WINGS

Wings Over America

(Capitol)

He may be a sheepmauler, but Paul McCartney is no dinosaur.

Which, judging from the pathetic reptilian screechings and/or total silence emanating from three other notable corners these days, is more than you can say about the rest of the erstwhile Fab Four.

Paul has been on trial before a jury empaneled with a presumption of guilt ever since the demise of the aforementioned Four, a demise for which he was blamed. He's since been indicted on followup counts: workable marriage to a blonde Caucasian; gentlemanfarming; prettiness, pettiness and happiness; failure to scream primally at the chic moment; unauthorized commerical success; and an ethically dubious facility in understanding and following the evolution of the pop market that he, among others, helped to create.

I say he's been the Rubin Carter of rock "n" roll.

What is his offense? Writing songs about the loves of his life—his wife, his flocks, his fantasies? The way 1 see it, stepping out in L.A. bars with a Kotex on one's head, or performing on Elton John albums, are crimes graver by far than a little sodomizing of live lamb chops.