Sir Paul McCartney.

Last night,

I went to a Paul McCartney concert.

The Paul McCartney.

Sir Paul McCartney.

He played at least 5 different guitars

and two different pianos

and the ukulele.

He's 72 years old

and he played for nearly 3 hours straight

and never missed a beat.

Several times

when we were clapping for him,

he'd hold up his guitar in the air,

like he was giving it half the credit,

and we'd clap for it, too.

He had us clap for John

and he had us clap for George

and I shed a tear.

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The minute he came on

and started singing Eight Days a Week,

I died and went to heaven.

I'm at a Beatles concert.

This is 1964--

the year The Beatles came to America.

My dream of living in the 60s

finally came true.

The crowd screamed

just like you see

on that old black and white footage,

and I imagined myself in a mod dress

with cat-eye glasses

and a beehive.

My heart was singing

and crying

with excitement.

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But the longer the concert went on,

the more I realized

I was glad it was 50 years later.

That wasn't some 22-year-old Paul on stage,

freshly famous,

with a prolific songbook

still up in his head

waiting to be composed.

It was Paul

after 50 years of fame.

That wasn't The Beatles

of the Vietnam Era

and the Civil Rights movement

that I love so much.

It was music

that had been born then,

but lived on and on

through all the ages of men since

to stand timeless

at the top of the mountain

forever.

I felt like I was experiencing

an iconic human moment,

singing endless choruses of

"Na, na, na,

na-na-na-na,

na-na-na-na,

hey Jude"

with Paul

and with a stadium full of people.

How many hundred thousands of people

have heard Paul McCartney?

And now I'm one of them.