Paul in Scotland, Wings in Lagos, and a Hall of Fame That Can’t Stop Arguing With Itself
If you ever needed proof that the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is less a museum and more a cultural argument with a gift shop, Episode 13 of On The Record opens by doing what the institution does best: stretching the phrase “rock and roll” until it politely accommodates everyone from Wu‑Tang Clan to Shakira, with a quick stop at INXS (or, as Michael once heard on the BBC, the new Australian sensation “Inks”).
Brian runs through the 2026 nominee list like a gig guide for the afterlife—The Black Crowes, Jeff Buckley, Joy Division/New Order, Oasis, Phil Collins (solo, because apparently we’re double-dipping now), Melissa Etheridge, Lauryn Hill, New Edition, Pink, Luther Vandross—and lands on the question that always makes the Hall quietly hilarious: who is this for, exactly? Michael’s baffled by the ceremony mechanics (do nominees really “turn up hoping”?), while Brian reassures him it’s not quite the Oscars, before casually dropping the detail that there’s a public vote. Nothing says rock’s rebellious spirit like “exercise our democratic right” via a link.
The more interesting subtext, though, is what induction inevitably drags in: absence. Several nominees have key members who’ve died—Buckley, Michael Hutchence, Ian Curtis—prompting the kind of morbid logistics only a Hall of Fame can inspire. Michael wonders aloud whether New Order could be coaxed into a once-only appearance, and if so, would Peter Hook be anywhere near the bass, given the long-running fallout. Rock history, as ever, is part music, part family law.
From there, the episode pivots into “telly as coping mechanism” territory.
Michael has started season two of Hijack, acknowledging (with Idris Elba’s own executive-producer embarrassment) the inherent silliness of re-hijacking a man who has already been hijacked.
Brian, meanwhile, goes looking for light relief in bleak news cycles and discovers Resident Alien—a show he’d dismissed as fluff until it turns out to be fluff with enough teeth to feel like therapy. The alien-in-a-small-town premise becomes an excuse for a few sharp jokes about humanity’s trajectory.
But the main event is the week’s shared homework: Paul McCartney: Man on the Run, the new documentary spanning the years between the Beatles’ breakup and Lennon’s murder.
Brian begins with dread—opening on “Silly Love Songs” is hardly a confidence-builder—but both hosts admit the film wins them over. They praise the craft: strong editing, collage-like imagery, and an effective “no talking heads (but their voices)” approach. Then they do the responsible thing and ask the awkward question: how honest can a documentary be when McCartney’s own company financed it?
Their answer is satisfyingly unresolved. Michael argues it’s “warts-and-all enough” to avoid feeling like a total snow job—especially when the film lets other musicians (Nick Lowe, Chrissie Hynde) politely wonder what on earth Paul was thinking during the early, patchy years.
Brian agrees McCartney produced plenty of throwaway material, though he’ll still go in to bat for Band on the Run and even dares to defend “Coming Up” (which Michael treats as a personal affront).
They both wish the doco lingered longer on the Lagos chapter, one of the few moments in the Wings story that feels like true risk rather than post-Beatles reputation management.
The emotional spine, however, is Scotland. The documentary’s portrayal of McCartney retreating to a remote farm with Linda is read here not as quaint pastoral cosplay, but as a survival strategy—grief, disorientation, and the sudden absence of the band-as-family.
The hosts talk candidly about parental loss, the Beatles as McCartney’s “emotional prop,” and Lennon as the creative foil who kept Paul’s “twee” instincts on a leash.
Linda comes out of it as both partner and lightning rod: necessary to him, mercilessly judged by everyone else.
Along the way, Brian remembers seeing Wings at the Myer Music Bowl in 1975 (yes, he was there), and the hosts re
