Do you think I'm sexy? Rod Stewart. Photo: Ben Stansall/AFP/Getty Images
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Never underestimate how unbelievably boring we all are

Rod Stewart laps it up in the BBC's first History Hour of 2015.

The History Hour
BBC World Service

“Light and shade for you this week,” cheeps Max Pearson at 2am, presenting the first of 2015’s History Hours (4 January, 2.05am), the weekly slot that showcases historical reporting, from the Battle of the Bulge and Hong Kong’s 1967 riots to the Kyoto conference and the release of Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue. “In a moment, a post-World War One tragedy concerning servicemen returning to Scotland,” says Max, “but before that . . . the biggest ever free party on a beach!” It’s a segment on Rod Stewart’s humongous New Year’s Eve 1994 gig at Copacabana, featuring a recent interview with the Epoxy Resined One himself, who turns 70 on 10 January. “I thought there was, like, 30 rows of fans at most . . .” mused Stewart. In reality, there were 3.5 million people in the crowd and 35 million watching on the box. Rod’s spatial awareness is about as good as mine. Three and a half million: that’s like the entire population of Uruguay.

Never, ever underestimate how unbelievably boring we all are. Or forget that the biggest-selling album in the world is Thriller and the second is The Eagles: Greatest Hits. Stewart’s faithful Swedish production manager Lars interjects, entirely without double-entendre: “You are enormous down there. Enormous. Down there. Enormous.” This, Rod takes seamlessly as his due. “I love it down there,” he says. But then adds Scroogeishly, “It’s one of the hardest places to work, mind you. Down there. They’ll tell you one thing and do another.”

“The morning sun when it’s in yer face really shows yo age,” goes the song in the background and you have to admit it sounds pretty good. Followed by snatches of “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy”, played in such a way that immediately indicates it’s the stadium version – the kind that stretches out like a fat man in a hammock while you go off and look for more ketamine – and no doubt featuring Stewart’s session favourite Jeff Golub (RIP. Best blond curls in rock, bar Daltry) casually walking about the stage while noodling away convivially on his guitar, occasionally approaching the 300-foot-high sound desk and staring at it with his back to the audience for another unhurried 15 minutes, as though reprogramming a gas metre. Still, the crowd are lapping it up. “I think they’d been drinking a little.” No shit, Rod. 

The Biggest Rock Concert Ever is available on BBC Radio iPlayer until 3 February

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 08 January 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Churchill Myth

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Brexit… Leg-sit

A new poem by Jo-Ella Sarich. 

Forgot Brexit. An ostrich just walked into the room. Actually,
forget ostriches too. Armadillos also have legs, and shoulder plates
like a Kardashian.  Then I walked in, the other version of me, the one
with legs like wilding pines, when all of them

are the lumberjacks. Forget forests. Carbon sinks are down
this month; Switzerland is the neutral territory
that carved out an island for itself. My body
is the battleground you sketch. My body is
the greenfield development, and you
are the heavy earthmoving equipment. Forget
the artillery in the hills
and the rooftops opening up like nesting boxes. Forget about

the arms race. Cheekbones are the new upper arms
since Michelle lost out to Melania. My cheekbones
are the Horsehead Nebula and you are the Russians
at warp speed. Race you to the finish. North Korea

will go away if you stop thinking
about it. South Korea will, too. Stop thinking
about my sternum. Stop thinking about
the intricacy of my mitochondria. Thigh gaps
are the new wage gaps, and mine is like
the space between the redwood stand
and the plane headed for the mountains. Look,

I’ve pulled up a presentation
with seven different eschatologies
you might like to try. Forget that my arms
are the yellow tape around the heritage tree. Forget
about my exoskeleton. Forget
that the hermit crab
has no shell of its own. Forget that the crab ever
walked sideways into the room.
Pay attention, people.

Jo-Ella Sarich is a New Zealand-based lawyer and poet. Her poems have appeared in the Galway Review and the Poetry New Zealand Yearbook 2017.

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear