The world awoke to news of unspeakable tragedy last week as record-breaking floods devastated central Texas, leaving 111 dead—nearly 30 of them children—and entire communities shattered by loss. While governments mobilized aid and rescue teams, two of the world’s most iconic musicians, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr, responded in a quieter, more intimate way: with a song.
The story began on the evening of July 11. Paul McCartney, at home in Sussex, scrolled through headlines and stared at a list of victims, his heart heavy with memory and grief. As he put down his phone, it rang—Ringo Starr on the line from Los Angeles, his voice low and filled with emotion.
“We don’t need a hit,” Ringo said. “We just need something honest. A song that can hold people while they grieve.”
Their decision was immediate and instinctive, echoing decades of friendship forged in the fire of both Beatlemania and private heartbreak. Before sunrise, Paul booked a last-minute flight to London. By noon on July 12, the two men—each now in his eighties—sat alone together in a small chapel-turned-recording studio, tucked away from the public eye.
There was no entourage, no team of producers or handlers, no talk of album releases or radio play. Instead, there was a battered upright piano, an old Ludwig snare drum, a single microphone, and two voices worn with age yet filled with a kind of resilience that only time can give.
The song that emerged, titled “Light Beyond the Water,” came together in just a few hours. It’s a ballad stripped of artifice, built on simple chords and a haunting melody. Paul’s lyrics, written in the margin of an old notebook, tell of loss and remembrance, but also of hope—a light that flickers beyond even the darkest tides. Ringo’s percussion is gentle, like rain against glass, steady and compassionate. Together, their voices blend in harmonies that recall the past, yet speak urgently to the present.
When Paul first read the names of the deceased—so many children—he broke down in tears. Ringo quietly moved his stool closer, resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s play like they’re listening,” he whispered. The session paused for several minutes as the two men sat in silence. Then, without a word, they began to play again—this time with a new intensity, as if offering up the song not just to those still here, but to the lost as well.
There was no official statement, no media blitz. Instead, on the morning of July 13, a simple black-and-white video appeared online. It carried no titles, credits, or studio logos. Just Paul and Ringo, lit by the golden glow of dozens of candles in the chapel’s nave. The camera never moved. Ringo, his eyes closed, let each brushstroke fall with the careful grace of prayer. Paul sang as if the whole world was standing in the room, every word a lifeline cast into stormy waters.
Midway through the song, the camera drifted to a shot of the chapel’s stained-glass window—a river of color winding upward into dawn. When the final note faded, the screen cut to black, leaving only a single line:
“In Memory of the Texas Flood Victims – July 2025”
The response was immediate and overwhelming. Within hours, the video spread across social media, shared not through official Beatles pages or news sites, but by ordinary people. Many posted the song with just a single word: “Sanctuary.” Others shared personal stories—of loved ones lost, of distant tragedies, of the strange power music has to comfort when words fall short.
A woman in Austin wrote, “I lost my sister in the flood. I don’t know how to grieve. But listening to Paul and Ringo, I feel like I’m not alone.” A teenager from Dallas added, “My whole family watched together and we all cried. For the first time since it happened, I felt a little less empty.”
Critics and journalists soon traced the video’s origins, confirming its authenticity but respecting the artists’ wishes for privacy. Both McCartney and Starr declined interviews, letting the song speak for itself.
“This wasn’t about being The Beatles,” a close friend of McCartney’s told the Times. “It was about being human.”
The city of Kerrville, one of the towns hardest hit by the floods, announced it would play “Light Beyond the Water” at a candlelight vigil next week, inviting survivors, rescuers, and families of victims to gather, remember, and, perhaps, begin to heal.
In an era when music is often measured in clicks, charts, and dollars, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr reminded the world of something deeper: that art at its most honest can be a balm, a refuge, a place to set down sorrow for a little while. For Texas—and for all who grieve—the song is not a solution. But it is, as Ringo hoped, a little light beyond the water.
— By Sarah Newell, Staff Writer
