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Wings were not to the seventies what The Beatles were to the sixties. They did not, as is claimed here, define the decade. Others, representing glam and punk, did. Yet the more decades pass from contemporaneous context, the brighter the dazzle of Macca’s muse in that era shines.
It’s time to stop quoting the old Alan Partridge gag with a smirk. They were what The Beatles could have been if Paul had been given free rein, and as such, flew like a bird, astonished at its own gifts, between savant inspiration, sporadic silliness, and some very, very good rock music in between. This “best of”, then, cherry-picks the torrents of genius, and is therefore titanic.
The 1LP version is heaven-sent hitsville, from the euphoric rush of Jet to the gorgeous My Love to the mesmerising, undervalued With A Little Luck. Of course, Mull Of Kintyre means it gets docked a point. The 3LP version is where things loosen up, as (relative) deep cuts strut their stuff. There’s the poised, oily sleaze of Letting Go and Let Me Roll It; the adrenalin of Junior’s Farm and Helen Wheels.
The charms of Some People Never Know, Arrow Through Me and the melancholy London Town. Wings were a hell of a band, too: it’s almost as if McCartney’s game recognised game. And that singer? Able to swoop from shepherding a rock track along till its heart raced to wringing emotion from ballads like a soul god. The wonder of it all.
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