Note: I'm playing with the concept of twisting one of my favorite blogs, Cardboard Gods, into sort of a periodic music memoir. Here's the first one.

WINGS: LONDON TOWN (1978)

Objectively, it was probably the worst time to develop a Paul McCartney fixation. I was in eighth grade, having rediscovered music via the osmosis of iron-on band t-shirts, the major fashion statement for adolescents who’d moved past Jaws, Fonzie and Welcome Back, Kotter. At Sepulveda Junior High, circa 1977-‘78-, the leader board of logos included Roger Dean’s Yes logo; Chicago; Boston; Kiss; maybe

some Aerosmith. And you really didn’t need to dig the band to dig what it represented.

But I was slightly contrary: I wore ELO “Face the Music” and Heart “Magazine” shirts. Not the Sex Pistols, of course, but just enough off the beaten path to keep things interesting. But the summer of 1977, when everything was changing in England, I decided to get obsessed with Paul McCartney. The Beatles thing went way back – Let It Be was the first full-length album I owned -- but my interest lay dormant for many years, pushed aside by baseball cards, comic books and coping with my parents’ divorce.

When London Town came out, in March of 1978, the only reason it wasn’t the uncoolest music on the planet was disco and wimpoids like Dan Hill, who made Paul McCartney seem like Lemmy by comparison.

But the tease leading up to London Town’s release was perhaps the worst tripe of McCartney’s career: “Mull of Kintyre.” Really? Yeah, I know, it’s all about sitting in the pub with the “blokes,” and hoisting that pint of bitter you’re going to vomit out of your system in a few hours. Drinking, singing, ranting like a banshee about Chelsea or Man U or some such nonsense. Which is exactly why it was the biggest hit ever in the UK for the longest time. In the U.S., where pub culture was nonexistent, “Mull of Kintyre” was a big fat stiff.

The flip, “Girls School,” was marketed to the Americans as the A-side, or, as the trades hyped it: “Double A.” No b-side = no bad shit. No filler. Uh-huh. The good news: it actually sort of rocked. The bad news: one of Macca’s worst melodies ever. Also stiffed. Still, on rep alone, Midnight Special and/or Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert bit the bullet, took the coke and hookers from the promo men, whatever, held their noses, and threw the “Mull of Kintyre” video on the air. As if we wanted to watch Paul, Linda and lovable sidekick Denny Laine in their overcoats walking through the manure in cold-as-fuck Scotland.

As I said, it was a real appetite whetter. But my life was changing. I’d just been bar mitzvahed, my mother had a new guy in her life – one who didn’t nod out from downers in the bathtub – and, for the first time I could remember, things seemed to be looking up.

KFI was my radio station at that moment. Ten Q had come and gone, and KHJ was weezing along like a lecherous uncle. KFI played London Town’s first single, “With a Little Luck,” a lot, which made me very happy. Soon, I was drawing the Wings logo (see photo) on everything, even when I ran for student body office, using the garish “W” as the starting point for my catchy pitch “Win With Erik Himmelsbach.” I lost, but no matter.

My mom’s new guy, Doobie, attempted to break the ice with me with the gift of a book, Linda’s Pictures, the first collection of photos from Paul’s old lady. Inscribed, he wrote, “To Erik, with a little luck.” Yes, it was that out of control.

When I listen to the album now, I really don’t know what I was thinking, even though Paul remains my favorite Beatle. There are a few songs I like for sheer poppiness: “London Town,” “Café on the Left Bank,” “With a Little Luck,” but, when I think about it in the context of its era, it strikes me as defiantly arrogant and out of touch. As much as I love the title track, it is gray and morose, it’s lethargy setting the tone for everything that follows. It’s the sound of a man pining for old age, or, at the very least, targeting a boomer demographic that wanted no part of punk rock. “I’ve Had Enough,” the self-conscious rock track that ends side one, strikes me as an uninformed brush off of puk rock.

Though he was just 36 when the album was released, Paul was already looking back – “Famous Groupies,” is a novelty ditty about shagging birds, “Name and Address” is a solidly average rockabilly offering. And you could always count on a few bones thrown in Denny Laine’s direction. London Town has two: “Children Children,” with its sub-Fairport Convention druid vibe, stands out for its sheer putritude. Sample lyric:

I know where there's a fairy/ Who will invite us all to tea/ But she won't let me in alone/ You'll have to come with me

“Morse Moose and the Grey Goose?” The title says it all.

The packaging? Cheese-o-rama, particularly the pull-out poster of Paul, Linda and Denny looking aristocratically G-A-Y. So not rock.

But I say fuck context. London Town marks a turning point in my life, when the spiral of my childhood leveled off and I managed to get my groove back. My family situation stabilized and I was getting the hang of adolescence, even getting some prime spin-the-bottle action at 8^th grade parties. Life was full of possibilities.

Music, once again, became the center of my world: I biked to Tower Records in Panorama City and scoured the singles’ bins for Beatles’ 45s on Apple. I began listening to KROQ, worshipped the first Cars album, and, by the end of 1978, I was at the Whiskey a Go-Go, drooling at the sight of the Runaways.

Of course, my musical enlightenment didn’t curtail my McCartney/Wings fixation – I became a full-on apologist for his shameless disco bandwagoneering “Goodnight Tonight.” But that’s a story for another day.