Park life: Rolling Stones & Eagles at British Summer Time

© Simon Poulter 2022

If there’s one thing about the Rolling Stones that remains unfathomable, it’s not that they’re still going after 60 years - there are plenty of “legacy” acts doing that - or that the loss of three original members hasn’t prevented them continuing. No, it’s that, simply, they can still put on a rock and roll show like nobody else. Literally, no one else.

That might sound hyperbolic (Mick Jagger told Rolling Stone magazine in 1995 that he found the “greatest rock and roll band in the world” epithet “stupid”). But the unassailable truth is that, simply, they still are. In Hyde Park on Saturday - two weeks shy of the 60th anniversary of their debut gig and almost exactly 53 years since they played the same park for free in front of half a million hippies) - the evidence was compelling, from start to flamboyantly pyrotechnic finish.

Picture: Twitter/Rolling Stones

Opening with Street Fighting Man, it was clear that Jagger, Keith Richards and Ronnie Wood - with a combined age of 231 - were still in the fight (despite the loss last year of drummer Charlie Watts, the band’s sheet anchor). This show, their first of two headline appearances at this year’s British Summer Time events, wasn’t going to be a gentle stroll through wistful recollections of their formative years, but a rollicking, two-hour romp through what the Stones do so well. 

For all their reputation as the ’70s’ louchest band, there was plenty of the intricate beat pop that evolved them from being a purely British blues boom outfit, with sprightly renditions of 19th Nervous Breakdown and She’s A Rainbow, Tumbling Dice and You Can’t Always Get What You Want harking back to their industrious origins, plying the music clubs of London, including that famous first gig at the Marquee on 12 July 1962 (an anniversary Jagger happily reminded Hyde Park of).

With an 80-year-old Paul McCartney headlining on the same evening down at Worthy Farm, Saturday provided a valiant night for the oldies. Twitter, inevitably and depressingly, erupted into a minor culture war, with the knuckleheads calling for a compulsory retirement age for rock stars, and those - like me - simply revelling in the joy of seeing proper legends like Macca and the Stones still able to give electrifying performances, the very thing that founded their existence to begin with.

There was no pretentious, sidelining to focus on obscure album tracks. This was the Rolling Stones everyone assembled wanted: a breathless Can’t You Hear Me Knocking?, Honky Tonk Women, Miss You and Midnight Rambler - one slammer after another. Even the 2020 lockdown single Living In A Ghost Town demonstrated that the Glimmer Twins still have a catchy bit of contemporary rock up their sleeves. But that song, and 1981’s Start Me Up aside, you could easily think that this was the Rolling Stones of 50 years ago, in their Nellcôte swagger, the Stones of Exile On Main Street and Let It Bleed, not a group with three elder gentlemen at their core (and the delightfully, bonkers cackling Richards having turned merrily into rock music’s own Rowley Birkin QC). 

And here is the remarkable thing: plenty of the negative comments about McCartney’s Glastonbury set reflected on his voice struggling a little (give the guy a break - he’s 80!), but Jagger, in particular, parades elastically about the stage no differently now at 78 than he did at 28. Nor has the voice suffered. In fact, musically, this Stones show was technically brilliant, the sound booming out crystal clear over Hyde Park. 

As they reached for the finale, with the obligatory Jumping Jack Flash, a mesmeric Sympathy For The Devil, and (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction to end with, you were reminded - for the fifth time in my life - that you had just witnessed something that, as I stated in the opening of this post, literally no-one else can do.

To the following evening, then, and back to Hyde Park for a continuation of the heritage trail with a billing of Robert Plant (with Alison Krauss) opening for the Eagles. Plant has settled nicely into his groove as custodian of a form of Americana that is neither country or ‘world music’, but which evokes an Appalachian vibe log cabins in smokey remote valleys. Well, that’s at least what wafted across the vast open expanse of Hyde Park as Plant appropriately performed on the Great Oak Stage. 

In fact, the Midlander was the only Brit on stage, with a band exclusively drawn from the four corners of the US provinces, providing the early evening crowd with extracts from the Plant/Krauss albums Raising Sand and Raise The Roof (including the Plant/Jimmy Page composition Please Read The Letter and a couple of Everly Brothers covers), as well as richly devoured reinterpretations of Led Zeppelin’s Rock And Roll, When The Levee Breaks and The Battle Of Evermore.

In Plant was another reminder of an undisputed ’70s behemoth still making epic statements, though clearly without the gargantuan bombast of his once former band. His approach with Krauss these days is somewhat understated, that Valhalla scream of his lowered by an octave or two. But it’s worthy music, and in Hyde Park, providing an unspoken bridge to the main draw.

Picture: Twitter/British Summer Time

When they emerged from the LA canyon scene in the early 1970s, the Eagles were part of that city’s  wider collage as rock central. Down on the Sunset Strip, where Zeppelin’s John Bonham rode motorbikes up and down corridors of the ‘Riot House’ hotel (the Hyatt), you had the Troubadour, where future Eagles Glenn Frey, Don Henley and their friend Jackson Brown hung out with The Byrds and Linda Ronstadt, and worked their way into a scene that was, to quote Donny Osmond, a little bit country, a little bit rock and roll. But it was London where it all came together: Frey had wanted their debut album to be recorded by Glyn Johns, who’d produced albums for the Rolling Stones, The Who and Led Zeppelin, so in the freezing cold of February 1972, the perennial West Coasters set up shop at Olympic Studios in Barnes. It wasn’t, by all accounts, a happy experience, with Johns having one view of the band’s direction, and Frey and Henley having another. And, as Henley will recount to the Hyde Park crowd, Britain was in the midst of a coal strike, so the power to the studio would frequently cut out.

51 years later and the Eagles have been through countless changes of personnel, and have broken up and reformed. Six years ago they lost Frey, leaving the idea of any sort of continuation a little bit moot (rock’s legacy circus is now full of bands missing their original members, to such extent that some resemble Trigger’s Broom). Smartly, though, the Eagles brought in American country legend Vince Gill, who on last night’s evidence, has slotted perfectly into the vocal space vacated by Frey’s tragic death at the age of 67. The core line-up continues to be staffed by Henley, bassist Timothy B. Schmitt and the livewire guitarist Joe Walsh, along with a phalanx of supporting musicians, who last night blew through a 23-song set of their five decades, spanning the countryfied, harmonised vocals of that first album, through to the edgier, bluesy rock hinged on Walsh’s slide guitar.

I saw the Eagles a few years ago at Madison Square Garden in what was a clear attempt to tell the story of their career through each song. There was even a little gentle engagement with the audience. But not here. Instead, it was businesslike, with brief pauses between songs only occasionally broken by one of Henley, Schmitt or Walsh (in his slightly incomprehensible drawl) making proclamations to the crowd. “So, this is British Summer Time,” Henley said at one point. “In case we don’t pass this way again, I want to thank you all for embracing these songs, taking them into your hearts and your homes – we appreciate it,”. Woah - “in case we don’t pass this way again”…?

Picture: Twitter/British Summer Time

If this was, then, to be the last time a British audience experienced this most storied of American megabands, then it certainly got its money’s worth. One Of These Nights, New Kid In Town, Witchy Woman, Take It To The Limit, Lyin’ Eyes, Tequila Sunrise, Best Of My Love, Peaceful Easy Feeling, Take It Easy - they kept on coming. As did the solo hits - Henley’s Boys Of Summer and Walsh’s autobiographical and highly ironic Life’s Been Good. There were more Eagles live highlights - the James Gang cover Funk #49, Heartache Tonight, Life In The Fast Lane, Walsh’s Rocky Mountain Way and Desperado. And, of course, the song probably 90% of the crowd had come for, Hotel California.

Just like the Rolling Stones the night before, it was all technically pristine. Sometimes when you write that about a live performance you make it sound sterile, but while personality-wise the Eagles come across as a little cold, the music was anything but. They can rock out, but it’s with a sense of arch control. Perhaps the one wild card of the night came at the end, with a performance of Already Gone, at which they were joined on stage - bizarrely, now I think of it - by one John McEnroe. Obviously in town for Wimbledon (and to visit his mate Boris Becker in pokey), it was hard to tell what contribution the once Superbrat of tennis made to proceedings, other than to render the audience slightly agog at the somewhat random sight of him mingling with one of rock’s most carefully considered supergroups.

This had been the weekend that sparked the perennial debate over ‘how old is too old’?. As someone nearing his 56th year, I’m of the “age is just a number” fraternity. Yes, it’s sad to see your musical heroes getting old (my review of Phil Collins’ last hurrah with Genesis back in February will serve testament to that), but I can genuinely say that between the Rolling Stones (and Macca at Glasto) on Saturday night, and Robert Plant and the Eagles last night, the law of diminishing returns was proven wrong. My motivation for buying the Stones tickets to begin with was that no one can tell how long they’ll go on for (age and diminishing health didn’t defeat the blues greats like BB King and John Lee Hooker towards their ends). And as Don Henley appeared to confirm, there was every chance that this would be the last time the Eagles would play the very city where their recorded career began. Take It To The Limit (one last time) may have been the most fitting sentiment of the entire weekend.

Parklife

Picture: Twitter/British Summer Time

It was one of those days when it was peculiarly fun to be British. Or English. Or something between the two. The middle Sunday in July, with events conspiring to schedule the Cricket World Cup Final between England and New Zealand at Lord's, the British Grand Prix at Silverstone and the Wimbledon Men’s Final on the same afternoon as the last of six British Summer Time events in London's Hyde Park. For there, 65,000 people - with a notable skew towards women - convened for a guiltiest-of-pleasure line-up consisting of Feeder, Texas, Keane and the Black Eyed Peas on the main stage, leading up to the headline act of one Robert Peter Williams, a "singer-songwriter and entertainer" (so says Wikipedia) from Stoke-on-Trent. 

Being peak Britain, peak British summer, the crowd was largely good natured and progressively sozzled as the extended afternoon's drinking bore on. With no football to cheer on, some male sections of the crowd attempted a chorus of "Cricket's coming home" as news of England's victory just over a mile away in St. John's Wood came through. For others, it was a bonding experience. Mother-and-daughter combos - one couple wearing T-shirts identifying themselves as such - worked their way through bottles of rosé, others daringly sank pints. No surprise that, by the end of the evening husbands were doing sterling work holding some wives upright.

It was, however, enormous fun. This year's British Summer Time line-up has been low on edge and high on entertainment. Over two weekends Hyde Park has hosted headliners Celine Dion, Stevie Wonder with Lionel Ritchie, Barbra Streisand, Neil Young and Bob Dylan, and, last night, Williams, with Saturday night's Florence + The Machine arguably this year's most left field entry. But here lies a point: whether Streisand is your thing or Dylan, the chance to commune with your like-minded music fan is what this sort of thing is all about. I've long admired Glastonbury for the same thing: it's not just or even necessarily about the artistic eclecticism of grooving to pure pop, heavy rock, hip-hop or folk in the same afternoon, it's about the shared experience of having a good time. Music snobbery is left at the gate.

Which will bring me, in a moment, to Williams. Building up to his arrival, Feeder, Texas and Keane did sterling work warming up the crowd. As is often the case at these shows, it's a slowburn thing - many were still queuing for pizza when Feeder played their set, while Sharleen Spiteri (whom I discovered is four days older than me) and band created a pleasing wedding party singalong vibe with feelgood hits like the disco Let's Work It Out, I Don't Want A Lover, Black Eyed Boy and Say What You Want. Keane, often dismissed as being somewhat fey, were anything but, though the contrast between frontman Tom Chaplin's credentials and, say, a Liam Gallagher barely needs highlighting when the singer from the charming Sussex parish of Battle asks if anyone knows the cricket score. Theirs is, like Texas, a crowdpleasing set, prompting the audience half already crammed in front of the Great Oak stage to sway their arms and groove gently to proper festival sing-songs like This Is The Last Time, Everybody's Changing, Bedshaped, Is It Any Wonder? and Somewhere Only We Know. 

I'll confess, of the entire day's line-up, Black Eyed Peas interested me the least. I've seen them before - in Paris, no less - and while their on-stage energy is relentless, their music leaves me somewhat unmoved. That's not meant to be curmudgeonly, just a statement that, even at a pop-driven show like this one, there are different branches of the church that will.i.am, apl.de.ap and Taboo preach at. That, though, thankfully doesn't prevent the crowd getting into pre-Williams mode with some now well-oiled frugging to the likes of Let's Get It Started, Rock That Body, Hey Mama, Just Can't Get Enough, Don't Stop the Party and Where Is the Love?. Half the fun of these outdoor megagigs is people watching, and by 6.30 in the evening there are plenty of people to watch, especially those for whom the well organised refreshment facilities have enabled conversations to open up between random groups of people. The mother and daughter, for example, in front of us who were having a whale of time gabbing away with the lesbian couple who just happened to be parked on the grass next to them.

If there had been any doubt, however, as to who everyone had come to see, the Hyde Park engine stepped up several gears with the arrival of the main event, the main act: Williams. I'd hardly call myself a fan on the same scale as many around us, but the outset of Williams' solo career and his collaborations with Guy Chambers in particular, stood him out from the crowd. Take That did nothing for me, but the infectious Williams/Chambers partnership came closest to the naturally appealing pop-rock that Elton John and Bernie Taupin used to craft. And then Williams went a little LA. He still is, but here in Hyde Park we had a front row seat (well, metaphorically speaking, seeing as my other half and I were occupying a patch of turf some way to the back) on a unique entertainer. Yes, entertainer. That might conjure up some ITV Saturday night game show host who sings a bit, but Williams is blessed with charisma, and a great voice, too. Now, I know you might think I'm now selling out my rock cred, but there is a degree of perfection about Let Me Entertain You, the obvious set opener (even if it does still whiff a bit of The Who). There is also that schoolboy cheek that, even at 45 years old, Williams shows off with every opportunity, from his trademark opening, "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Robbie 'Fucking' Williams", to the roaring amusement of everyone in the crowd. Before he'd even arrived, he'd fanfare himself with The National Anthem Of Robbie Williams, containing the self-depreciation of "Yes he went to rehab, drugs and drink took him low, but would still make Rudebox and gave rap a go".

Parts of the show reminded me of those Seaside Special summer TV extravaganzas from the 1970s, where various light entertainers - some, probably, now doing time - would introduce Showaddywaddy or The Three Degrees, along with The Dad's Army cast from a carpark in Torquay. Thus, the lovely Leslie from Scotland was scooped up out of the crowd and onto a red sofa for Williams to loon around, serenading her with Something Stupid. A man with 'Gay Best Friend' on the front of his T-shirt is singled out for a partially reworked She's The One. And in another Williams concert staple, his pub-singing crooner dad Pete is brought out for a duet of Sweet Caroline, eliciting maximum audience participation on the "bap-bap-BAH!" brass parts.

Millennium, featuring John Barry's gorgeous, sweeping string arrangement from his theme to You Only Live Twice, takes us back to that period of Williams' career when he could get away with anything, including a Bond-themed video, followed by another strong item from the I've Been Expecting You album, the glorious No Regrets, Williams' cathartic flushing of the Take That experience, co-written with Neils Tennant and Hannon. By now, Williams could be doing Three Blind Mice and the crowd would not complain. In fact, the crowd would probably encourage him to sing it, just for laughs. And he would oblige. 

Williams seemingly can get away with it. Covers of Wilson Pickett's Land Of 1000 Dances, Queen's We Will Rock You and the intro riffs of AC/DC's Back In Black on the front end of Kids simply add to the vaudeville. By the time we get to the inevitable ending, Angels (introduced by "I wouldn't go without doing 'the hit'"), Williams has the 65,000 eating out of his hands. It is also this point of the evening, I'd been warned, that he takes something of a liberty with the paying audience by letting them do some of the heavy lifting. No one complains though. Angels is that beautiful piece of anthemic communion that even the hardest-hearted would find difficult to resist a pub-style "...and throo it ALL...!!!!". 

We are now, at this point, near the end. For some, a long journey home without access to public amenities is going to be a very clear challenge. Others are stopped in their tracks heading for the exits when they realise Angels, and the group stage bow thereafter, isn't the end of it. There's just one more, Williams with Chambers on keyboards doing Sinatra's My Way. Somehow, it was the song Robbie Williams was born to sing, not just to lovingly recreate his dad's pub singing act, but to bathe in the many ironies of Paul Anka's original lyrics. Worth it, down to the very last drop.