The return of the wrinkly rockers

Bob Dylan, now aged 81, began it all. In 1988, America’s iconic singer-songwriter embarked on what has become known — much to his irritation — as his Never Ending Tour, clocking an unbroken run of over 3,000 gigs before Covid caused a temporary halt. Now, he’s back on the road with the re-branded Rough and Rowdy Ways Tour due to go on at least until 2024.

Dylan has proven that he can command big audiences long after his chart-topping glory days. Like him, his fans have grown older and richer and will still pay to see and hear him. As digital technology drives down money to be made from recorded music, concerts have become the primary source of ready cash, even for big stars.

Wrinkly rockers seem more anxious than anybody else to show the world that lockdowns are over. Paul McCartney and Diana Ross topped the bill at Glastonbury. Elton John has announced he’s not going to give up playing live. New tours are planned for what remains of Status Quo and Queen.

This weekend the Rolling Stones are sort of winding up their 60th-anniversary tour at BST Hyde Park (nobody thinks this will be Mick Jagger’s last stand). I’ll be there, though I’m not quite sure why and am even more puzzled as to why they still want to go to the bother of putting on shows.

There is lots of money to be made, of course. The Stones grossed US$115 million last year in just two months of their Covid-truncated No Filter tour, selling over half a million tickets. The headline band can demand around 60 per cent of the take from promoters, and constantly crossing borders is very tax efficient.

In contrast, Spotify and other streaming services have largely knocked out the market for physical recordings. There is only real value if the performer wrote the songs and the master tapes, like the canny Kate Bush. The willingness of artists such as Paul McCartney to sell their catalogues to conglomerates shows that this revenue is finite.

The return to touring is a late-career spurt for most of the “pop stars” who broke through in the 60s, 70s and even 80s. Typically they disappeared to enjoy the fruits of their first success. Passions from drink, drugs, or even family life, could be indulged to excess in pampered privacy. Those who survived to reach middle age still standing must have wondered what they were going to do with the rest of their lives. Returning to their roots with live performance is an obvious answer.

But time takes its toll. “The Pipes” are not what they once were as stars push into their eighties. Diana Ross came in for some ungallant criticism after recent appearances at the Platinum Jubilee and Glastonbury. Unkind critics saved what praise there was for Autotune and Miss Ross’ backing singers.

It is forbidden to say anything against that National Treasure, Sir Paul McCartney. A senior politician told me I should be spanked after his Pyramid stage outing inspired me to tweet: One is reminded of Debbie Harry’s famous reply when asked which of the Beatles would live longest: “Paul, unfortunately”. And let’s not go into what sounded like a German-language version by Elton John of “I’m still standing” live from LA during the One World lockdown concert.

With the exception of ABBA, who have come up with the clinical solution of live concerts of machine-generated “abbatars” looking and sounding like their younger selves, neither age nor death stops them. McCartney duetted with a 50-year-old recording of John Lennon. Roy Orbison appears by hologram. Frank Rossi will be touring in the unavoidable absence of Rick Parfitt. Adam Lambert substitutes for Freddy Mercury.

The Rolling Stones have sustained casualties since the death of founding member Brian Jones in 1969. Mick Taylor left in 1973. Bill Wyman retired in 1993. Ticket sales have not been so quick in London this summer following the death last year of their much-loved drummer Charlie Watts. But Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, both due to be 80 next year, endure, as does Mick Taylor’s replacement, Ronnie Wood, 75. Although the core is now reduced to two or, at best, three. The band’s concerts also provide a living for more than a hundred other musicians and roadies, which is one of the best reasons for “The Strolling Bones” to keep on strolling through what some have cruelly dubbed “nights of the living dead.”

Jagger is not shy about talking about the ageing process — not always reliably. In 1976, he informed Stern magazine: “I don’t want to still be singing Satisfaction when I’m forty”. Forty years after that he’s still going strong, Jagger still dances and (almost) sings like Jagger, of old. Touring Germany this year he talked about how he would not be able to sustain his onerous fitness routine forever and joked about performing the bands’ slower ballads in future “like Val Doonican on a stool”. The Stone’s stadium-rocking playlist routinely leaves out some of their best work.

Ozzy Osbourne, Eric Clapton and Neil Diamond are some of the ageing stars who have recently announced they are stopping live performances. But it is difficult to stay away. Few people have retired more often than Frank Sinatra or Cher. The never-ending farewell tour is a ploy which dates back at least as far as the actress Sarah Bernhard in the 1900s.

“Retire from what?” Bob Dylan likes to quote Willie Nelson when asked if he has any plans. Dylan insists that musicians are no different from any other tradespeople and should go on doing their thing as long as there is demand for it.

But there is the question of authenticity. The Stones invited back some former members for brief cameos for their 50th anniversary concerts, ten years ago. One of my companions slipped out of the O2 early with the un-rock ‘n’ roll excuse, “Now that I’ve heard Mick Taylor play “Midnight Rambler” it’s time to go home.”

Still, songs at gigs hardly ever sound like their more familiar and more often played recorded tracks. Bob Dylan has a characteristically aggressive answer to these complaints. He sets about deconstructing his own work. He varies the tempo, accompaniment and his own droning voice to the point that the classics are unrecognisable in their new versions. We last heard him playing to a small open air crowd in a field in Snowmass, Colorado. Never-ending touring artisans cannot be picky about their places of work. “Don’t you dare miss it!” his posters chided and we obeyed.

As we sat in the bleachers, my wife complained she couldn’t identify what he was performing. “It’s not the music it’s the being here that matters”, I explained. “You can say that again, Buddy!” a passing stranger shouted back angrily. With his fluorescent shorts, Oxford shirt and well-cut hair, I took him to be a fiftyish east-coast banker on vacation.

The Tour bus carrying Bob Dylan swept away to the next gig before his last audience had managed to reach the exit gates.