Rod Stewart at St Mary's Stadium - the Blood Red Roses Tour - 31st May 2019

The year 2018 has come and gone – exciting experiences in the Outer Hebrides, Brittany, and Patagonia have escaped the blogger’s pen.  ‘I could have written a book about it.’  In an editorial in the Literary Review, Nigel Andrew, author, mentioned that he was currently writing a book.  To which, as he reports, Peter Cook would usually reply, ‘Neither am I.’  So the book and the blogs have evaded me.  (Though pace Peter Cook I am writing a book.)

But some out of the ordinary experiences deserve chronicling, and a visit to St Mary’s Stadium to see the opening concert in the latest Rod Stewart tour merits this in spades.

Inevitably, classic pop recordings immediately recall the era of their making.  Rod is no exception.  A girlfriend was a huge fan in the 1970s and would brandish and play his records at the drop of hat.  I remember ‘Blondes have more fun’ was a particular favourite (she had long blonde hair).  ‘Atlantic Crossing’ and ‘Every picture tells a story’ were also regularly played.  The relationship was perhaps shall we say, not entirely successful.  Nonetheless, much water has flowed under the bridge, and fortunately many of his songs do not immediately create a déja vu.  I remember in particular in the more recent past a wonderful funeral of a (very) amateur sailor where the spine tingling guitar intro of ‘Sailing’ was superbly appropriate at the end of the service.  During this concert 'Sailing' was a fairly late number, after dark, and was the cue for the mobile phone torches.

No food or drink was supposed to be taken into the stadium, but plastic water bottles were allowed - to be filled from promised water points once through security (see below):

Worries about the source of the drinking water - presumably helps the bar takings

As we entered the environs of St Mary’s on a lovely warm evening on the last day of May, there were some spectacular sights to be seen.  Clearly some of the fattest people in the South are huge (sic) Rod Stewart fans.  Plenty of tartan and leopard print outfits were on display.  Fortunately all the leopards on display were artificial, otherwise the WWF would be announcing it as an endangered species. 

Also a sight to behold from (I am fairly reliably informed) some traveller ladies were acres of fake tan and much else besides.

After our experience at the Rolling Stones’ concert last year, we had opted for seated tickets.  At the Stones’ gig we paid top whack for the ‘gold enclosure’.   We had to stand, and because the places are unreserved, had to arrive two hours before the doors opened, resulting in a marathon 7 hours on our feet.  This meant close proximity to all of the band members, but it was an exhausting experience:

Last year we were indeed close to the lads...

Settling in to our seats we were immediately concerned because a gentleman of about six foot six in height (and not much less across) had seats in front of us.  ‘I make a better door than a window’ he observed to us.  Hmm.  Immediately adjacent to me was a nice lady of rotund appearance and her husband, large, shaven headed and ready to enjoy himself.  Equipped with pints of lager to start with they rapidly moved on to gin and tonics; then glasses of wine followed by a bottle of rosé.  Just in case he was missing out later his wife brought more supplies of lager.  Somewhat loosened by the aperitifs she leaned across and asked me if I had come far.  ‘Just from Poole,’ I replied.  ‘We come from Gosport.’  She confided.  Shortly afterwards she asked me the same question.  My reply was the same.  'Oh yes, you was from Poole.  We live in Gosport.'  Not wishing to appear distant, I asked whether this was the first time she had seen Rod Stewart live.  ‘I saw ‘im in Benidorm’, she said.  Presuming that this might just be a glimpse of him on a superyacht I enquired where in Benidorm she had seen him.  ‘Well it was just a tribute band.’  She admitted.  ‘Was you (I corrected myself); were you, in the Navy?’  ‘Me Dad was’ she said.  ‘I wanted to join but me Dad wouldn’t sign the papers.’

The traveller ladies were joined by others with remarkable outfits, and paraded down the walkway, the stewards doing their best to keep it clear without conspicuous success.

The passeggiata was interrupted by the appearance on stage of some finely garbed Scottish pipers, who played the full gamut of recognisable Scottish pipe tunes including Mull of Kintyre, Scotland the Brave, Mairi’s Wedding, and others.

Then Rod Stewart’s voice from backstage urged us to support his companions from Scotland (the warmup act), Johnny Mac and the Faithful, a good group who included a fiddler and a piano accordionist.  Perhaps unnecessarily Johnny explained that they were from Glasgow, ‘Or as we prefer to call it, Glas Vegas.’  Although they were a rock band, there was a Celtic flavour (Johnny, like Rod, is a dyed in the wool Glasgow Celtic fan).  The Irish Rover was well received.  Johnny then announced they were going to do a lovely song, ‘Dirty Old Town’.  Whereupon, my Gosport friend shouted loudly, ‘Oh luvvly; one of my fav’rit songs.’  Now this gave me some pause.  I first heard this song in folk clubs in the 1960s.  The first recording I remember was by the Ian Campbell Folk Group (qv).  The song was in fact written about Salford by Ewan MacColl in 1949.  ‘I’m curious,’  I asked Gosport Lady.  ‘How do you know that song.’  ‘Oh I jus’ love all them 60s songs.’  She said.  I see from subsequent research that the song is indeed much recorded, including, perhaps logically, by the Pogues, and even by Rod Stewart himself on an album called ‘An old raincoat won’t ever let you down’ in 1969.  ‘Doncha fink ‘e looks like Bruce Springsteen?’  Enquired Gosport Gal.  ‘Look at ‘er’, she said, pointing directly at the traveller lady’s breasts which were threatening to escape from their limited confinement.  ‘Where duvet get the money?’  I suspected, knowing that my expensive Stihl gardening equipment had been spirited away by some passers-by such as her beau, that the answer was in cash at a subsequent car boot sale.  Johnny’s Glasgow Celtic FC links were perhaps over exploited.  I suspect few among the South Coast crowd had heard of the Lisbon Lions.  Predictably Johnny had a song commemorating the 1967 winning of the European Cup.  Outside of Parkhead Paradise however there may be few who want a reprise.

During the hiatus before Rod’s appearance, some of the travellers were evicted.  But this didn’t dampen the enthusiasm of the others for parading even more flesh and posing for pictures.  The man himself finally appeared and launched into classic after classic.  Sporting flamboyant embroidered outfits, polka dots, and skinny white jeans later in the show, the RodGod as Johnny Mac described him, sang all of his fan’s favourites, particularly from the distant back catalogue.  ‘Forget Brexit and Donald fucking Trump’ he advised.  ‘It’s a beautiful Friday night here in Southampton.’  And it was.  The Great American Songbook numbers were conspicuously absent, Rod preferring to give the fans what they obviously came to hear, and indeed there are sufficient songs from those old classic albums to please everyone.  When he announced Maggie May, he proudly told us that he wrote ‘this song in 1971, the year my wife Penny was born!’  At the start of the set (which lasted over two hours), almost everybody in our seating area rose to their feet and continued that way for the whole concert.  Six foot Six man obligingly stepped into the walkway so as not to block our view and indulged in a bit of Dad dancing.

Rod appeared genuinely reflective and emotional.  One would like to think that he appreciated the attendance.  Indeed he said as much.  He was backed by magnificent musicians and some sensationally attractive and talented dancers and instrumentalists (harp, fiddle, percussion).  All of these girls looked like clones of Penny Lancaster.  Tall, long blonde hair, long legs.  Strange that.  The guitarists were superb, the sax player brilliant, and the keyboard man no less talented.  Two drummers never allowed the drive of the songs to drop.  During one of Rod’s costume changes, the lead guitarist played a wonderful rendition of Mark Knopfler’s ‘Local Hero’.

The tour is entitled ‘Blood Red Roses’, and remarkably I find that this in itself is a tribute to its composer, Ewan MacColl.  The link is that Rod Stewart used to admire the folk songs of the 1960s, and perhaps this also influences the fact that many of his songs have a ballad structure.  Great stories allied to good tunes and superb instrumentation, together with that distinctive voice made for a wonderful evening.