Rod Stewart

During this show, Rod Stewart changes his shoes at least three times. Each new pair is exactly the same as the previous ones except in a different colour. Black patent slip-ons with red or white or yellow tops. I wonder at what point in the journey to crippling self-delusion does an artist begin to believe that shoe-swapping is legit entertainment?

These are the hazy remaining minutes of a rare Belfast summer’s day. There are thousands of bodies on the lawns of the castle – seated on grass that appears dry. It is clear that those present believe they are having a great time. They sing along – though mostly just to the choruses they recognise. They wave and scream as Rod, man of the people, kicks thirty-odd footballs into their midst. Their eyes ogle the big screen close-ups of his band’s über-smiling faces – the girls borrowed from a Robert Palmer video, the guy’s lengthy locks catching the breeze.

Nobody seems embarrassed much by Stewart’s Stringfellow-does-Travolta, sharp-dressed moves. Hell, they even turn a blind eye when, every few songs, a backing singer takes over to give the old croaker a rest. Because it’s Rod! And he’s a legend you understand. And it’s a lovely day. And the beer’s not too bad in this plastic beaker. And we’ll come again next year regardless of who’s playing…

It’s all too easy to get caught up and drawn in by excitement or hype. Whether it’s an ageing rocker peddling greatest hits or supposed taste-merchants touting the new Nirvana. Look past the sheen, study the product and decide if you really have this time to squander.