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Fthere are a few minutes left Garth Brooks takes to the stage in Hyde Park, a booming American voice comes over the PA to tell the crowd that this is the biggest show in BST’s history – a complete sell-out, with additional tickets added. And when Brooks shows up, he looks surprised and happy.
The last time he was in London, in 1994 and at the height of his fame, he played one night at Wembley Arena, and the transformation seemed to surprise him. When he sings Unanswered Prayers by himself and the crowd sings him along, he starts to cry – not just glistening, happy tears, because his face contorts momentarily like someone has really won.
No doubt the rise of the UK has brought some people here, but not many. The crowd is much older than most of the country stars who visit London, and Brooks has not put his guide on the show (his last album was released in a special partnership with Bass Pro Shops, a US fishing group). Everyone here is here on purpose.
His vulnerability must be part of his appeal: Brooks is a middle-aged, middle-aged man in Wranglers so fresh you can read the label on the big screen, and they fit him and cheap jeans always fit portly, middle-aged men. When he opens with Rodeo, all the passers-by storm and eyes, it sounds very contrary to his character, which is gentle, almost soft. You can’t help but be drawn in.
The first hour of the show is perfectly judged: it stays within the boundaries of country music, but right up to the fence line. There’s the Tex-Mex lilt of Two Piña Coladas, the throbbing and playful metal of The Beaches of Cheyenne, while The Summer sounds like a cousin of Springsteen’s Thunder Road. The cover of Night Moves, for a front row fan with a banner, is good, but it compares to the familiarity of Britain with Bob Seger.
The set tapers off towards the end, with more band introductions and cameos – does anyone need to hear Brooks’ version of Shout for so long? – but by then he’s done all the heavy lifting, and nobody goes home wishing he’d stayed to watch the England game instead.
