IN a bland succession of 33 tunes in under two hours, John Denver failed to sparkle in an overheated venue last night. His last visit here some four years ago was characterised by some fine collaboration in the world music vein which pepped up an interesting more heavily Gaia inspired bill; this time, he rather ignored the artist's obligation challenge the audience, relying on admittedly reliable material. His is a soaring voice, hard to describe but basically what most of us aspire to in the shower. His lyrics make sense and his tunes can lift the spirits. If it's MOR - and it is - then lots of us are quite happy to play in the traffic.
It's not easy to hold the attention of a packed audience at a venue this size when it's just the man, his guitar, and a couple of shirts which would draw comment on a Mexican goalkeeper. No backing singers, no glitzy lights, no drummers, no south american instrumentalists. But the audience seemed happy, singing along when asked and cheering with gusto after each number.
In among the 33 was much that would be expected - Follow Me, Grandma's Feather Bed, Sunshine On My Shoulders et al; then there was 18 Holes, a song about the irresistible draw of that old marriage breaker, the golf course. The golf course? Whatever happened to poor old Calypso? There was Paul McCartney's Mother Nature's Son in there somewhere, as well as Home On The Range, I Think I'd Rather Be A Cowboy, Wild Montana Skies and some charming new stuff such as The Thoughts Of You.
After the intermission, Denver introduced a backing track for three numbers - new material - which took the strain off somewhat ... but teased rather in showing us what we were missing. Could do better.