Golden Oldies Rachel Johnson
DONOVAN’S COMEBACK
The last time I graced the Cadogan Hall in Chelsea was for Bernard-henri Lévy’s unusual one-man show against Brexit. BHL, the plunging-shirted French philosophe, disrobed and clambered into a bath on stage in a bid to dissuade UK – ‘the brain and beating heart of Europe’ – from leaving the EU.
In October, it was Donovan’s turn, delayed from March, to take the stage to perform not ablutions but his back catalogue of mid-sixties hits. The socially distanced pensioner audience exhaled through their masks with relief when he announced, ‘Well, we finally made it – I’m going to sing a few songs from the first albums.’ At least we wouldn’t have to endure the dreaded ‘new material’ from the old boy.
It was my first live gig of the year, and my expectations, though low, were never exceeded. I went with Tim de Lisle, the rock critic of the Mail on Sunday, who told me he’d go to anything live, such was his desperation to go to concerts and do his job. ‘The one to beat in 2020 is still Rick Astley at Knebworth,’ he said glumly as we took our seats.
When Donovan was escorted on stage, I couldn’t help but gasp. ‘That old geezer can’t be Donovan!’ I hissed to Tim. And he is ‘only’ 74.
He had long, white hair in a crimped mullet, black jeans and a maroon shirt. He strummed his guitar, accompanied by a tuneful, pleasant voice. He reprised his handful of solid hits – Hurdy Gurdy Man, Season of the Witch, Sunshine Superman and Mellow Yellow – in a quavery but strong voice, so nobody in the 100-strong audience who’d held on to their tickets since the spring could be short-changed.
Oddly, the evening – well, the gig actually started at the unwitching hour of 4.30pm so he could go round again – almost came alive when he told tales of jamming with Paul Mccartney in 1965 on a Sunday in the Edgware Road.
Paul had rung the doorbell, having left his Aston Martin on the kerb with the door open and the radio on, and barged into Don’s flat: he was two lines short for a ‘children’s song’ he was writing. And so it was that a star-struck copper reparked the Aston Martin, and Donovan came up with ‘sky of blue and sea of green, in my yellow submarine’ for the Beatle. ‘I didn’t believe that story when I remembered it myself,’ he said with a chuckle.
Though tuneful and pleasant, the gig felt more like a thé dansant in a care home without the dancing or, indeed, the tea. Not one of the songs was worth the price of admission.
Beggars can’t be choosers, I know, but, on reflection, BHL in the bath was the bigger splash.