The Beatles never had much good in the way of musical nepotism. Their sons and daughters are stuck trying to rise to the historic achievements of the Fab Four. Influential, undeniably rooted to the spot of overhauling the sounds of today. Primrose Hill then, from James McCartney, is even further buried. Not only did Paul McCartney whittle away on some of the finest songs the world has ever heard with The Beatles, but he did it all over again with Wings. There is no topping Back to the Egg. Everything else is scrambled in this flurry of trying to lift the past to new and extraordinary heights and then being disappointed by the lack of joy received. Pairing Sean Ono Lennon with McCartney Junior is the supergroup of a fever nightmare.
Neither man has risen to the heights expected of them because creativity is not genetic. Primrose Hill proves it. This is, by all accounts, the new era of Lennon/McCartney songwriting. It is not quite the Liverpudlian avenues of Penny Lane but it does lift a street of significance to use as its backdrop. Primrose Hill soon devolves into wondering how long a word forever is, and never being too short. Poetic on paper but in practice it does not sound as strong as McCartney intended it. There is no back-and-forth to those modes of living and to try and piece forever with never is a primitive binary opposite that benefits neither listener nor writing pair. These are simple love interjections paired with some slick alternative folk typecasts. Is it fair McCartney and Lennon are looked at through the scope of their fathers? No, but it is the hand they are dealt.
At least they make the most of it and try, stumble and catch themselves with Primrose Hill. Their attempt at least features some neat electric guitar work and some faded vocals reminding us of those glorious days in a London park. It is an indifferent piece. A somewhat out-of-tune guitar floats on through the introduction which takes too long to get to its titular hill and once there does not know what to do there. Lay a picnic blanket? Kick a goose? No clue. Primrose Hill exists and this is all that matters to McCartney. There is a tepidness to it that should not feature on the top of instrumentals with this rewarding potential striking through them. Such a shame it never explodes like those stars McCartney mentions.
Two nepo babies write up a track which is not a quarter as good as the worst works of their parents. As harsh as this may sound it comes from a place of knowing they can do better – out of the shadow of their parents rather than the shaky psychedelic influences which filter through here. They work near what made The Beatles such an in-demand group and in turn, lose out on the chance to fashion a wonderful new experience of love in the modern world. There is a difference between timeless-sounding works and songs which sound like they have no connection to the world. McCartney has filled in the blanks of clunky romance and hopes the slick guitar work across this three-minute piece will win people over. No such luck, though at least it marks another listenable experience for those late-night work sessions.
