point being, while many McCartney albums may not hold up to the perfection of Ram or the Beatles LPs, each one has at least a reminder of that perfection. This supports my notion of some form of musical auteur theory, in the sense that a visionary’s entire oeuvre must be examined in a serious light. This is something I plan to explore in future pieces, but to give it to you simple: Truffaut asserted that the worst of Jean Renoir’s movies would always be more interesting than the best of the movies of Jean Delannoy. Well, I assert that the worst of Paul McCartney, Bob Dylan, and Bruce Springsteen will always be more interesting than the best of Tom Petty, James Taylor, or Eric Clapton. Like literature and film’s greatest auteurs, McCartney will undergo the Hitchcock/Shakespeare transformation from popular entertainer to century defining artist. Ram on.