TIM DE LISLE
Julian Lennon Jude
Out Friday
Gary Barlow A Different Stage
The Duke Of York’s
Theatre, London
Until Sept 25, touring until Nov 20
Never mind policemen getting younger: you know your youth is slipping away when you see pop stars’ children growing old. Next year Julian Lennon will be 60.
He was born in April 1963, three days before The Beatles released From Me To You, their first UK No1. So John Lennon became a father at the same time that he was becoming world famous. He was, by all accounts, better at coping with the fame.
Julian, now nearly 20 years older than John ever was, has yet to become a father himself. ‘I’m not ready,’ he said in 2011. ‘I want to know who I am first.’ This album, his seventh in all and his first since then, is the sound of a man who has finally answered that question.
The title is a single syllable that speaks volumes. When he was five, Julian inspired Paul McCartney to write Hey Jude, which began life as Hey Jules. The idea came to Paul when he was driving from London to Surrey to see Julian and his mother Cynthia, after John had left them for Yoko Ono.
By calling this record Jude, Julian is making a statement about his heritage, saying he can carry that weight. As soon as you put the album on, the music confirms it. Song after song could only have been made by a Lennon (or, at a pinch, a Gallagher).
Julian has always had his father’s voice, a softer version of those no-nonsense nasal tones. Now, with the help of various coauthors, he’s writing like John too: big, simple, slow-medium pop songs, making crystal-clear points. ‘Save me,’ he sings at the very beginning of Jude.
‘Dreams,’ he declares later, ‘are real.’ The line forms a trilogy with two of John’s famous observations: ‘Love is real’ from Love, and ‘Nothing is real’ from Strawberry Fields Forever. Some of the melodies on Jude are a little obvious, some of the production too glossy, but it exudes craftsmanship and the middle eights alone are a treat.
That distinctive Lennon directness, made to chime with a piano motif, ensures that you feel what Julian is feeling. He leaves you hoping that he’ll go on tour and place these songs shoulder to shoulder with his dad’s solo anthems. The audience would love it.
If there was an award for the chattiest person in pop, it would have been won many times by Gary Barlow from Take That.
To prove it, he is now putting on a one-man show that is about two-thirds words and only one third music. Jokey and homely, A Different Stage could have come straight from the Edinburgh Fringe, except that it’s two hours long, not one.
Barlow brings along 15 packing cases, two synthesisers, one piano and a bundle of energy. As he tells his life story, he dwells more on the setbacks and sorrows than the successes. A mellow 51, he manages to be amusing but also affecting about his bulimia, and tear-jerking but also uplifting about the loss of his fourth child, Poppy, who was stillborn.
While saying little about his wife, Dawn, he pays loving tribute to his parents, who are sketched with vivid warmth. ‘This may look like an organ,’ he says of the second keyboard they gave him, ‘but to me it will always be three years’ overtime.’
There isn’t quite enough music but what there is has impact, from a cheesy blast of Copacabana to the wistful elegance of the title track. Nobody can get a clapalong going faster than Barlow and Take That’s fans. This endearing show will run and run.