This week’s New Yorker has a gorgeous piece on Paul McCartney, a Macca-in-twillight kind of thing, in consideration of his upcoming 65th birthday. It stretches across 10 pages but can’t escape the Beatles, of course. Then again, it seems like Sir Paul is at the point in his oldish-man life where he’s enjoying telling the stories again — which girlfriend he was riding in the car with when he wrote this song, the flush of pride he felt upon being complimented by John Lennon, a genuine sense of amazement at his own life’s events. My favorite part is this: McCartney […]

Super-infectious guitar-pop from Glasgow mates of Franz Ferdinand. Resistance is futile.

The best part is where he goes ‘I think I better dance NOW!’