DISGRACELAND - Paul McCartney: Paul Is Dead, Smuggling Drugs, and Composing the World’s Most Beloved Songs (Rewind)

Episode Date: June 7, 2026

Despite his reputation as “the safe Beatle,” Paul McCartney was a badass. He took wild artistic risks, rubbed elbows with truly dangerous characters and because of his crimes, did hard time in one of the world’s most notorious prisons. His public spats with Beatles bandmate John Lennon are the stuff of legend, as is the “Paul is dead” conspiracy at the end of their time together as a band, but the truth may be even stranger. This episode was originally published on June 15, 2021. To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTER Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: Instagram YouTube X (formerly Twitter)  Facebook Fan Group TikTok  See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Elvis. How much you wait, Wanda? Right now, about 130. I'm at 183. We should race. No, I want to leave here with my original hips. On the podcast The Matchup with Alia, I pair prominent female athletes with unexpected guests.

On a recent episode, I sat down with undisputed boxing champ, Coraes, and comedian Wanda Sykes to talk about Wanda's new movie Undercard, the art of Trash Talk, and what it really means to be ladylike. Open your free I-Heart Radio app. Search the Matchup with Alia and listen now. Brought to you by Novartis, founding partner of IHeart Women's Sports Network. Joy is essential and it's also elusive, but now there's a new and exciting way to start your journey toward a more joyful existence. Joy 101.

It's a new podcast hosted by me, How to Kotby. If you're craving inspiration to maximize your joy, tune into these candid, uplifting, and moving on-air chats. Open your free IHeart Radio app. Search Joy 101. Listen now. Joy 101 with Hoda Kotfi is presented by CVS. I'm Anna Navarro and on my new podcast, Bleep with Anna Navarro. I'm talking to the people closest to the biggest issues happening in your community and around the world. Because I know deep down inside right now, we are all cursing and asking what the bleep is going on.

Every week I'm breaking down the biggest issues happening in our communities and around the world. I'm talking to people like Julie K. Brown, who broke the. explosive story on Jeffrey Epstein in 2018. The Justice Department through, we counted four presidential administrations, failed these victims. Listen to Bleep with Anna Navarro on the IHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. So, guys, this Paul McCartney episode from our archive, this special rewind episode that you're about to hear, it contains one of the wildest and most overlooked stories from music history, one that is hiding in plain sight, one that barely ever gets mentioned, and that's the fact that Paul McCartney in 1980,

1980, he did time in one of the world's most dangerous prisons. And I'm talking about real time here, real prison time, not cushy, white collar lockup. I'm by no means saying this to besmirch Paul or his reputation. I'm just shocked that this actually happened, that it's a thing that took place. If anything, it makes Paul more badass in my eyes than he was before anyways, before I learned this fact. The story, this story of Paul's time in prison and what he did to earn that time in prison, it's at the center of this Paul McCartney episode, but so are the wild details behind the Paul is dead conspiracy during Paul's time of the Beatles.

And the episode also gets into the way in which Paul was treated in the 1970s by his critics. It's hard to imagine now because Paul is so wildly beloved and successful. But there was a moment there in the 70s, if you can imagine this, where Paul McCartney was actually worried about whether or not he was. he's going to have a career in music anymore. It's a fascinating story, and I hope he dig it. Here you go. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis.

The stories about Paul McCartney are insane. He is one, if not the most successful and revered living musicians. Yet he died in 1966. So the story goes anyway. He was arrested numerous times for marijuana, accused of arson by German authorities, supported and literally helped build with his own hands. London's avant-garde art scene.

He hung with notorious junkie William S. Burroughs, inadvertently inspired Charles Manson, and spent nine days in a notorious Japanese prison. Yet despite all of that, Paul McCartney was considered the safe beetle. Paul McCartney, of course, made great music. Some of the greatest music ever made. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show,

that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melodrama. called Ganja-Dackery Slush Rush MK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to please don't go by KC. in the Sunshine Band. And why would I play you that specific slice of my, my, my, my, my, begging shoes cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on January 16, 1980. And that was the day Paul McCartney's plane set down in Japan. setting off a minor international incident that would land him in one of the world's most notorious prisons.

On this episode, Paul is dead. Paul is safe. Paul is in prison. Paul McCartney is not who we were told he is. And I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace land. Paul McCartney was dead. Car accident. His death came at an opportune time. 1966, the Beatles' popularity was raging. Lovable mop-topism proved irresistible to the youth market and was now starting to turn adults on as well. Beetlemania was very much a still-growing enterprise. Paul McCartney, John Lennon, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr were generating unheard of

amounts of money for their record label management and publishing companies. News of Paul's death came to them quietly, and they kept it that way. The night he died, Paul was uncharacteristically angry. He was unable to convince John of the merits of the new tune he wanted to record. A song about a fictional student named Maxwell, a deranged psychotic who took a hammer to his lover's head. A notion that in 1966 was too dark even for John Lennon to wrap his head around. So Paul split from the studio in a huff.

Fuck John. He could follow Lucy around in her newspaper taxi straight to the bottom of the charts with his childlike drivel for all he cared. Paul drove, fast, out of London, and the Aston Martin moved. The M-1 motorway spread out before him. Paul headed north, past Northampton, south of Coventry. It was near the market town of rugby in Warwickshire,

where the Aston Martin lost its grip of the slick road. Paul's back end slipped an unexpected curve on the M-1 and spun the sports car to its right. Paul compensated with a quick jolt of the steering wheel to his left, and the result was a wrenching jerk of the tiny machine in the opposite direction. Paul slammed on the brakes, and the Aston Martin stopped its spin, but slid instead with tremendous speed straight off the motorway, threw the guardrail over a small embankment into a tree,

and crushed itself with alarming precision. One of the tree's branches shreds through the car's windshield at a violent angle and decapitated its driver. Paul McCartney died instantly. He was dead, but not unrecognizable. And the small town constable played it smart and rang up a school chum from MI5, the United Kingdom's equivalent to the U.S. as FBI. And the MI5 man made quick work at the situation.

He secured the crime scene, which to that point had consisted only of himself, the constable, and a dim-witted ambulance driver. And he got hold of the Beatles' manager Brian Epstein. The news shook Brian. to his core. But panicking wasn't an option. The MI5 man assured him. Brian knew he was right. He also knew that Paul's death could not be revealed to the public. His first instinct towards secrecy was to ensure the news was distributed to Paul's loved ones and bandmates privately before they heard it in the press, but the MI5 man had other plans. No. No one can know,

he informed Brian. Maybe Paul's family and bandmates, but not the press, not now. Public morale in the UK was at a shocking low at the moment. By the mid-60s, the sun had set on the British Empire. The Royal Navy was shrinking, canceling fighter planes and aircraft carrier programs. The Minister of Defense resigned over it in great public dismay, and the tabloids had Princess Margaret cheating on her husband and celebrity mobsters, the Cray brothers in the news rubbing elbows with Sinatra one minute and under investigation for a nightclub shooting the next. Cynicism reigned. In the news of Paul's death, the grief would be unbearable for the British people,

and the Beatles were all they had. And Brian thought about the upside. Paul may be dead, but he could keep the Beatles alive and keep the cash pouring in. Brian Epstein delivered the news first to John, George, and Ringo, and they took it in stride, similar to how they would take the news of Brian's own death a year later. The plan was laid out. There would be no more live performances by the Beatles. They'd retire to the recording studio,

and the public would view them intermittently through album covers and impromptu public appearances. But those recordings would still require Paul's voice, and those impromptu public appearances would require someone vaguely resembling Paul. Paul himself was a great impersonator. During the height of Beatlemania, while ensconced away with the rest of the band in hotel suites

to keep clear of their ravaging fans, Paul would often don a disguise and hit the streets to take in the sights, most always going unnoticed, a laugh the opening scene in a hard day's night. So the Beatles made like Paul and dressed up his impersonator, the winner of a recent Paul McCartneyed-lookalike contest, an adult orphan from Edinburgh named William Shears Campbell, who had later introduced himself on the Beatles' next album as

The One and Only Billy Shears. In a Foo Manchu mustache and dark sunghaw, and Dayglow-Ewardian military garb to distract the unsuspecting public. Paul's impersonator appeared on the cover of their next album, Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club band alongside the rest of the band, but obscured amidst a backdrop of a sea of famous faces to further throw off the fans. John Lennon, in designing the cover, couldn't put his cheeky wit in a box. As such, the cover of the album is riddled with hints of the real Paul's death.

An open palm appears above the Paul impersonator's head, blessing him before burial. John, George, and Ringo are all holding brass instruments. The Paul is holding a black woodwind instrument, black, death. A prone doll lays in the corner, on its left hand, a bloody driving glove to signify Paul's deadly accident. At the bottom of the album cover is a bass guitar made of white flowers. You've seen one of these before in news footage of famous musicians' funerals and wakes. Except this one only has three strings instead of four.

Base guitar, Paul's instrument, three strings, three remaining Beatles. Inside the album, the Paul sits amidst his bandmates, on his shoulder sleeve of patch with the initials OPD, the British Authority's abbreviated designation for officially pronounced dead. And on the vinyl's sleeve, a final image of the band. George, John, and Ringo stand in a line facing the camera, and the Paul does not. His back is to the camera, setting him apart from the band completely.

The listed title of the lead-off track of Side 2 is superimposed over the back of the Paul's head, within you, without you. On the lead-up single to Sergeant Pepper's Strawberry Fields Forever, you can hear John Mouth the lyrics, I Buried Paul obscured in the mix. Later, on the Beatles' so-called White album, John snuck in another clue on his and Yoko song, Revolution Number 9. When played backward, the words, turn me on Dead Man, are clear.

is dang. And the kudegraith of hints rests on the cover of the Beatles' final recorded long player, Abbey Road. It's so obvious it's brazen, but the band were by then breaking up and John Lennon was fresh out of fucks to give about the Beatles. On the cover of the Abbey Road album, John cast himself as the band's leader, their angel, dressed in all white, walking across the actual Abbey Road, leading the dead man's procession, behind him, wearing all black, the Undertaker, Ringo Starr. Behind him, the dead man, the Paul, barefoot, as most

corpses were buried at the time, and walking out of step with the rest of the band. Behind him, clad head-to-to-to- and working-class denim is George Harrison, the gravedigger, bringing up the rear. A license played in the background reads, L.M.W. 28,

if, as in if Paul were still alive, he would be 28 years old. The rumors, the clues, they were there from the start at the time of the car accident in 66, but by the time Abbey Road was released in 1969, news that Paul is dead had taken on international proportions. The album cover was too much.

Apple Corps phones were inundated with calls from the press demanding to know of Paul McCartney's death. A radio station in Detroit, Michigan over in the States, gave callers a full hour to work through their grief. More clues were explored. The Michigan Daily, an actual American day, newspaper laid the clues out in its pages. Soon, radio stations on both sides of the pond were flooded with calls from listeners pressing insider DJs on news of Paul's death. WKNR in Detroit gave

the subject of Paul's death its own two-hour special. New York's mainstream WABC and WMCA discussed the issue at length until their DJs were fired for breaking the respective stations formats with talk. WABC was syndicated and reached more than 38 American citizens. States, America convinced itself. Paul is dead. Reporters descended onto Apple headquarters in London. Neither Paul McCartney nor his impersonator could be found. Ringo Starr was forced to give a statement.

If people are going to believe it, they're going to believe it. I can only say that it's not true. New singles sprung up overnight by groups eager to capitalize on the Paul is Dead sensation. Zacharias and his tree people found minor success with their song were all Paul Bearers parts one and two. and Jose Feliciano released the song So Long Paul under the pseudonym Wurbly Finster. The calls to Applecourt never let up that fall in 1969. Word spread that Paul the real Paul, not the Paul impersonator,

was at his farm in Scotland. To confirm, the BBC sent a pack of reporters, CBS sent a news crew, and Life magazine sent a reporter and photographer to put Paul McCartney, dead or alive, on its November 1969 cover. And there, Paul McCartney was found. The real Paul McCartney, who is very much alive.

Paul McCartney wasn't dead. He was in prison. You feel it in your heart. I-R. Radio, Canada's number one streaming app for radio and podcasts, including IHart Pride Canada, your favorite hits and must-have party bangers, plus personalized and curated playlists, like back in the day Pride. Come together, celebrate love. Take pride with you.

Anytime. Any smart speaker to play IHeart Pride Canada, stream us on your phone. Or listen now at iHeartRadio.ca. Your husband is not who you think he is. Your body is not what you saw it was. Your identity is formed by a secret history. I'm Danny Shapiro.

And these are just a few of the stunning stories I'll be exploring on the 14th season of family secrets. And just then, we felt the plain turn in the air, so much so that the bags that were under people's seats just kind of flew into the aisle. Each week, we dive headfirst into the complex power of secrecy, how it shapes our identities and relationships, and how it ultimately can reveal to us our truest selves. My daughter, she's pretending, she doesn't know, but is trying to cook and feed me and keep me alive because I wasn't eating anything, and me pretending like everything was fine. He kind of showed me out of the way and

said move, and he went out the front door and he jumped in a car and drove off, and that was the last time I saw him. Listen to season 14 of Family Secrets on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Kate Winkler Dawson, host of the Wicked Words podcast. Each week I sit down with the true crime writers behind some of the most compelling true crime stories and discuss their years spent investigating and why it still matters. He sees his father coming out of the woods with hands over his face, and he knows something happened. His father just grabs him and says she's gone. She's gone.

These are the cases that leave survivors, families, and the journalists who cover them changed forever. Working in national television, it'll push you to your limits, and you'll end up doing things you never thought you'd do. You know, you look back at it, and you're like, I can't believe that really happened. Join me and step inside the investigation. new episodes drop every Monday on the Exactly Right Network. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

At the end of 1969, Paul McCartney was in a virtual prison of his own making, practical-minded, easy on the eyes, prone to nowhere man speak to the press. Paul played into the public's perception of him as the safe beetle, particularly in contrast to his bandmate John Lennon, whose sharp-witted tongue was legend and whose growing heroin habit, recent drug busts, and stupendously unlistenable avant-garde singles

with his new wife, Yoko Ono, including one in which he and his new bride posed fully nude on its cover, had John rightfully cast opposite Paul as the dangerous beetle. Paul himself was no stranger to hard drugs. He snorted cocaine regularly during the Sergeant Pepper sessions. He just didn't feel the need to tell the press about it. He learned that lesson with his comments about LSD a few years earlier. But because Paul was so quote-unquote safe,

nobody even dreamed to think that he was singing a song like, Got to Get You Into My Life, about having to get drugs into his life. Being known as the safe beetle had its perks because nobody would suspect you of anything, but it also frustrated him. and led him to test the limits of that perception and take more risks. And by the decades end, at the beginning of 1980,

those risks would land Paul McCartney in actual prison. The Yakuza gangster in the cell four doors down from him knew who he was. In fact, all of his fellow prisoners in Japan's notorious Kosuge prison knew who he was. The conditions could only be described as barbaric, A 10 by 14 foot cell, a thin mattress on the floor, and little else but the taunting broken English from the yakuza down the hall. Yesterday, you sing, yesterday. Paul had seen the yakuza in the showers, his expansive back tattoo, his broad shoulders that seemingly grew straight out of his ears and the rumors of his loose attitudes on sexuality, were enough to make the long-haired musician once known as the cute one, sleep upright with his zhearred.

back against the wall on that first night for fear of being raped. At length, it all added up to Paul obliging his intimidating prisonmate's request. Paul worked out an acapella version of his most famous song and let the prison's natural acoustics carry his melody. He, like the yakuza and the rest of the world, loved the sound of his voice. But this song, it started it all for him, gave him the sand to really believe he had it in him, the gift of song, of composition. He couldn't read or write music, but still, it wasn't all visceral. There was something innate in him. He could feel it. Yesterday, proved it. He had a true gift for melody. This was more than she loves you, more than can't buy me love. And Paul, though he'd never say it aloud at the time to anyone, he knew that

it was more than anything John was capable of. But where it came from, he didn't know. It just appeared. At first, just the melody. No words. In fact, while composing the music, the only lyrics Paul had were scrambled eggs. Didn't matter. The melody was that good.

When finally composed, the song was an undeniable sensation, an instant hit, so much so that it is to this day widely recognized as the world's most covered song. But again, Paul had no idea how he did it. So naturally, he set out to do it again. Except this time, he was looking for more than a hit. He was looking to prove to himself and not only to the record buying public,

but more important to the stodgy old guard of London Academia in society and culture, and he wasn't trying to prove he could write a pop hit. He already did that. He was trying to prove he could compose a song, a truly great song, and thus that he could teach others how to compose. A goal worthy of his time, for he knew it then that his time with the Beatles would soon come to an end. and when it did, he'd need a job. Teaching the art of songwriting in one of Britain's prestigious academic institutions

seemed like a good way to pass through middle age into retirement. At least the Asher's would think so. He would need an audition tape, so Eleanor Rigby was born. When Paul felt the melody summoned him, he pounced on the lyrics, writing what he knew well and loved. Liverpoolian characters half-imagined, half-based on real-life people from his childhood. glimpses of the broken heart had picked up in passing as a boy, previously inarticulate in his mind until his melody gave wings to his memories.

When he was done, he dispatched Beatles producer George Martin to draft a score for the recorded accompaniment of a double-string quartet, and the effect was nothing short of epic. Paul was pleased with the composition and recording of Eleanor Rigby. He knew he was on to something, but was it better than yesterday? He didn't know. Armed with an acetate recording of the track under his arm, he sought validation and headed to Ringo's old flat in Montague Square

that Paul sometimes used as a demo studio. He also let Barry Miles and John Dunbar, friends he'd met at Better Books, London's hippest bookstore and hangout for the American beats whenever they came through town, used the studio to record their experimental music. Paul expected Barry and John to be there when he turned up with his acetate,

but he didn't expect to find none other than the Dean of the American Beats, William S. Burroughs hanging out as well. Barrows was, of course, shooting heroin. High, but eventually lucid, Paul played him Eleanor Rigby. Barrows loved it, but despite his fondness for Paul's new song, felt obliged to offer what he saw as the tracks, quote-unquote, 14 flaws as constructive criticism. Paul took it in stride.

This type of critical thinking was expected from the better books crowd. It's why Paul loved the place. It's why he couldn't shut up about it every time he saw John. It was the same with the art that Barry and John ended up featuring in their gallery adjacent better books, the Indica Gallery. Paul was so taken by the creative potential of this new avant-garde endeavor that he literally helped build the space, demonstrating heretofore unknown DIY carpentry skills and offering up his Aston Martin to transfer supplies to help with the buildout. When the Indica buildout was complete, the gallery quickly became the vanquential. for London's counterculture, as would be expected of a 1960s art gallery,

named after a strain of the illegal canvas plant. Quickly, the walls of the Indica were filled with far-out exhibitions by UK underground star Mark Boyle and kinetic artist Lillian Lynn, drawing buyers like hotshot young film director Roman Polanski, a regular customer of Indica vendors. The gallery's new find, Alex Martis, aka Magic Alex, produced a psychedelic light box that the Rolling Stones bought and incorporated into their stage show. And in 1966, the Indica featured an experimental Japanese artist's exhibition called

Unfinished Paintings and Objects that included an apple on a table with a price tag of 200 pounds and a live exhibit where a circle of long hair sat around and sewed up holes in a giant canvas bag. The artist's name was Yoko Ono, and it was at the Indica, where she was a little bit of the Indica, where she was would meet John Lennon, and John, of course, had been made aware of the Indica by Paul McCartney, without whom John would never have met his future wife, an occasion that would eventually speed John toward quitting the Beatles. And that was another thing that the press got wrong. Paul breaking up the band.

Not true. As untrue as the other press misconception that Paul was the safe one and John was the renegade. The press had it all wrong. Paul's taste were far the fuck out. Paul's the one who ushered John into London's counterculture. Paul's the one who hung out with Burrows long before John allowed that other beat icon Timothy Leary to cozy up to the foot of his bed.

And sure, Paul wrote yesterday in Eleanor Rigby, but he also wrote, Why don't we do it in the road and helter-skelter? Yet the safe beetle moniker wasn't going anywhere, and neither was the rap that Paul broke up the band. John quit the band first, privately, and had said about recording and releasing solo singles with Yoko long before Paul ever set foot in the studio to make anything without the Beatles.

And by the time Paul did so to record his first solo album, McCartney, his quitting of the band was a mere formality. For all intents and purposes, by the time the Beatles completed Abbey Road in 1969, they were over. When Paul informed John he was leaving the group officially to do what he and Yoko were doing, to make records on his own with his new wife, Linda McCartney, John responded, good, that makes two of us who have accepted it mentally. Yet the press would make Paul pay.

It was as if it was just all too much for the press to handle, the safe beetle by leaving the Beatles being so decidedly unsafe. His first three records without the Beatles, his solo effort, McCartney, his next album credited to himself and Linda McCartney, simply entitled Ram and Wildlife by his new group, Wings, despite their DIY charm pointed brilliance in ragged moments of glory, respectively. They were each unfairly savaged by critics.

Sure, there isn't an Eleanor Rigby or a penny lane among any of these releases, but that doesn't take away from the genius of Ram. But with all the bad reviews, Paul McCartney couldn't be sure. Paul McCartney was 30 years old, one of the biggest pop stars on the planet, one quarter of the world's most commercially and critically successful groups of all time, the Beatles. And here he was, in 1972, ravaged with insecurity. How would this happen? Was it really any good? Was it all John's brilliance, after all?

Was positive critical consensus completely out of reach for him without the Beatles? It certainly wasn't out of reach for John. The critics loved John Lennon's first two solo albums, John Lennon, the Plastic Ono band, and Imagine, and for good reason, they were both truly great. And John was a vicious assessor of Paul's recorded efforts in the press and in song, with his scathing take on Paul and his track, How Do You Sleep? He told Paul in the lyrics that the only thing he'd done was yesterday,

and claimed that the conspiracy theorists had it right when they said Paul is dead. Paul responded on Rams too many people, but his counter didn't pack the requisite punch. Neither did the image on Ram's artwork of two actual Beatles fucking. Get it? A bit too on the nose for the critics. They responded for their beloved beetle John, the authentic one, the artist. Making matters worse for Paul, George Harrison, the beetle who songs historically barely made it on to the band's album, such was their perceived inferiority to Lennon McCartney

compositions, was enjoying more success than both he and John with the release of his triple album, All Things Must Pass. In 1972, Paul McCartney, as far as the critics were concerned, couldn't get arrested, an actual experience, however, that was proving to be all too familiar for the so-called Safe Beetle. There was the bust in Scotland in 73 for growing dope on his farm, Another bust in Sweden for possession a year earlier, and then his dope bust in L.A. in 75. Linda took the rap for that one so her husband could skate. And of course, there was the recent arrest in Japan that put Paul McCartney in prison singing for his security, lulling the yakuza toward golden slumbers with yesterday. We'll be right back after this word, word, word.

Pride is like love. You feel it in your heart. IHR Radio, Canada's number one streaming app for radio and podcasts, including IHart Pride Canada, your favorite hits and must have party bangers, plus personalized and curated playlists, like back in the day pride. Come together, celebrate, love. Take pride with you anytime, anywhere. Just ask your smart speaker to play IHart Pride Canada. Stream us on your phone or listen now at iHeartRadio.ca.

Your husband is not who you think he is. Your body is not what you saw it was. Your identity is formed by a secret history. I'm Danny Shapiro, and these are just a few of the stunning stories I'll be exploring on the 14th season of family secrets. And just then, we felt the plain turn in the air, so much so that the bags that were under people's seats just kind of flew into the aisle. Each week, we dive head first into the complex power of secrecy, how it shapes our identities and relationships, and how it ultimately can reveal to us our truest selves. My daughter, she's pretending she doesn't know,

but is trying to cook and feed me and keep me alive because I wasn't eating anything and me pretending like everything was fine. He kind of shoved me out of the way and said, move. And he went out the front door and he jumped in a car and drove off, and that was the last time I saw him. Listen to season 14 of Family Secrets on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Hi, I'm a lot of you. Chris Fairbanks. And I'm Karen Kilgariff. We host Do You Need a Ride, the mobile comedy podcast that answers the question, what does it sound like when we drive our comedian friends around the wild streets of Los Angeles? Yes, every week we pick up a hilarious guest, maybe run some errands, share some laughs, and our dreams. Like when Martha Kelly shared her career pivot. I want to become a influencer of divorced moms whose kids have gone off to college, who have decided they're going to start living life for themselves. Or the time bear in John got distracted by the majestic scenery.

Then there's a freaking deer right there in this side of the road. Oh, that's great. Eating freaking road grass. Road grass. I wish you said glass. New episodes drop every Monday on the Exactly Right Network. Listen to Do You Need a Ride on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Thank you.

You're welcome. There are lots of places around the world to do time. Japan isn't one of them. Their prison system to this day is repeatedly described by human rights organizations with words like horrific and brutal. It is alleged that the Japanese prison system is designed to break prisoners down, to elicit confessions for their crimes, either while they're being held on trial or even after they've been convicted. Japanese prisons are barbarically strict. Living conditions are Spartan and bleak, even by prison standards.

It was in this environment that Paul McCartney thrived. Blessed with the day trader's optimism, Paul McCartney took his cues from Steve McQueen in The Great Escape. Just as McQueen's character, Captain Virgil Hiltz, aka A.K.K.A. the cooler king knew he'd taste freedom again one day, so too did Paul. Though escaping Kosuge prison wasn't on the docket. To free himself, Paul wouldn't rely on his wily will like McQueen. He'd rely on his irrepressible enthusiasm and charm. Roll call was at 6 a.m. every morning. Paul McCartney made damn sure he was the first prisoner off his mattress and sitting at attention, cross-legged in the middle of his cell, as was expected of him. He'd hear his prison number shouted out.

Japanese for 22. Years of slinging it on stage in Hamburg and Liverpool taught Paul McCartney how to engage in an old-fashioned call and response with a proper shout. Japanese for yes. Paul then said about cleaning his cell with his miniature broom and dust pants. There were no blankets and no sheets on his mattress, so he'd just fold his mattress and neatly place it in the corner of the cell. Breakfast was served in his cell, not in a mess hall. It was virtually solitary confinement, yet Paul made the best of it.

Devouring his nearly inedible food to show his gratitude, privately thankful that his meals were at least vegetarian, seaweed and onion soup for breakfast, bread and soybean soup for lunch, rice and a bowl for dinner with a piece of fruit for dessert if the guards were feeling charitable. There were no books, no writing tablets, no pens, no pencils, and no guitars, he sang. None of the guards nor the other prisoners, least of all the caged Yakusa down the hall minded. They came to expect it, just as they came to expect Paul's humor. Nobody spoke English, and Paul spoke no Japanese. When he felt he was being shouted at by prisoners from adjoining cells, rather than ignoring them, Paul shouted back the only Japanese words he knew.

Kawasaki, Toyota, Dodson, his prison mates ate it up. They thought it was hysterical. Paul endeared himself to the gangsters and thieves on the inside, just as he endeared himself to the world over on the outside. And the guards soon became enamored of him as well. Moved by his efforts as a model prisoner, they offered the international celebrity a lone concession. He could shower in private, thus avoiding the possibility of prison violence,

sexual or otherwise, while physically exposed to, other inmates and thus vulnerable. Paul declined with gratitude. There would be no special treatment. He showed with the rest of the inmates to show that he was no different, a multi-millionaire man of the people. The showers became many events with Paul leading his fellow prisoners in song, shouting at the top of his lungs the simple old standards that his father taught him as a child, melodies that those who spoke another language could easily latch on to. When the red red robin comes bop, bop, bopping along, till there was you and a bird. in a gilded cage.

Paul was making a go of it in prison. He'd have to write Steve McQueen a thank you letter when he got out. Steve wasn't doing well. Cancer, they said. It had been almost a decade since he last saw Steve. It was in Jamaica.

Paul and Linda were on holiday. Paul was worried. Worried he was washed up. Worryed he'd never make another great album. Worried the critics were riding him out of the business. Worried he'd lost it. Not worry that all writers have. Even songwriters.

The worry that you're going to wake up one morning and sit down to write and nothing. And no explanation as to where it went. When you don't know where it comes from, you don't know if it'll ever stop coming. You pray, it won't. You develop your own habits to stave off any creative disruption. And for Paul, he wrote constantly, played constantly, always kept a guitar or piano nearby, summoned melodies out of thin air and plop them down over chords. Most he let's slip away.

The good ones he committed to tape. The very best made it on to work. wax where they were decimated by the critics as of late. What was the point of worrying about hanging on to something if that something wasn't valued? But Paul needed it. Songwriting wasn't only his trade, but his life's blood. Losing it wasn't an option. Steve McQueen was oblivious to Paul McCartney's occupational insecurities. He had his own professional worries, like how the hell he was going to perform his own stunts in Papillon. Cliff jumping seemed a little more daunting than deciding whether or not to augment the seat cord by sharpening the fifth.

Steve gave Paul and Linda an audience in Jamaica on the set of Papillon, but uncharacteristically retired early after dinner, leading the McCartney's to his co-star Dustin Hoffman. Hoffman was infatuated with McCartney, the beetle there in the flesh and all of his powers unknown to himself at the time to be racked by professional and creative insecurity. Over late-night drinks, Hoffman challenged his hero to show him how he did, did it. Right there, right then, write a song, out of thin air. Come on, you're Paul McCartney,

the greatest living composer on the planet. Show me how you do it. Go ahead. I'll jump into character for you right now. And Paul couldn't help but laugh and take Hoffman up on the challenge. Pablo Picasso had just died. It was all over the news. Paul picked up his guitar and out of nowhere wrote and sang and played on the spot, a tribute to the famed artist. Picasso's last words, Drink to Me, was born. Out of a drunken challenge, it seemed like nothing at the time, but it was a confidence builder for Paul. He was off, writing again in no time after that, and putting together his next album, Band on the Run, with his group, Wings.

Released in 1973, the album reignited Paul McCartney's career. Not only was it well-received commercially, as all his albums were, it was also well-received critically. Paul had delivered on the promise of, well, Paul. Band-on-the-run was no modest DIY effort like McCartney. nor was it a piss and vinegar flex like Ram. It wasn't a band-esque ramble like Wildlife, and it wasn't an uncharacteristic swing and a miss like Red Rose Speedway.

Band on the run was bold, big, and befitting of the 70s, perfectly suited for rock and roll's expansion into stadiums with its anthemic singles, Jet, as well as its title track. And the album led from its front foot, and there was hope in McCartney's signature melodic grandeur. Paul left the piss and vinegar for his old songwriting partner John Lennon. It better suited John anyway, but the soulful incantation of Let Me Roll It was all Paul. Little Richard was always a better model for Paul than Robbie Robertson.

There are no swings and no misses on band on the run, nor are there on Wings at the speed of sound. Wings' 1976 release, which is, in fact, an even better album. What? You don't like silly love songs? Fuck off, then. It's great, like the rest of the record. And those two albums, along with the Triple Live album, Wings Over America, are just that. truly great. The critics agreed. So too, of course, did the record buying public. Band on the Run went platinum and peaked at number one in the UK, the US, and Australia. Wings at the speed of sound and wings over America both repeated the feat in the US. It was redemption. Enemy, the British music

newspaper declared of Band on the Run, the ex-beetle least likely to re-establish his credibility and lead the field has pulled it off with a positive masterstroke of an album. Paul McCartney, despite whatever natural insecurities he felt, remained undaunted in the face of his critics. That enthusiasm pulled him through the rough years in the early 70s until it finally paid off with the release of band on the run, and it would pull him through this stint in this Japanese jail cell, however long it was. Despite the conditions, Paul was beginning to not care. Prison offered a new kind of structure that he easily caught into. paradoxically, it offered him freedom as well.

Freedom from being Paul. He was caged, sure, but he wasn't expected to be anything but prisoner number 22. And that, for the moment anyway, was enough. Getting released from prison, he thought, would be a real drag. Arrangements for Paul McCartney. his wife Linda, their children in their band to arrive in Japan for 11 shows, were painstakingly negotiated over the previous months due to Paul's criminal record for his prior marijuana arrests.

Paul McCartney's entourage landed at Narita International Airport on January 16, 1980 to Great Fanfare. Japan was ecstatic to witness their first performance from a real-life beetle since the band's concert under guard and kamikaze threat at Buda Khan Hall almost 15. years before. Paul made it through the VIP welcome, awaiting his rock star arrival at the gate posing for photographers and television cameras. He was happy. You could see it on his face. Japanese authorities were not happy. They weren't going to be made out to be fools. Their drug laws were strict for a reason, and despite whatever diplomatic negotiating had gone on behind the scenes to clear the way for Paul McCartney to enter and perform in their country, there would

most definitely still be a search. Paul was escorted with his luggage to a room for what he expected to be a cursory peek into his belongings. They opened one of his suitcases, pulled up a jacket, under it, a plastic bag enclosed around a large chunk of marijuana. Immediately alarms in the airport started going off. The surgical-gloved customs agent began speaking in frantic Japanese. Cops started flooding into the search room, a vicious-looking gentleman in sharp suits

running everywhere. Newspapermen jetting for phone pleas, TV journalists jockeying their cameras for positioning, traveling musicians mentally inventorying their own possessions, fear covering their faces. Paul McCartney was jettisoned off to another room who further searching, and Morpott was found. He was then taken downtown to Tokyo's metropolitan police headquarters and grilled for five plus hours by an angry pair of drug squad detectives eager to learn about whatever other dangerous drugs Paul McCartney was attempting to smuggle into their country. They clearly didn't get the memo that Paul was the safe beetle. Seven ounces of dope, almost a quarter pound, enough to keep Paul high for a long time.

He swore it was for him and him alone. He wasn't a drug smuggler. There was no intent to distribute. Didn't matter. Off to prison he went. Not jail. Prison. Kosuke prison.

No bail. Japan's criminal system didn't account for bail. Japanese authorities were interested in confessions. An extended stay in Kosuge with Garner said confessions. Break the weak-willed. Paul McCartney was a lot of things, but weak-willed was not one of them. He was strong, as his stint in Kosuke approved. And now, the safe one, was doing a brief stint in one of the world's most dangerous prisons. Shacking up with Yakuza and sharing stories about getting Mick Jagger stoned on grass for the first time at the request of his fellow prisoners who were

demanding to know about his famous friends. He was staring down a 10-year sentence, smiling away, recounting the details to his inmates of his previous dope bust. Of the time he and Pete Best were busted in Hamburg for arson, of inadvertently inspiring Charles Manson, out-drinking Steve McQueen, shutting up Dustin Hoffman. He was behind bars while John Lennon, the so-called dangerous one, was in a domestic prison of his own making inside his luxury apartment on New York's Upper West Side baking bread for his toddler.

The irony of it all could at least pass for entertainment while in prison. Paul didn't care. He'd proven he could make it without the Beatles. The world now knew that. He'd resurrected himself from the critical slang of the early 70s with a series of successes that led him here to Japan, and he'd be released soon, free. But of course, still imprisoned by the world's impression of him

as the safe one and the expectations that went along with that. But again, what did it matter? Paul McCartney knew who he was, and he was optimistic. And who could tell what lay ahead? 1980 was shaping up to be a hell of a year. A second solo album, McCartney, too, and then maybe a creative reconciliation with John and possibly even with George and Ringo at the same time.

Minus George, the three of them jammed in L.A. a few years earlier with Stevie Wonder. The cocaine prevented anything from coming of it, but John was healthier now. Domesticity will do that to you. Paul, of course, knew that, family man that he was. And though John had refused Paul the last time he showed up at his door in New York, Paul suspected that the creative frost between the two was about to melt. And if there was ever a time for the Beatles to reunite,

1980 could be the year. John was working on new material, and word was that he was inspired, even optimistic about the decade to lay ahead. With a headwind of his own solo success, John Lennon might be warm to the idea of a reunion with Paul McCartney. If not a performance, then maybe a stint in the studio.

And the Beatles would play again. Yeah, it seemed inevitable. And then, the unthinkable happened. Such a disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page

at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland, All access member. Thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com slash membership. Members can listen to every episode of disgrace land ad free.

Plus, you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month. Weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelampod.com slash membership for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on. on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at Disgraceland Pod, and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at Disgraceland Pod. Rockerola.

All right, Discos, what did you think of this, Paul McCartney episode? Give us a call. Let us know, 617-9066638, voicemail and text at Disgraceland Pod on the socials. Coming up next in Disgraceland, we get another archive episode for you, our episode on John Lennon's solo time in New York. I'm Anna Navarro, and on my new podcast, bleep with Anna Navarro. talking to the people closest to the biggest issues happening in your community and around the world. Because I know deep down inside right now, we are all cursing and asking what the bleep is going on.

Every week I'm breaking down the biggest issues happening in our communities and around the world. I'm talking to people like Julie K. Brown, who broke the explosive story on Jeffrey Epstein in 2018. The Justice Department through, we counted four presidential administrations, failed these victims. Listen to Bleep with Anna Navarro on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. How much you wait, Wanda? Right now, about 130. I'm at 183. We should race.

No, I want to leave here with my original hips. On the podcast, The Matchup with Alia, I pair prominent female athletes with unexpected guests. On a recent episode, I sat down with undisputed boxing champ, Clarissa Shields, and comedian Wanda Sykes, to talk about Wanda's new movie Undercard, the art of trash talk, and what it really means to be ladylike. Open your free IHeart Radio app. up with Alia and listen now. Brought to you by Novartis, founding partner of IHeart Women's Sports Network. Hey, it's us to Jonas Brothers,

and guess what? We have some big news. What's the news, huge news? We created our own podcast called, Hey Jonas. How do we actually come up with a name, Hey Jonas, guys?

I honestly don't remember. We were talking about a bit for the podcast where people could call in and say, Hey Jonas, and then I wrote down on my little notepad, Hey Jonas, and offered it up as a potential title for the podcast. But thanks for remembering that, guys. Listen to Hey Jonas on the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Just listen. We don't care where you hear it.