Recently, вЂњMcCartney III Imagined,вЂќ a remix of his latest album, was No. He continues to write and record, just as he continues to breathe-вЂњItвЂ™s what I do,вЂќ he told me. Bob DylanвЂ™s catalogue of the past forty years is immensely richer than McCartneyвЂ™s, but Dylan generally plays midsize theatres, like the Beacon, in Manhattan McCartney sells out Dodger Stadium and the Tokyo Dome. Yet his audiences usually exceed those of his most esteemed peers. A vast amount of that fortune can be ascribed to the songs that he wrote with Lennon before the first moon landing. Nineteen years later, in Henley-on-Thames, west of London, another mentally troubled young man, Michael Abram, broke into George HarrisonвЂ™s estate and stabbed him repeatedly in the chest.

In 1980, Mark David Chapman, a Beatles fan, shot John Lennon to death outside the Dakota, on Central Park West. вЂњEven during the pandemic, when IвЂ™m wearing a mask, even sunglasses, people stop and say, вЂHey, Paul!вЂ™В вЂќ HeвЂ™ll gamely try to level the interpersonal playing field by saying that, after so many years, вЂњIвЂ™m a Beatles fan, too,вЂќ often adding, вЂњWe were a good little band.вЂќ But he also knows that fandom can curdle into malevolence.

McCartney knows that, even in a gathering of film stars or prime ministers, he is surrounded by Beatles fans. вЂњEveryone is second fiddle to Paul McCartney, arenвЂ™t they?вЂќ

I asked him if he minded playing second fiddle to his guest. For the encore, вЂњLet It Be,вЂќ Joel ceded his piano to McCartney. In July, 2008, when Joel closed Shea Stadium, as the final rock act before the place came under the wrecking ball, he invited McCartney to join him and perform вЂњI Saw Her Standing There.вЂќ Shea Stadium is, after all, where Beatlemania, in all its fainting, screaming madness, reached its apogee, in the sixties. You encounter someone like Paul and you wonder how close you can be to someone like that.вЂќ Still, Joel told me, вЂњheвЂ™s a Beatle, so thereвЂ™s an intimidation factor. Billy Joel, who has sold out Madison Square Garden more than a hundred times, has spent Hamptons afternoons over the years with McCartney. This effect extends to friends and peers. There are myriad ways in which people betray their pleasure in encountering him-describing their favorite songs, asking for selfies and autographs, or losing their composure entirely. McCartney greets his guests with the same twinkly smile and thumbs-up charm that once led him to be called вЂњthe cute Beatle.вЂќ Even in a crowd of the accomplished and abundantly self-satisfied, he is invariably the focus of attention. Would he like one? He narrows his gaze, trying to decide then, with executive dispatch, he declines. Bloomberg nods gravely at whatever Shevell is saying, but he has his eyes fixed on a plate of exquisite little pizzas. A slender, regal woman in her early sixties, Shevell is talking in a confiding manner with Michael Bloomberg, who was the mayor of New York City when she served on the board of the Metropolitan Transportation Authority. Their hosts are Nancy Shevell, the scion of a New Jersey trucking family, and her husband, Paul McCartney, a bass player and singer-songwriter from Liverpool. Through the gate, they mount a flight of stairs to the front door and walk across a vaulted living room to a fragrant back yard, where a crowd is circulating under a tent in the familiar high-life way, regarding the territory, pausing now and then to accept refreshments from a tray. They all wear expectant, delighted-to-be-invited expressions. And out they come, face after famous face, burnished, expensively moisturized: Jerry Seinfeld, Jimmy Buffett, Anjelica Huston, Julianne Moore, Stevie Van Zandt, Alec Baldwin, Jon Bon Jovi. At the last driveway on a road ending at the beach, a cortГЁge of cars-S.U.V.s, jeeps, candy-colored roadsters-pull up to the gate, sand crunching pleasantly under the tires.

The surf is rough and pounds its regular measure on the shore. This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.Д®arly evening in late summer, the golden hour in the village of East Hampton.

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