British Summer Time
Four days of rock, pop, politics, thrills and disappointments. And sunburn.
ROGER WATERS
Hyde Park’s British Summer Time season seems eminently suited to Roger Waters’s Us + Them tour.
Its front rows partitioned by spending power, corporate liggers and a tendency to turn down the volume for the likes of Sabbath to a polite murmur to calm super-rich neighbours would surely make his point for him.
But you never can tell. Those anti-rock measures are less onerous this year. Stood halfway back with Them, the sound of Waters’s greatest Floyd songs – almost complete sides of Dark Side Of The Moon and Animals among them – wholly envelops me.
Whatever the cost, fans to whom this music means everything are all around. There are the flag-waving Latin American loyalists, the skinny Jerry Garcia lookalike dancing to his own drum, and the middleaged widow weeping for every time she heard Floyd with her husband. Waters neutralises the corporate trappings, bringing the abrasion and community of older rock gatherings back to Hyde Park.
The big screen begins on a scrubby beach, suggestive perhaps of the Anzio beachhead where Waters’s dad died before he could know him, or the autumnal sentiment of Time’s key line: ‘quiet desperation is the English way’. Dark Side Of The Moon’s atmospheric build soon takes us there, but the album’s Orwellian threat evaporates in the endless blue sky.
Waters’s new album, Is This The Life We Really Want?, hits harder, as Picture That assaults us with the mass destruction of children in post-9/11 war-zones. The driven nature of a man believing he still has work to do has left him more muscularly ageless than his peers. Standing alone at the front with his arms wide open, he looks like a prophet or folk singer as he preaches.
Another Brick In the Wall’s problematic sentiments get a fresh coat of shit-stirring paint when a kids’ choir troop on in Guantanamo jumpsuits and black hoods. A teacher friend who’s just spent her week striving to make troubled kids more than bricks in the wall heads to the bar, muttering: “He’s probably going to shoot them.” That thuggish chorus and inappropriate funk whack you anyway.
A rare festival set interval allows time for a red-lit Battersea Power Station backdrop to be raised, and a pig to fly. It’s the week before a Trump-parodying pig flies over London, and Animals’ punk-influenced anger was always ready for such a President. A good time is being had, even before Dark Side side two.
An afternoon supporting cast of seasick steve, Richard ashcroft and squeeze looked on paper like a motley crew. In fact, they all fit. Recent revelations
about Seasick’s massaged hobo past don’t make much difference during the one-string washboard rumble of his upcoming album’s title track, Can U Cook?. His persona may be full of holes, but his sound remains scratchily authentic.
Squeeze’s new songs chime with the headliner, Rough Ride’s angry dismay at Britain’s cruelly wrecked social safety net especially. But it’s Ashcroft who equals Waters for abrasive, autobiographical righteousness. Even the grain of his voice has an ugly scar through its middle, as if wounded along the way. The criminally misunderstood The Drugs Don’t Work remembers his mum’s cancer, right after a heckle from the posh rows has provoked a blazing rant. “Why don’t you go back in the shade?” he sneers. “Who the fuck do you think I am?” His fists are still up as he shadow-boxes off the stage to Bittersweet Symphony, another redemptive anthem about depression which he smuggled into Britpop’s dog days.
Hours later, Roger Waters precedes his final song by wrapping himself in a Palestinian scarf, and reading the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. As with Trump, there will be many who don’t share his politics, or want to hear any politics at all. But anything that prods at modern gigs’ passive meaninglessness has to be good. He concludes with Comfortably Numb’s cry for contact and help. An orchestral surge adds to the song’s majesty, as he soothes ‘a pain you are receiving’, and Dark Side lasers needle the sky. No expense or feeling has been spared. Everyone I see in this huge, finally dark field looks transfixed and moved in individual ways. In this endless high summer, all numbness is gone.
Nick Hasted
THE CURE
Four decades ago, to this exact weekend, a fledgling alternative rock band from the heart of British suburbia played their first show at the Rocket, their local boozer in Crawley. Today The Cure are marking the occasion under the blazing sunshine, surrounded by a crowd ranging from tiny tots in ear defenders with their parents, to middle aged goths who’ve been there from the start, their make-up sliding gently down their faces in the heat. By mid afternoon the atmosphere is already buzzing, thanks to a mixture of the weather, England’s win against Sweden in the World Cup, and the anticipation of the set ahead.
They’re supported by a bill put together under the watchful eye of frontman Robert Smith, some of whom clearly owe them a debt for the direction their own music has taken. Interpol have certainly been touched by the inkier corners of their catalogue, put through a filter of studied New York cool that sees them barely breaking a sweat despite wearing full suits in 29-degree heat. They sound flawless, and while there’s little interaction with the wilting crowd, there’s a clipped, threatening energy to the likes of Evil that’s pleasingly unsettling.
Over at the packed Barclaycard stage, Ride are greeted as returning heroes, again keeping the chitchat to a minimum and concentrating on conjuring hypnotic clouds of shoegaze noise that soothes the soul like a midsummer downpour.
When the Cure play their own shows (and sometimes even at festivals), it’s safe to expect a lengthy set packed with tricky deep cuts, obscure fan favourites and long forgotten curveballs alongside their more celebrated material. But tonight, despite having two and a half hours to play with, they cram in hit after hit at a phenomenal rate, a jaw-dropping reminder and celebration of just how successful and relevant they’ve remained as the decades have passed. It’s the Cure set-list to beat all Cure set-lists, a perfect, joyous mixtape spanning the dizzying highs of their career. And so while some of the old guard may baulk at Friday I’m In Love, the plentiful fans happy enough with radioplay-level knowledge of the band sing and cheer and dance and beam, embracing the pop years the band embarked on when the goth tag became too much to bear, and it’s a gorgeous thing to witness.
The stage set is perfection, giant trees framing the stage, as the opening bars to Plainsong rise and cast their spell over the park, melting into a sublime, twinkling Pictures Of You as Robert Smith raises his hands to block the sun’s rays, squints from beneath his now-grey tangle of hair, and says, “I honestly can’t talk until the sun goes down, it’s taking up all my energy not to dissolve into a pile of dust.”
It’s impossible to take your eyes off him, a beloved cartoon character brought to life, cupping his chin in his hands as the music moves him, twisting
his back with feline abandon, those unique purrs punctuating the music. But it’s far from a one-man show, with bassist Simon Gallup offering a more puppyish sense of fun, the perfect foil for his old comrade.
And still the hits keep coming, In Between Days and Just Like Heaven kicking off the real dancing in the crowd, the stark A Forest and Fascination Street cooling fevered brows, Shake Dog Shake offering a less obvious morsel to devotees.
As the sun sets, the stage set comes alive with projected cobwebs and mood lighting, a subtle enhancement that never overwhelms the chemistry and uniqueness that makes this band so special, the action on stage never outshining the brilliance of the songs themselves. There’s the brassy bounce of Why Can’t I Be You, the teen angst of Boys Don’t Cry, finishing with sublime takes on early masterpieces
10.15 Saturday Night and Killing An Arab, Smith charismatically holding 65,000 people in the palm of his hands. “Forty years ago this weekend was the first time we played as The Cure,” he says. “It was in the Rocket in Crawley. If you’d asked me what I’d be doing in forty years’ time, I’d be wrong.”
As anniversary celebrations go, this show seems unbeatable. Consider that a gauntlet thrown down for their 50th birthday party. emma Johnston
ERIC CLAPTON
As the sun sets over the Great Oak Stage tonight, the sun has also begun setting on Eric Clapton’s long and distinguished career. Over 50-plus years, Clapton has gone from crop-haired Yardbird to flop-haired Journeyman and beyond, from blues-rock shaper to housewives’ choice, from pub back rooms to giant arenas, along the way achieving successes too many to mention. The 73-year-old has nothing left to prove. He might, however, still have some things to learn…
For most relative unknowns, opening the Great Oak Stage bill ahead of three established superstars could be a nerve-shredding experience, but dues-paid soulful Texan blueser gary Clark Jr takes it in his confident stride, looking and sounding to the manor born. With the sun high and the beer queues long, he delivers a compact, impressive set that kicks off with Catfish Blues, breezes through Travis County and closes with Bright Lights, all the while showcasing an appealing livedin voice and a truly delightfully economical, less-is-more guitar-playing style while oozing class and charisma.
The enthusiastic reception is richly deserved.
Sandwiched between the opener and the headliner, first steve Winwood and then Carlos santana each deliver textbook sets, the former and his band nailing it with a dynamic performance strong enough for him to be topping today’s bill.
Right from the off, with the opening one-two of the Spencer Davis Group’s
60s hit I’m A Man and Traffic’s upbeat Pearly Queen, Winwood hits the audience’s sweet spot and keeps them enthralled, with Blind Faith’s bluesy Had To Cry Today, Traffic’s wonderful The Low Spark Of High Heeled Boys and psychedelia-tinged Dear Mr Fantasy and his classy solo hit Higher Love among the many crowd pleasers. Winwood remains one of the greatest singers ever to come out of Britain, and nowhere is his voice more impressive than on irresistible set closer Gimme Some Loving, his growling Hammond organ intro prompting broad smiles, wide eyes and a sea of raised hands clapping and punching the air to the best and most invigorating three and a half minutes of the entire day.
Like Winwood, Carlos Santana knows that if you kick off a support slot with a couple of your best, preferably upbeat, tunes to get the audience on your side, the rest can be a breeze. There’s something about sunshine and a Latin/ Afro rhythm that is thrillingly intoxicating, and Santana’s opening salvo of the irresistible Soul Sacrifice followed by the Afro thump of Jin-Go-Lo-Ba is 100% proof with a cocktail cherry on top. Little wonder that legs that maybe hadn’t shaken in years are compelled to do so and plastic glasses by the thousand are spilling their contents all over the place. The tempo then drops for Evil Ways, the jazzy-flecked A Love Supreme and Santana’s signature Fleetwood Mac cover Black Magic Woman, but the fun-in-the-sun vibe is maintained right through to set closer Love, Peace And Happiness and guitar-set-to-stun encore Toussaint L’Ouverture.
With 50-plus years’ worth of songs to choose from, including a raft of classics from Cream, Blind Faith, Derek And The Dominoes and an extensive solo catalogue, when it comes to putting together a home-run set eric Clapton is spoiled for choice; the hard part should be which must-plays to leave out.
Whether due to a sniffy ‘I’ll play what I want’ or bad judgement, Clapton’s choice of songs is mystifying, his opening trio in particular – Somebody’s Knockin’, Key To The Highway, Hoochie Coochie Man, 10-15 minutes of pedestrian mid-tempo blues that dampens the upbeat atmosphere like a fine drizzle – is as ill-judged as Winwood and Santana’s are inspired. The applause is warm, but you have to wonder how much of that is down to thoughts of ‘I’ve paid a hundred and odd quid for a ticket so I’m damn-well gonna have a good time’. Not a Cream song in sight (unless you count a rather perfunctory rendition of Crossroads), no I Shot The Sheriff, no Forever Man, no Presence Of The Lord… Where are the hits? Where’s the gold?
If it’s not the song, it’s the delivery: an extraordinary number of songs in the set follow the same template of a few verses and choruses/guitar solo/organ solo (Paul Carrack)/piano solo (Chris Stainton)/second guitar solo (Doyle Bramhall II).
Just when probably everyone in the 63,000-strong audience is thinking it’s high time Clapton and co. shifted gear and burned some gas, it’s out with the
acoustic for a stripped-down, down-tempo shuffle version of Layla, followed by Tears In Heaven. Lay
Down Sally picks up the pace, but it isn’t long before Wonderful Tonight (the slowest ever Top 10 single, fact fans) ends a brief opportunity for dancing, before the band chop out Cocaine and give the audience the lift they should have been given an hour or more ago.
By the time Carlos Santana joins Clapton for final song High Time We Went, it’s clear that many of the audience are thinking just that, and are hurrying up Park Lane headed for home. Slowhand (and that nickname is now more fitting than it ever was) might still be around, but God has most certainly left the building. paul Henderson
PAUL SIMON
Paul Simon has chosen to retire from live performance with a mammoth farewell tour. While the 76-year-old New Yorker seems a little vague about his future plans, and reportedly still intends to make music, he insists this will be his final global jaunt. But as he headlines the closing night of this year’s BST season under sweltering sunshine, the mood is more euphoric than elegiac. After half a century on the road, Simon is an Old Master at this stuff, effortlessly entrancing 60,000 people with meticulous folk-pop craftsmanship rather than rock-star bombast.
It is an Americana-heavy bill in Hyde Park today, with fellow baby boomer icons Bonnie Raitt and James taylor opening for Simon. Radiating a breezy confidence that belies her recent emergency surgery, 68-year-old Raitt plays a concise, coversheavy set that spices honky-tonk heartbreak with barbed comments about Donald Trump. And while her feminised take on INXS’s raunchy funkrocker Need You Tonight is a bit ungainly, her gallop through Talking Heads classic Burning Down The House goes down a storm, and her acoustic reading of John Prine’s Angel From Montgomery is a thing of fragile beauty.
James taylor builds on the afternoon’s laid-back sunshine vibe with his hourlong set, even if his rootsy jukebox pick-and-mix leans a little too far into mellow easy listening. Taylor picks gingerly through Carole King’s You’ve Got A Friend and his own Fire And Rain, a wistful paean to absent friends whose world-weary message carries more weight from a 70-year-old than it did from the 21-year-old who wrote it. Taylor also has a quietly furious antiTrump message to share. “There is another America,” he reassures the cheering crowd. “It has a soul… and it will return.”
Bathed in blinding evening sunlight, paul simon does not look like a man on the brink of retirement.
His receding hair may be wispy and ashen, but he still has a boyish spring in his step at 76, and he martials his 15-strong band with the steely perfectionism that has sustained his long career. He even attempts a few fleet-footed Zydeco dance steps during this Springsteen-sized marathon show, which packs almost 30 songs into two and a half hours. Remarkably, there is scarcely a duff track among them. Pure gold.
Simon is backed by a virtuoso, multi-national collective drawn from his pan-global projects over the years. His contentious but hugely successful Afropop fusion album Graceland provides some of the show’s most euphoric peaks, The Boy In The Bubble and You Can Call Me Al sweeping the crowd to their feet with their relentless rhythmic pulses and sparkling guitar lines. These world music landmarks have endured partly because they were never reverential exercises in anthropology. More cross-cultural conversations than cultural appropriations, they playfully trace the shared ancestry between African and American roots music without erasing their author’s own quirky conversational tone. As he freewheels through Brazilian percussion, doowop, blues, gospel and scat jazz, the vast terrain that the insatiably curious Simon has covered since his Greenwich village coffee-shop folkie days is impressive.
Simon’s work rate has slowed in recent decades, but he is still one of very few major artists who continues to experiment well into his sixties and seventies, embracing fresh sonic textures with left-field collaborators like Brian Eno. One of many highlights tonight is his 2016 single Wristband, a jazzy finger-snapper with a wry comic lyric that packs a sly political punch. A selection of chamber-orchestra tracks backed by the New York avant-classical sextet yMusic also stand out, especially the surreal 1983 curio Rene And Georgette Magritte With Their Dog
After the War.
But of course, it is the vintage Simon and Garfunkel songbook that strikes the deepest chord with most of the Hyde Park crowd. Simon scatters these ancient folk hymns throughout the set, opening with a graceful tumble through the wide-eyed beatnik anthem America before dropping Bridge Over Troubled Water midway through the show. This sumptuous re-arrangement contains more hard-won, heartbruised wisdom than the pristine choirboy original.
Simon saves most of these snapshots of a lost America for his hushed, austere, fingerpicking encore. Homeward
Bound unspools against a nostalgic photo-montage of the singer’s youthful career which includes approximately two fleeting images of Art Garfunkel. Some wounds, it seems, time cannot heal. He ends with a quietly majestic The Sound
Of Silence, understated yet burning with emotional intensity. Thus the sombre chart-topper that launched his musical journey half a century ago becomes its autumnal coda. There is a graceful symmetry at work here. Typical Paul Simon perfectionism, making sure the last line of his long career rhymes with the first.
stephen Dalton All photos: Kevin Nixon