By the time the 1980s dawned, the friendship between Paul McCartney and John Lennon had already become something fragile — reduced to occasional phone calls, rare conversations, and the lingering memories of what once had been
The Beatles were long gone, their breakup leaving not only a cultural wound but also a personal rift that even time could not fully heal. And then, on December 8, 1980, tragedy struck. John Lennon was murdered outside his New York apartment.
The world grieved openly, with vigils in the streets, fans holding candles, and radio waves filled with the sound of Lennon’s voice. For Paul McCartney, the grief was more private, more complicated. He gave a short, almost detached statement to reporters — calling the event “a drag.” To many, it seemed cold, even dismissive. But those who knew Paul understood what it really was: sorrow too deep for words, shock expressed in understatement by a man who could barely process the unthinkable.
Months later, Paul returned to the studio to record what would become his 1982 album Tug of War. It was meant to be a fresh start after the turbulence of the 1970s. Yet, woven into the sessions was a constant undercurrent of grief, as though John’s absence hovered in the room.
During those sessions, something happened that Paul would never forget. He was working with Carl Perkins, the legendary rockabilly guitarist whose music had inspired The Beatles in their earliest days. After finishing a recording together, Perkins asked if he could share a new song he had just written. The song was called My Old Friend.
At first, Paul listened politely. But then the lyrics came, carrying a line that cut straight to his soul: “Think about me every now and then, my old friend.”
The words echoed almost exactly what John Lennon had said to Paul in their final conversation before his death. It was as if Perkins had unknowingly plucked Lennon’s farewell from the air and set it to music. Paul’s composure broke. He wept openly, unable to hold back the flood of grief, memory, and love that overwhelmed him.
Those present in the studio would later describe it as a moment of pure humanity — not the cool exterior of a superstar, not the polished poise of a Beatle, but the raw vulnerability of a man mourning a brother in song. For Paul, it was as if Lennon himself had returned for a brief instant, speaking through the music one last time.
That night, music became more than melody. It became farewell. And farewell, in turn, became love. Paul McCartney’s tears were not just for what had been lost, but for what had been shared — the laughter of youth, the magic of creation, the bond of two boys from Liverpool who once dreamed of conquering the world and did.
My Old Friend never became a hit single. But for Paul, it became something greater: a private message, a reminder, a song that turned grief into grace. In that moment, the greatest songwriting partnership of the century found its coda, not in fame or spectacle, but in tears shed quietly in a studio.
And perhaps that is the truest measure of love. That even after death, even after decades, a single phrase, sung in the right moment, can still make Paul McCartney cry.