There’s a point in ELO’s ‘Turn To Stone’ where Jeff Lynne does a proto-rap. “Yes, I’m turnin’ to stone ‘cos you ain’t comin’ home / Why you ain’t comin’ home if I’m turnin’ to stone / You’ve been gone for so long and I can’t carry on / Yes, I’m turnin’, I’m turnin’, I’m turnin’ to stone”, it goes. A second after performing this in Hyde Park last Sunday, Lynne looked to the crowd, mouth agape, as if to say ‘I’m amazed that went so well’. It would be fair to say, this was Jeff’s reaction to the whole occasion.
This was Radio 2′s ‘Festival In A Day’ – a gathering of listener-friendly acts, various presenters and a sell-out crowd of 50,000. Although, in truth, it was actually the return of ELO to the live stage – everything else being aperitifs and window-dressing.
I arrived shortly after Chrissie Hynde’s opening set (thanks to the mismanagement of London Underground’s engineering works), so the first performance I caught came from Bellowhead. Although very successful in recent years, being on the undercard doesn’t really suit them – particularly when limited to half a dozen numbers. A Bellowhead set is all about a bounce-around, rough-edged, folk party. A decent party takes time to get going and that was a luxury the band were denied.
Radio 2′s determination to put their stamp on the day endured no such restrictions. “Please welcome to the stage, Jo Whiley and Clare Teal!” bellowed Alan Dedicoat from the ether, shortly after Bellowhead’s exit. Barely a murmur emerged from the 50,000, well into their picnics by now. And therein lay the problem. The BBC misjudged the audience’s motivations as surely as TFL misjudged the closure of the Northern Line. The production team clearly imagined most people were there to celebrate their radio station. They weren’t. Almost without exception, everyone was there to see and hear Jeff Lynne for the first time in at least 28 years. Unfortunate, because when Ken Bruce popped up somewhere between Paloma Faith and Blondie, to give us an in-situ round of his ‘Pop Master’ quiz, it was so excruciatingly poor, the park’s turf was ruined by half a million curling toes.
Anyway, on skipped Whiley and Teal to announce Gregory Porter. I’m not overly familiar with Porter’s work, but I do know he was once an professional American Football player, and is now releasing records which enjoy healthy rotation on daytime Radio 2. Good luck to him, but I won’t be expanding my exposure or familiarity any time soon. If tuneless, meandering jazz and predictable late-night soul covers are your bag, then Porter’s your man. He’s certainly not mine.
At these outdoor bashes, the resetting of the stage provides a few minutes for a leisurely stroll, drinks and a wee. My return to my blanket on the ground coincided with Whiley time. Again. For some unspecified reason, Jo W had been handed responsibility for accompanying a Radio 2 colleague as they introduced each artist. I’ve never been very sure why it’s necessary to have MCs at these affairs. Rural festivals always hire some cheese-voiced local radio jock; at bigger gigs it’ll be a TV comedian or somesuch. At least The Clash had the pleasingly maniacal Kosmo Vinyl, we had to suffer Jo and her friends ceaselessly asking “How you doing Hyde Park?” or suggesting we ‘make some noise’. This time round, her pal was the venerable Bob Harris, strangely plugging an upcoming broadcast featuring Sheryl Crow, before introducing Kacey Musgraves.
Heading up a commercial path cleared by Taylor Swift, Musgraves is a bona-fide country pop star. The looks, the Texan twang and the oversized acoustic guitar are all in place. Never drops a note, songs nicely crafted and delivered with panache, she’ll be a massive success. Slightly safe and antiseptic? You betcha.
It was Paloma Faith who had a problem. We could hear her perfectly (the sound engineering was superb throughout the day), but she couldn’t hear her band. In an unsubtle attempt to signal this to the monitor crew, she told us she had given her opening songs over nothing more than the drum track. Which was either daft or brave, because she sounded just grand out front.
Faith’s eccentric glamour is a very satisfying proposition. But, like Bellowhead, the complete Paloma experience demands a full show. Nevertheless, she gave an entertaining account of herself over a brief appearance, failing equipment notwithstanding. I’d guess we enjoyed her set more than she did.
Trevor Nelson was the warm-up man for Billy Ocean. Not generally, you understand, just for this show. And another BBC faux-pas this proved to be. Just as we’d become accustomed to Whiley’s over-excited introductions, we were forced to tolerate Trevor actually DJ-ing for 20 minutes. What the appeal of a grinning man playing CDs on a massive stage is intended to be, I can only guess. It was lost on me (and thousands of others). Happily, before Trev attracted a hail of half-chewed scotch eggs, and halfway through ‘Return Of The Mack’, he jumped in to do his big announcement. Ridiculously big. When one thinks of soul artists who are the bedrock of the genre, inspiring generation after generation, Stevie Wonder or Al Green may reasonably spring to mind. Billy Ocean? Not so much. Not even for Trevor Nelson, I suspect. Still, Billy gave us his big hits with gusto, in an expensive-looking white suit. Filler, but very slick filler.
Then, in the gathering dusk, Hyde Park and its temporary citizens, began to stir. To be honest, the preceding activities had taken place in a mood on the sleepy side of relaxed. Now, the prospect of Blondie was mixing a bit of adrenalin into the overpriced beer.
Blondie are a draw, no doubt about it. People who adored them at their peak, adore them still – and it’s unthinkable the band would receive an indifferent reaction anywhere in Britain. Objectively speaking, they don’t set the stage alight. Clem Burke is still one of the world’s great drummers and enormously exciting to watch, but Debbie and Chris show their age and are a little more sedate. Not that we want Harry and Stein to career around the place in an undignified frenzy – with such a songbook, what they actually do is somewhat academic. ‘Heart Of Glass’, ‘Call Me’, ‘Atomic’ and ‘Union City Blue’ are such addictively accomplished pop records, just hearing them played live is sufficient to bring on an irresistible reverie. Even a couple of new tunes did nothing to sabotage the enjoyment. What nobody needed was a three minute film on the jumbo screens, telling us who Blondie are. Particularly one that describes them as an ‘American punk band’. There are times when BBC producers need go to their rooms and have a long think.
By the time we’ve cringed our way through a big-screened, Jo Whiley interview with Debbie Harry (sample question: “How was that for you?”), there’s a palpable, shuffling anticipation about the place. Darkness has transformed the arena’s atmosphere, and the approach of a bearded man from Birmingham suddenly has everyone agitated.
Patience is a virtue, they say. It certainly is if you’re an ELO fan. Not only has the wait for Jeff Lynne’s return taken up the best part of three decades, his arrival on a breezily warm London evening is delayed by a few minutes by a lighting failure. Chris Evans, on introduction duty, does his best to fill: “You don’t want Mister Red Sky do you?”, then the PA plays a track each from The Kinks and Hot Chocolate.
Suddenly, and to a hearty cheer, the screens flare into action and, oh dear, here’s a three minute video to tell us who ELO are. Yes, I know. Everybody knows.
Another heavily pregnant pause, the taller trees swaying gently and a Heathrow bound plane sloping across the sky. And here he is. Jeff Lynne is too modest to do that thing where the front-man comes on 30 seconds after the rest of the group, but so welcome is his appearance very few people notice the band and the BBC Concert Orchestra taking their spots around him. It’s all eyes on Jeff, who gives a cheery wave and heads straight into ‘All Over The World’. It’s immaculate. Not that opening number specifically, but the whole package. An enormous animated planet Earth rolls away on the screen at the rear of the stage. The orchestra saw away with vigour and precision, white and orange beams swoop over the crowd and above the park; and in the middle of it all, stands a bloke in a white dress shirt and dark suit, his trademarks present and correct. The bushy auburn hair is only moderately thinner than it was (and perhaps the colour has been given a helping hand); the beard trimmed and glossy, and the aviator shades more recognisable than their owner’s face.
Ask anybody who knows the music business and they’ll tell you: Jeff Lynne is one the most unassuming and clubbable rock stars you’d ever wish to meet. With three successful bands (The Move, ELO and The Travelling Wilburys) and a Beatles producer credit on his CV, he’d be forgiven a slight swagger, but there’s no sign of it. When he tells us it’s ‘amazing’ to be standing there, we believe him. When he says “We’ll have to do this again!” everyone crosses their fingers.
I’d love to shock you and say the rest of the set was made up of obscure album tracks and ‘new stuff’. Then dissect and debate as to whether this was artistically courageous or daylight robbery – but that didn’t happen. Of course it didn’t. Jeff Lynne has worked in showbiz long enough to know what his audience expects – and has no intention of disappointing. Other than The Wilburys’ ‘Handle With Care’ and a non-single from ‘Out Of The Blue’, there are no left turns. ‘Evil Woman’, ‘Sweet Talkin’ Woman’, ‘Telephone Line’, ‘Rock And Roll Is King’ and ‘Mister Blue Sky’ – they’re all here, sounding as full and dramatic as they should. On the screen, the ELO spaceship glides through space, while a park load of parents and portly old rock fans urge on the man they took to their hearts many years before. As 90 minutes of genuine affection and emotional goodwill ricochet around, jiving breaks out and tears are shed, until the echoes of a rollicking ‘Roll Over Beethoven’ send us back into the city.
Cynics may point out that this wasn’t ELO. Jeff and Richard Tandy (taking the part of musical director and looking like a wealthy tax accountant) were the only original members playing, and legalities insist this is ‘Jeff Lynne’s ELO’. They may also suggest the whole set was a little too much like the records, with scant room for improvisation or invention. But this wasn’t a night for cynicism.
True, Jeff Lynne didn’t transform popular music. That was never his remit. He wasn’t the first person to use orchestral arrangements on rock records. He doesn’t claim to be. His songs often sound perilously close to late period Beatles, and yet he is the master of his brief. And his brief is to write, record and occasionally perform celebratory music that asks nothing more than you feel happier for a while. He does that brilliantly. Yes, we really must do this again.
This was Radio 2′s ‘Festival In A Day’ – a gathering of listener-friendly acts, various presenters and a sell-out crowd of 50,000. Although, in truth, it was actually the return of ELO to the live stage – everything else being aperitifs and window-dressing.
I arrived shortly after Chrissie Hynde’s opening set (thanks to the mismanagement of London Underground’s engineering works), so the first performance I caught came from Bellowhead. Although very successful in recent years, being on the undercard doesn’t really suit them – particularly when limited to half a dozen numbers. A Bellowhead set is all about a bounce-around, rough-edged, folk party. A decent party takes time to get going and that was a luxury the band were denied.
Radio 2′s determination to put their stamp on the day endured no such restrictions. “Please welcome to the stage, Jo Whiley and Clare Teal!” bellowed Alan Dedicoat from the ether, shortly after Bellowhead’s exit. Barely a murmur emerged from the 50,000, well into their picnics by now. And therein lay the problem. The BBC misjudged the audience’s motivations as surely as TFL misjudged the closure of the Northern Line. The production team clearly imagined most people were there to celebrate their radio station. They weren’t. Almost without exception, everyone was there to see and hear Jeff Lynne for the first time in at least 28 years. Unfortunate, because when Ken Bruce popped up somewhere between Paloma Faith and Blondie, to give us an in-situ round of his ‘Pop Master’ quiz, it was so excruciatingly poor, the park’s turf was ruined by half a million curling toes.
Anyway, on skipped Whiley and Teal to announce Gregory Porter. I’m not overly familiar with Porter’s work, but I do know he was once an professional American Football player, and is now releasing records which enjoy healthy rotation on daytime Radio 2. Good luck to him, but I won’t be expanding my exposure or familiarity any time soon. If tuneless, meandering jazz and predictable late-night soul covers are your bag, then Porter’s your man. He’s certainly not mine.
At these outdoor bashes, the resetting of the stage provides a few minutes for a leisurely stroll, drinks and a wee. My return to my blanket on the ground coincided with Whiley time. Again. For some unspecified reason, Jo W had been handed responsibility for accompanying a Radio 2 colleague as they introduced each artist. I’ve never been very sure why it’s necessary to have MCs at these affairs. Rural festivals always hire some cheese-voiced local radio jock; at bigger gigs it’ll be a TV comedian or somesuch. At least The Clash had the pleasingly maniacal Kosmo Vinyl, we had to suffer Jo and her friends ceaselessly asking “How you doing Hyde Park?” or suggesting we ‘make some noise’. This time round, her pal was the venerable Bob Harris, strangely plugging an upcoming broadcast featuring Sheryl Crow, before introducing Kacey Musgraves.
Heading up a commercial path cleared by Taylor Swift, Musgraves is a bona-fide country pop star. The looks, the Texan twang and the oversized acoustic guitar are all in place. Never drops a note, songs nicely crafted and delivered with panache, she’ll be a massive success. Slightly safe and antiseptic? You betcha.
It was Paloma Faith who had a problem. We could hear her perfectly (the sound engineering was superb throughout the day), but she couldn’t hear her band. In an unsubtle attempt to signal this to the monitor crew, she told us she had given her opening songs over nothing more than the drum track. Which was either daft or brave, because she sounded just grand out front.
Faith’s eccentric glamour is a very satisfying proposition. But, like Bellowhead, the complete Paloma experience demands a full show. Nevertheless, she gave an entertaining account of herself over a brief appearance, failing equipment notwithstanding. I’d guess we enjoyed her set more than she did.
Trevor Nelson was the warm-up man for Billy Ocean. Not generally, you understand, just for this show. And another BBC faux-pas this proved to be. Just as we’d become accustomed to Whiley’s over-excited introductions, we were forced to tolerate Trevor actually DJ-ing for 20 minutes. What the appeal of a grinning man playing CDs on a massive stage is intended to be, I can only guess. It was lost on me (and thousands of others). Happily, before Trev attracted a hail of half-chewed scotch eggs, and halfway through ‘Return Of The Mack’, he jumped in to do his big announcement. Ridiculously big. When one thinks of soul artists who are the bedrock of the genre, inspiring generation after generation, Stevie Wonder or Al Green may reasonably spring to mind. Billy Ocean? Not so much. Not even for Trevor Nelson, I suspect. Still, Billy gave us his big hits with gusto, in an expensive-looking white suit. Filler, but very slick filler.
Then, in the gathering dusk, Hyde Park and its temporary citizens, began to stir. To be honest, the preceding activities had taken place in a mood on the sleepy side of relaxed. Now, the prospect of Blondie was mixing a bit of adrenalin into the overpriced beer.
Blondie are a draw, no doubt about it. People who adored them at their peak, adore them still – and it’s unthinkable the band would receive an indifferent reaction anywhere in Britain. Objectively speaking, they don’t set the stage alight. Clem Burke is still one of the world’s great drummers and enormously exciting to watch, but Debbie and Chris show their age and are a little more sedate. Not that we want Harry and Stein to career around the place in an undignified frenzy – with such a songbook, what they actually do is somewhat academic. ‘Heart Of Glass’, ‘Call Me’, ‘Atomic’ and ‘Union City Blue’ are such addictively accomplished pop records, just hearing them played live is sufficient to bring on an irresistible reverie. Even a couple of new tunes did nothing to sabotage the enjoyment. What nobody needed was a three minute film on the jumbo screens, telling us who Blondie are. Particularly one that describes them as an ‘American punk band’. There are times when BBC producers need go to their rooms and have a long think.
By the time we’ve cringed our way through a big-screened, Jo Whiley interview with Debbie Harry (sample question: “How was that for you?”), there’s a palpable, shuffling anticipation about the place. Darkness has transformed the arena’s atmosphere, and the approach of a bearded man from Birmingham suddenly has everyone agitated.
Patience is a virtue, they say. It certainly is if you’re an ELO fan. Not only has the wait for Jeff Lynne’s return taken up the best part of three decades, his arrival on a breezily warm London evening is delayed by a few minutes by a lighting failure. Chris Evans, on introduction duty, does his best to fill: “You don’t want Mister Red Sky do you?”, then the PA plays a track each from The Kinks and Hot Chocolate.
Suddenly, and to a hearty cheer, the screens flare into action and, oh dear, here’s a three minute video to tell us who ELO are. Yes, I know. Everybody knows.
Another heavily pregnant pause, the taller trees swaying gently and a Heathrow bound plane sloping across the sky. And here he is. Jeff Lynne is too modest to do that thing where the front-man comes on 30 seconds after the rest of the group, but so welcome is his appearance very few people notice the band and the BBC Concert Orchestra taking their spots around him. It’s all eyes on Jeff, who gives a cheery wave and heads straight into ‘All Over The World’. It’s immaculate. Not that opening number specifically, but the whole package. An enormous animated planet Earth rolls away on the screen at the rear of the stage. The orchestra saw away with vigour and precision, white and orange beams swoop over the crowd and above the park; and in the middle of it all, stands a bloke in a white dress shirt and dark suit, his trademarks present and correct. The bushy auburn hair is only moderately thinner than it was (and perhaps the colour has been given a helping hand); the beard trimmed and glossy, and the aviator shades more recognisable than their owner’s face.
Ask anybody who knows the music business and they’ll tell you: Jeff Lynne is one the most unassuming and clubbable rock stars you’d ever wish to meet. With three successful bands (The Move, ELO and The Travelling Wilburys) and a Beatles producer credit on his CV, he’d be forgiven a slight swagger, but there’s no sign of it. When he tells us it’s ‘amazing’ to be standing there, we believe him. When he says “We’ll have to do this again!” everyone crosses their fingers.
I’d love to shock you and say the rest of the set was made up of obscure album tracks and ‘new stuff’. Then dissect and debate as to whether this was artistically courageous or daylight robbery – but that didn’t happen. Of course it didn’t. Jeff Lynne has worked in showbiz long enough to know what his audience expects – and has no intention of disappointing. Other than The Wilburys’ ‘Handle With Care’ and a non-single from ‘Out Of The Blue’, there are no left turns. ‘Evil Woman’, ‘Sweet Talkin’ Woman’, ‘Telephone Line’, ‘Rock And Roll Is King’ and ‘Mister Blue Sky’ – they’re all here, sounding as full and dramatic as they should. On the screen, the ELO spaceship glides through space, while a park load of parents and portly old rock fans urge on the man they took to their hearts many years before. As 90 minutes of genuine affection and emotional goodwill ricochet around, jiving breaks out and tears are shed, until the echoes of a rollicking ‘Roll Over Beethoven’ send us back into the city.
Cynics may point out that this wasn’t ELO. Jeff and Richard Tandy (taking the part of musical director and looking like a wealthy tax accountant) were the only original members playing, and legalities insist this is ‘Jeff Lynne’s ELO’. They may also suggest the whole set was a little too much like the records, with scant room for improvisation or invention. But this wasn’t a night for cynicism.
True, Jeff Lynne didn’t transform popular music. That was never his remit. He wasn’t the first person to use orchestral arrangements on rock records. He doesn’t claim to be. His songs often sound perilously close to late period Beatles, and yet he is the master of his brief. And his brief is to write, record and occasionally perform celebratory music that asks nothing more than you feel happier for a while. He does that brilliantly. Yes, we really must do this again.
