Okay, so maybe he hadn't entered yet; after all, it was only a quarter to eight, and I wouldn't get a glimpse of him until well after nine o'clock. And maybe my reverence was vastly overshadowed by the state of awe in which others found themselves. As I waited in line to get in (only a stone's throw away from Madison Square Garden, where Ricky Martin was to perform that evening; believe me, the incongruity did not go unremarked upon), I chatted idly with a CBS exec, who told me she'd been present at The Ed Sullivan Show. It took me a moment to process this. The Ed Sullivan Show. She might as well have said she was at Mount Sinai when God gave Moses the Ten Commandments.

The majority of the attendees, however, were not high-powered industry-types but radio-contest winners by and large not much younger than Paul himself; most of them probably thought Lenny Kravitz was the guy who did their taxes. Many of the men sported long, thinning hair, and a good number of the women had prettied themselves up for the occasion. They were an extremely animated group, loudly discussing the question that was on all of our minds: What will I say when it's my turn to talk to him? After much debate, I finally settled on the understated "It's a privilege."

The planning would turn out to be unnecessary, as I quickly realized upon entering the venue. A class system, Elizabethan in its extreme stratification, prevailed. Contest winners and other groundlings like me had the floor to ourselves, while up in the balcony, record company execs, TV producers, and other well-connected individuals rubbed elbows and munched hors-d'oeuvres, awaiting the arrival of big name latecomers such as Woody Harrelson, Sheryl Crow (who I had desperately hoped would let me be Her Second Favorite Mistake), and the aforementioned Mr. Kravitz. Finally, sequestered in some secret chamber were the Lad from Liverpool and his entourage.

We waited patiently; it occurred to me that we were like those German volk who used to stand for days in the rain waiting to hear Hitler speak. At last, around 9:30 p.m., the mood music faded out, the curtain parted, and John Somebody-or-Other from VH-1 took the stage to kick off "Paulapalooza" with some mildly rousing oratory and anti-boy-group invective. There were a hundred and fifty of us or so clustered around the stage, and we all pressed in closer as the man we'd all come to see emerged.

Sheryl Crow, photo © 1999 NY Rock

Why is it that British men age so winningly? Though the owlish quality of his face has become more pronounced, he remains quite handsome; his speech was relaxed and slangy, full of "Yeah, man"s and "Cool"s, but he didn't come off as a past-his-prime rock star so much as an extremely hip college professor.

Paul proceeded to explain the idea behind the evening: he'd cut a new album, and rather than play it for the first time for a bunch of studio suits, he preferred to take it directly to his fans. This was, of course, disingenuous, but we didn't mind a bit, and we prepared ourselves to listen, as Paul left the stage, promising to return to say good night.

Run Devil Run is a selection of pieces from the dawn of rock and roll, recorded on the eve of the millennium, as well as a few originals inspired by the era – the sweet-soul flavored "Try Not to Cry"; "What It Is," which Paul described as his tribute to his late wife; and the title track, which is written to sound like a Chuck Berry tune. It's the music to which a young Paul McCartney came of age, the music on which he and the other Beatles cut their teeth: Elvis, Joe Turner, Fats Domino, Little Richard. Listening to Paul play this stuff offers little insight into the genius that gave us Sgt. Pepper’s and Abbey Road, other than the obvious: this is a man that really loves rock music, be it rockabilly, honky-tonk, or Motown.

Upon returning to the spotlight, Paul graciously submitted to a question-and-answer session, fielding such thoughtful queries as "Can I play drums for you?" and "Can I come up there?" One over-stimulated teenybopper called out, "Can I hold your hand?" to which Paul replied, deadpan, "No." His irrepressible good nature and regular-guyishness were evident, though, and it really seemed that he would have descended into the audience for a full-scale meet-and-greet if he'd thought there was any chance of making it out alive. But there was none; we would have smothered him with our adulation, so he wrapped it up and took off.

And that was it. Now I can tell my grandchildren someday that I was at a party for Paul McCartney and I saw him speak. I'll also tell them that I went home with Sheryl Crow; after all, kids'll believe anything.