Paul McCartney‘s favourite songs are not necessarily great songs.

There’s no ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ or many other revered masterpieces in the mix, but if you’re not taking note of the tracks that potentially the greatest musician of all time has tipped as his favourites, then perhaps you’re taking note of the wrong things.

Back in 2021, we unearthed an Uncut feature from 2004 where McCartney revealed his 14 favourite songs of all time. In the years since, we’ve never stopped thinking about his selections. There’s a peculiarity to the Ram singer’s suggestions. However, we also compiled a playlist for the piece. When you listen to that enough times, something interesting is revealed.

Now, while McCartney is certainly capable of creative endeavours beyond just reconciliation, we doubt he covertly codified his Uncut picks with 14 distinct defining elements that, when tied together, amount to the secret magic of his songwriting and, by extension, the great songwriting period, but that’s certainly how they come across when studied by a big enough obsessive.

You see, as pretentious as it sounds, it really is nuance that often makes something truly extraordinary. The Spanish call it Duende, the French call it je ne sais quoi, and the English, well, we have a habit of saying that sort of thing is a load of bollocks, but there’s a reason why there’s a world of difference between your simple four-chord songs and McCartney’s simple four-chord songs.

We feel that the answer to what separates the dismal ‘Hey Dude’ from the dearly beloved ‘Hey Jude’ can be derived when you delve into Macca’s mystic selections. These tracks clearly have something that appeals to the former Beatle, and upon closer inspection, that singular crowning feature reveals itself. When you stack each of these characteristics together, you might just have yourself a masterpiece.

The song begins in a sweeping Sinatra-like way. From the opening strings, it seems to all the world as though it will blossom into a smooth and harmless ballad. But suddenly, as soon as the opening coda has calmed you, the strings give way to staccato blues guitar, and James Taylor stutteringly tells you the tale of his character.

Then, just as you’re settling into this rupture, another arises in the form of waltzing jazz piano. The peculiar track now finds itself in a subterranean jazz club with Taylor in a performative mode, far more polished than the conventional confessional song you imagined from the bars before the band gets involved. In truth, unless you’re a musical purist, you might find yourself irritated with the odd modulation of ‘Mean Old Man’, but McCartney clearly identified something in the mix that made The Beatles stand out in the explosion of the 1960s: the element of surprise.

Throughout the track, Taylor thrillingly subverts expectations, marrying three different styles of music in a song that stays true to the tenets of none. It might not ring out as a masterpiece to the layman, but that uncanny ability to twist a familiar chord change into a more interesting diminished realm is why McCartney’s songs very rarely fall into the background, no matter how soft and soothing they may be written.

You could drop an anvil into ‘God Only Knows’, McCartney’s favourite song of all time, and you’d never live to hear it hit the bottom. It is layered in every which way. Firstly, it’s called ‘God Only Knows’, but the true subject of Brian Wilson’s devotion is, ironically, God. That’s a meta flourish that takes one of the prettiest love songs of all time and embodies it with philosophical multitudes that could be mined for a PhD study.

Then there’s the musical depth, too. The song has layers upon layers to the point that it’s hard to know which key it is even in. Wilson himself concluded that he had inadvertently written the first keyless pop song. And that ‘inadvertent’ nature only adds to the magic. As you can see on Get Back, The Beatles, like Wilson and The Beach Boys, wrote music with a love of music and the fun it can unlock in the mind. In the studio, ideas were ten a penny, but ‘God Only Knows’ proves McCartney’s mindset that once you happen upon a good one, you should explore it to an extreme.

‘God Only Knows’ is a masterpiece, by and large, because Wilson willed it to be one. He was enthused and inspired by his own creation and burrowed ever deeper into his golden idea, creating something magical where his enthusiasm becomes ours to share. McCartney would later create similar intoxicating anthems like ‘Hey Jude’ where it is clear that he has juiced simple melody right down to the pith in search of an elixir that the final song, in all of its glory, easily shares.

On the surface, this old Celtic raga might not tell you much about McCartney’s views on songwriting other than a nod to his Irish roots. But ‘roots’ is the operative word. The Beatles might have been in the crow’s nest of the assailing ’60s zeitgeist, but they were looking both ways. How can you be expected to grasp the present if you don’t understand what led to it?

The band had one eye on the future, and another glancing back at what they could borrow from the past. The opening horns of ‘Penny Lane’ hark back to Britain’s dance band era. ‘All You Need is Love’ has countless classical references in the mix. And from these motifs, you can see how McCartney uses reference points to establish a sense of time and place in his music.

Exoticism – ‘Sunset’ by Nitin Sawhney

This peculiar blend of electronica, Indian classical, and jazz was a revelation upon release in 1999. It wasn’t just genre-blending; it paired entirely differing musical worlds. The Beatles were among the first to do this on any grand scale, and it imbued their music with an effortless sense of exoticism.

While the sitar might have easily become a gimmick in the ’60s, the Fab Four used it to expand the scope of Western culture. This was, however, not only a clever intellectual move on paper, but it also refreshed their sound with a novel injection of inspiration. Quite simply, people hadn’t heard anything quite like it, despite the sitar also being one of the world’s most ancient instruments. The songwriting lesson being: don’t just stick to what you know.

A great melody is one thing, but it’s often what you do with it that matters. Here, the great Nat King Cole perfumes a classic with sweeping strings that seem to hush at the command of his romantic croon, the piano keys are teased out of the plume just a half step behind the mix, the drums are barely brushed, let alone bashed.

Throughout McCartney’s career, he has deployed a similar sense of care. Thanks, in part, to George Martin, there was never a sense that The Beatles were simply satisfied with a strong melody. This has continued in his solo work, where each note seems to be paired like wine with cheese to a matching instrument. Yet, it’s not about overdoing it. There’s great restraint in this Cole classic, and you could say much the same about ‘Yesterday’, where the magic is not just in the melody, but also in the way it builds from a simple acoustic.

Simply put, if it doesn’t sound nice, to use a dreadfully insufficient adjective, then the rest of this list is redundant. This ‘Blackbird’ of its day floats like wistful thoughts. Perfect.

In essence, Pires’ recital of this classic piece is, to use another dreadfully insufficient adjective, pleasant. Recognition of pleasantry is vital for any artist, even if what you wish to create has nothing to do with pleasantry. However, dissonance and diversory means are deviations from a standard knowledge of what appeals to everyone. Without a full understanding of what makes something beautiful, you can’t expect to be able to create the obverse.

So, McCartney has always grounded himself in masterworks that feel naturally ingrained in our psyches. Countless songs penned by The Cute One just have a natural, effortless, beautiful appeal.

Yes, the man behind Men At Work also has a solo career that is wildly revered by his peers, but not without good reason. Hay writes songs that seem to effortlessly surmise the human comedy. He has captured life in a manner akin to ‘Fool on the Hill’ in various songs. ‘Going Somewhere’ is one that looks at the fast pace of simply living.

With songs like ‘Calico Skies’ and ‘Here Today’, McCartney has found himself in a similar, directly confessional and meaningful mode. When songs reconcile the world like this, they bring about a deep resonance that comforts a listener. These moments are never far from a McCartney record, and they bring about a stirring sense of purpose to his melodies.

A song without meaning can still be pretty, but an ugly song with meaning can still be a masterpiece.

While there’s a slight sense that this was McCartney’s favourite song for a few days when he was making the list, but hasn’t listened to it since, we can still get a flavour of why he, at the very least, momentarily revered it. And that flavour comes from the dramatic texture of the gathering song and its varied effects.

In a manner reminiscent of Radiohead, Steadman creates a unique world, subverting typical instrumentation with various pedals and layering. The distorted bass riff bursts through the jangling guitar, the timpani-like drums add a cleanest in an otherwise murky mix, and the vocals, well, they do tend to copy Thom Yorke, but in the process, they prove deeply instrumental.

Alongside simplicity, The Beatles always proudly presented their blossoming skills. Nobody embodied that better than McCartney. Without delving into the history of ‘Galliard’, above all, it grabs your attention because of the technical prowess on display in the finger-picking.

Like the growl of ‘Maybe I’m Amazed’ or the magic of the ‘Taxman’ bassline, ‘Galliard’ simply has the chops to stop you in your tracks and appreciate evident talent. Julian Bream’s recital keeps it clean yet gorgeously detailed, and any guitarist who attempts to play it will see why McCartney puts it on a pedestal. There’s more to music than showing off, but if you can show off supremely, then it proves impossible to ignore.

‘Marwa Blues’ is not George Harrison’s finest contribution to music. It simply isn’t. It’s a fine little ditty, but the best he ever wrote? Not by a long way. So, why does McCartney beg to differ? Well, because there are many ways in which a song can connect with someone, and clearly, he connected spiritually with this Brainwashed instrumental.

The simple recognition of that is paramount to great songwriting; otherwise, you’d eternally be trapped, constantly trying to be a ‘genius’ and attempting to write endless ‘masterpieces’. That’s not how art works. And that sort of thinking would rid the world of an unending arsenal of great songs that don’t necessarily look to blow your mind, but in the process, they might just blow a malaise from a murky day, and that can often be just as valuable and sweetly accessible.

Any discernible quality from this dud remains a mystery we couldn’t possibly solve, even if we ever managed to make it to the end of the song.

Aitken can dine out on McCartney’s praise, as is his just right, for the rest of his life. But to our ear, when the song isn’t corny, it’s soppy, and when it isn’t soppy, it’s quietly desperate. But we also don’t mean that snearingly, because there’s a market for that, too. And perhaps therein lies a hint to the answer to the mystery. As Aitken revealed in an interview with Tony Cummins, “Paul said to me, ‘Look, if you want to come to the UK, I’ll sign you to my publishing company and I will shine a light on you really just to help open a door and get your music heard by those who need to hear it.’ He was extremely true to his word.”

That’s not to rouse a conspiracy that McCartney only included the song in his list because he stood to commercially gain something – that would be wholly unfair on Aitken – but it does highlight a fact of life that an endless list of overly naive artists have failed to soberly reconcile: art needs an audience, and part of your job is reaching them. You can’t just write what you consider to be a masterpiece and expect the world to come flocking to it. So, perhaps the answer to the inclusion of ‘The Way’ is marketability, but then we’ve just listened to it again, and…

His old pal Donovan weaves together fantastical imagery in this psychedelic folk song that ignites the brain. All too often, the term escapism is applied to music. The opposite is usually true. ‘Sunny Goodge Street’ might be weird and otherworldly, but it vivifies the world around you, capturing the drama of street corners that might have become mundane to you, re-cosifying living rooms where an argument might’ve just occurred.

This poetic ability to present the world anew is one of the stand-out tricks in McCartney’s repertoire. ‘Penny Lane’ is the perfect picture of retracing your childhood, no matter when or where you grew up. ‘Band on the Run’ brings up memories of sipping pints in far-flung tavernas that you’ve never been to. All of this comes down to cunning imagery beautifully colliding with music that emboldens it and adds an emotive wallop.

In truth, it’s a novelty song. But what’s wrong with that? It’s to McCartney’s supreme credit that he still sees the merit in lightness and levity. Music fanatics can often disappear up themselves, championing the profound way in which a ‘genius’ has somehow channelled the teaching of Plato’s The Republic into an arresting collision of ambience and post-rock. Then it takes a BBQ with nippers crawling around and dogs knocking over drinks for you to realise that there is, indeed, still some merit to ‘Same Jeans’ by The View.

‘Cheek to Cheek’ is a song that proves McCartney has never lost sight of what the proletariat need. Yes, revolutionary musical reinventions of The Republic may well be needed too, but simple ditties tailor-made for a happy communal listen after a long, old day will never go away, and god forbid they ever do.

There’s a reason why The Beatles managed to remain popular to an unprecedented degree despite offering up songs as truly avant-garde as ‘I am the Walrus’, and the answer to that riddle is that they also never lost sight of the easy-peasy appeal of tracks like ‘Cheek to Cheek’.

It’s not often that critics mention ‘coolness’. They always, always imply it, but to utter it bluntly seems somehow unintellectual. But it takes a great deal of artfulness to be cool, and the word itself underpins the core tenet behind a lot of the greatest music of the last 125 years. Simply put, how on earth could you appraise Sinatra without saluting his swagger?

In ‘A Lovely Way To Spend An Evening’, there’s coolness in his croon right down to his idiosyncratic phrasing. Nobody else could be singing it. And if anybody else were, they’d be doing the song a disservice. Sinatra is right in there, living in the scenario, pacing alongside the lagoon. It’s blue-eyed dramaticism, and it sweetly elevates the song with a scotch-tinged smile.

The jury is still out on whether McCartney is or has ever been cool, but that’s part of his mystic charm. That, and all the other elements of this list that he’s routinely nailed. Which, when you go full circle, actually makes him almost certainly one of the coolest cats there’s ever been.