The support act was 'The Sisterhood', a country-folkish duo, half of which is Rod's daughter, Ruby Stewart. Both wore black, knee-length boots that sparkled like an old black and white TV with a fuzzy signal. The brunette played guitar and wore a wide-brimmed hat; the blonde (Ruby) banged a tambourine dangling with streamers. Both sang.
It was pretty dull (pretty and dull).
A chequered curtain descended to allow the stagehands to prepare the stage. I'm surprised Rod rejected the option of a Celtic green and white hoop design. Maybe that would have been too much, even for Glasgow.
As soon as the curtain raised and Rod stepped onto the stage, old bingo wings at the front stood up and waved her arms and marched her feet like she was stomping on a cross trainer, while clutching an e-cigarette in one hand and a large plastic Irn Bru cup in the other. The white-haired geriatric beside her, but not with her, was unamused but sat quietly not wanting to cause a fuss because she had even larger friends further along the row. I'm sure it wasn't Irn Bru in the cup. She danced and swayed for the whole concert. I'm not sure if it was deliberate or she just didn't know how to stop as it was a friend's hug that eventually wrestled her back to a seated position.
Rod's voice was not strong. His moves were started then aborted, unable to be sustained across the stage and back, a pale reminder of his glory days. He sat for a good thirty minutes, still doing the moves from his seat. He kicked footballs into the audience, showing he still has the foot for it. The band and backing singers were great.
The concert was carried on the strength of the material. The songs are still fantastic and the crowd lapped them up, singing for him, holding him in their hearts. It was a greatest hits package and there wasn't a dud among them. He gave a good two hours.
In years to come, I can imagine Rod entertaining the wrinklies in the care home, wearing his red suit, white shirt open to the chest, and silver shoes, giving it his best throaty rasp, throwing out his arms and legs like an epileptic mid-fit, then sinking back into his cosy chair to croon some more. Actually, that sounds remarkably like what I just saw. Let's just leave it at that.
Arise Sir Rod, before you need a zimmer.
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