The Octopus’s Garden

After the outstanding Danny Boyle-driven opening ceremony and two weeks of equally astonishing athletic feats across the board, last night we finally arrived at the closing ceremony of the London 2012 Olympiad.

But… (fairly) closely guarded secret as it was, what would it actually comprise…? Part peculiar comic-book circus or a celebratory carnival of (British) music from the last five or so decades? Would Sir Cliff of Richard make a token appearance, would Dame Kate of Bush come out of hiding and perform live for the first time in more than thirty years? Would the Strolling Bones get the nod or would it be down to Status Quo to provide some invisible-pony-tail Dad-Rock? Would it be more wake than festival? Or, perhaps, it'd be a sum of those and many other parts?

It was and it wasn’t some of the above. Yet again, Britain proved itself a world-beater... in Pantomime.

Starring… The Villains:

The Spice Girls as The Ugly Sisters – the vision of Posh Spice frantically clinging to the ‘elf ‘n safety cage atop her black London taxi, out-of-time miming to ‘Spice Up Your life’ while hurtling around the stadium will live long in the memory… if only the taxi had just driven straight out of the park.

George Michael as The Village (People) Policeman, proving the Olympics can be bought by agreeing to sing one song on the basis that he was allowed to plug his tuneless new song straight after. Horrible. Jacques Rogge – hang your head in shame.

Eric Idle as The Widow Twankey – awkwardly warbling away surrounded by a glee club of high-kicking Roman legionaries, men dressed in Welsh women’s national costume and backed by a chorus by roller-blading nuns. Surreal so long as one’d taken the correct pharmaceuticals.

Jessie J as Cruella de Ville – killing a billion indelicately and indiscriminately with her song(s). A thoroughly unpleasant noise.

Taio Cruz and Tinny Temper as Dennis The Menace and Gnasher; hiding behind their designer-shades, all the bling and crocodile-hide transport couldn’t disguise the ineffectual twaddle proffered. Perfect pee-break / kettle boiling / extra glass of the well-chilled moment.

Madness as The Tin Men – Suggs really should have opted for the full-mime option; flat as a Shrove Tuesday pancake resonated far beyond Camden Town tube station. Even Lee Thompson's Sax-in-Space moment seemed half-hearted.

Russell Brand as Russell Grant – involving him within the performance in the first place was enough of an own goal; his desecration of I Am The Walrus when he failed to even mime convincingly was pure travesty.

Brian May as The Scarecrow – his three minutes of ear-wrenching six-string pyrotechnics before slugging his way into We Will Rock You like a past-his-sell-by-date heavyweight boxer was more than enough. Being accompanied by Cruella de Ville writhing at his feat (sic) like a recently beheaded snake underneath Roger Taylor’s Barclay’s bank of kettle drums redefined unnecessary.

Annie Lennox as The Cheshire Cat – her entrance on a ghost Galleon was pure and unadulterated theatrical-magic; sadly the performance as underwhelming as soggy toast.

The Household Division Ceremonial State Band as Dick Whittington’s Cat – Blur’s Parklife didn’t translate well as a jerky arrangement for massed ranks of trombones.

Ed Sheeran as a ginger Andy Pandy – thankfully a song as good as that can’t be totally annihilated but, along with Big Ears (the tall bloke form Genesis) and The Classic Car Collector – the only Floyd-ster who could be bothered to show up – this was not a performance at which the Division Bell could come quick enough.

Liam Gallagher as Petulant Postman Pat – take one great song; the brother who wrote it can’t be arsed (for whatever reasons) to perform it with the original band… solution – bring on the other brother as substitute. As exciting as waiting for a letter posted second class.

One Direction as Wishee Washee – and, they were. Utterly pointless.

The Heroes:

Boris Johnson as Baron Hardup – the sight of him doing his Dad Can Dance routine alongside Mr and Mrs Cameroon in the upper-twit tier while Cruella de Ville, Dennis The Menace and Gnasher slaughtered The Bee Gees made one realize just why Barry Gibb stayed at home, pleading a previous hair-washing appointment.

The Set Designer as Sleeping Beauty. It began as a thing of wonderment and evolved into… something else again. Chapeau. It’s a shame that Thomas Heatherwick's spectacular flames had to be extinguished.

The Pet Shop Boys as Tweedledee and Tweedledum – what’s not to cherish when our favourite dead-pan-twosome perform from underneath gigantic conical chapeaus while being pedaled around the stadium clingfilmed inside two rickshaws and covered by fluorescent orange origami.

The Lighting Designer as Buttons. Whoever programmed the lighting throughout the entire show deserves as knighthood as much as Sir Bradley of Wiggins, Lord Mo of Farrah, Dame Jessica of Ennis and Queen Victoria of Pendleton will be (rightly) anointed in the forthcoming didn’t we do ever so well Olympic pat-on-the-back honours list.

The Supermodels as The Wicked Witch(es) Of The West – if looks could kill and they probably will… Games With No Frontiers: take a bow Kate, Naomi and the others… probably the first time you’ve all been in the back of one of Eddie Stobard’s finest for a while.

Ray Davies as Aladin – for igniting the lamp; a billion people singing the Sha La La’s when instructed and pulling one right out of the bag.

Take That as Tinkerbelles – if only for Jason Orange’s running on the spot routine as he waited for Sir Gary of Barlow (hat-tip to courage in light of recent personal events) to morph into the Queen Mother of Song center stage.

The Video-designer as Snow White – the inclusion of Lennon’s face, full-screen, as he (and a children’s choir) sang Imagine was heart-stopping as was Yoko’s unfolding piecemeal design of her husband’s face in repose, like a gigantic death-mask… A dry eye in (Our) House…? Not a chance.

Darcey Bussell as Princess Jasmine, the senior flight attendant air-lifted into impossible Phoenix arising ballet-shapes.

The Who as (the) Genie(s) Of The Lamp – showing Queen, The Kaiser Chiefs and Muse just how to do it with a startling rendition of My Generation… real lyrical irony given that this Olympiad can only inspire this (and future) generations.

Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?

Poor old (sic) Gary Barlow… might as well be hung for a sheep as much as a lamb.

Unless his ego really did get in the way, he’d probably have been wiser passing on the offer of curating the music for last evening’s Diamond Jubilee concert in London.

Because... attempting to span the breadth of pop represented throughout HM’s 60 years on the throne was a big ask and GB was on a rank-outsider from the moment the invitation was proposed and the flag dropped.

Even so, it was as if Barlow G had convened a cast of performers while reading from a pop(ular) music health and safety manual. Don’t upset anyone, least of all the ducks in the fountain and the Corgis across the road. Keep it strictly middle of the road. In that respect he succeeded but, crikey, it was mind-numbingly tedious.

Yet it began on a wave of possibilities… Norman Wisdom (in the guise of Robbie Williams) unexpectedly came out of the musical traps like Usain Bolt; thronged by implacable trumpeters from one of the cavalry regiments, he grabbed the occasion by the scruff of the neck and… hit the bulls eye.

That it continued with a whimper like a damp firework is testament to the sheer ordinariness of some of the bill assembled, the manner in which some of the songs chosen were sung and the sheer ineptitude of most of the in-between-acts link–deliverers.

Of course, only a lunatic would have expected a degree of subversion, a hint of radical, a touch of extremism to follow – all being basic staples of rock ‘n roll. Yet, it was if punk… ska… reggae… BritPop… psychedelia… had never happened; as if that vast swathe of music that Britain should be justifiably proud of never existed.

Instead we were treated to the abysmal caterwauling of Jessie J. And, can anyone enlighten me as to the reason Will.I.Am was granted stage-time? Similarly Cheryl who, allegedly, is now such an important personage in the pantheon of pop that she’s disposed of her surname; both of these horrific musical miscues emphasized by their inability to actually hold a tune (what tune?)… in tune – yep, both sang flat as pancakes.

There was the irrelevancy of something called JLS while Ed Sheeran looked like a frightened rabbit startled by headlights. The exceptionally gifted pianist, Lang Lang was on the wrong stage entirely while Alfie Boe and his suit weren’t the only part of his act that failed to fizz. Ruby Turner showed the also-rans how to actually sing but, oh how one longed for the Pet Shop Boys backed by a troupe of Welsh miners; Tennant and Lowe dressed in oil-skins, belting out Go West. Now… that was happy and glorious. And where was Adele or Rumer, Aswad or Coldplay, Eric Clapton or Oasis even…? (the list of non-invitees / attendees is / can be as long as you like).

It was partially saved by… here’s…. Grace; Ms Jones – who’d evidently tipped an economy-sized bottle of baby-oil all over (possibly to aid entrance into her latex sheath-dress) fabulously hoola-hooped all over Slave To The Rhythm which, sadly, so obviously lacked the real grit-rhythm that should have been provided by Sly ‘n Robbie.

Annie Lennox sang with angel-wings and then some; grasping the implausible situation and breathing life into a, by then already dying on its feet, musical corpse. Yet, unlikely as this is, the nation’s favourite posterior totally blew her four minutes centre-stage: oh Kylie… why did you screw up so royally? And frankly, the least said about GB’s decision to allow Rolf Harris to wobble-sing his Two Little Boys to the back of The Mall the better.

Even by now, with the concert cadaver barely breathing, one’d have thought that dear old Sir Tom of Jones and Sir Riff of Pilchard – beat-veterans twain who, in their prime, were rightly touted as Brit-rivals to Elvis’ crown – would have amassed a bit of vocal clout… and excitement… between ‘em.

But no… the former dignified grey but facially orange struggled to engage let alone get out of third gear; the latter proved pink wasn’t a wise choice by his stylist. His hits medley fell at the first like an elderly racehorse who should have been put out to grass long ago. So… why on earth didn’t Sir Cliff perform with Bruce, Brian and Hank – the three remaining Shadows? After all, wasn’t it John Lennon who once said “Before Cliff and The Shadows, there was no music in Britain worth listening to".

A shame – and yet what was equally fascinating was the amount of ‘rockers of yore’ who’d clearly nipped to the chemists in order to purchase age-defying hair-products; indeed, one wonders if Cliff holds shares in the same follicle-aid company that Sir Paul of MacCartney and Sir E John of Weybridge and other compounds clearly do.

And Gary B… he trashed one great idea by over-egging it. The essence of meandering around the Commonwealth and thereby creating a song from so many disparate sources and players was hardly new but nonetheless alive with fascinating possibilities.

But, that’s not dissimilar to creating a mouth-watering sauce from contrasting components – and to quote Michel Roux “You can always add ingredients but its impossible to take them out. The trick is knowing when to stop.”

One had to feel for the remarkable Aboriginal singer / guitar player and the equally gifted strange-stringed-instrument player from Kenya; the extraordinary rhythm kings from the rubbish heaps of South Africa and the young Rasta hand-drummer. All drowned out by the non-sensical – way too early in the mix – inclusion of Gareth Malone and his massed ranks of Military Wives. The incision of a chorus within the tune wouldn’t have harmed it either.

The finale of Madness vertiginously performing Our House atop the roof of the Palace reeked of irony – a remarkable playground for their lighting designer and he (she) justifiably did that opportunity proud; the gently-moving strings-wash of the Irish quartet’s Beautiful Day set to images of Her Majesty through the years purveyed more than a hint of double-irony; Stevie Wonder put a spell on everyone but muddled what the actual occasion was and Sir Paul Of Macca – always the show-closing safest each-way bet – belting out Beatles tunes brought it all to a wonderful… anodyne… finale.

Yeah… it was safe – it was never going to be toxic; it was never really going to even come close to celebrating British music (as it should have done / as it was touted to) over the last 60 years. Nope… this was The Royal Variety Show under another guise; a Diamond Jubilee Concert that was as safe as milk and about as interesting. No harm done because it was as harmless as it gets.

And Gary B will probably earn a knighthood in the next Honours List… for not upsetting anyone. How very British. How very rock ‘n roll.