Beyond the Hits: The Hidden Gems That Reveal Paul McCartney’s Most Vulnerable, Experimental, and Honest Self
Paul McCartney’s name is synonymous with musical greatness—his work with The Beatles alone would have secured his place in history. Add in his contributions with Wings, solo ventures, and countless collaborations, and you have one of the most prolific songwriters the world has ever known. Yet, beyond the global singalongs and blockbuster hits lies a lesser-known but deeply revealing body of work: songs that didn’t climb the charts, didn’t dominate airwaves, but offered rare glimpses into the emotional, introspective, and often boldly experimental core of the man behind the legend.
Take “Waterfalls” (1980), a minimalist synth ballad from McCartney II that whispers more than it shouts. Overshadowed by the album’s more playful and avant-garde tracks like “Temporary Secretary”, “Waterfalls” unfolds like a quiet plea. With its fragile melody and lyrics that advise against chasing dangerous dreams, it reads as a tender reflection on vulnerability and caution—perhaps a quiet commentary on personal loss or the fragility of fame. There’s no elaborate orchestration or dazzling production, just McCartney’s soft voice and a haunting synth, creating an atmosphere of raw, understated sorrow.
Then there’s the wildly surreal “Monkberry Moon Delight” from Ram (1971), a song that sounds like it was beamed in from an alternate universe. With its growling vocals, gibberish lyrics, and manic energy, the track is pure chaos—in the best way. Long before “indie rock” was a genre, McCartney was crafting a piece that predated the kind of off-kilter, experimental songwriting that would later be embraced by artists like Beck and The Flaming Lips. It’s a window into McCartney’s playfully anarchic spirit, a refusal to be boxed in by expectations of what a former Beatle should sound like.
Fast forward to “Happy With You” from 2018’s Egypt Station, and we see another side of Paul—one shaped by years of reflection. The song’s light acoustic strumming belies its deeply personal lyrics, in which McCartney sings candidly about his past reliance on substances and how he’s since found peace in simplicity and love. It’s not a triumphant anthem, but rather a warm, honest whisper of gratitude. At 76, McCartney could easily rest on nostalgia, but instead, he continues to bare his soul—gently, without spectacle.
Even acoustic gems like “Calico Skies”, written during a hurricane in the Virgin Islands and recorded for Flaming Pie (1997), offer a masterclass in songwriting economy. Just a few chords and heartfelt lyrics create a sense of intimacy that feels almost too personal to be shared. It’s a love song, a protest song, a lullaby—and proof that McCartney’s pen still holds immense power even when he strips it all back.
These tracks may never fill stadiums or break streaming records, but they carry something far more enduring: honesty. They show a Paul McCartney who is unafraid to be weird, quiet, tender, or even broken. For those willing to listen closely, these hidden songs are not just footnotes in his catalog—they’re the chapters that show the full depth of a life lived through music.