Sheryl Crow

Venue:

Hampton Court Palace

Date: 18/06/2024

Sheryl Crow is an artist that won me over by osmosis. When her first album, Tuesday Night Music Club came out, the ubiquity of All I Wanna Do (and its adoption by an irritating student housemate) muddied my interest somewhat. The opening lines to Run Baby Run ‘She was born in November 1963/The day Aldous Huxley died’ seemed rather arch and there was something contrived about the first album’s gee-we’re-just-a-group-who-meet-once-a-week shtick, especially when that gang fell apart so publicly.

Some years later, my girlfriend’s CD collection unearthed Crow’s second, self-titled album. It had a more direct, less glossy production, with lots of fuzz bass, loops and double-tracked dry vocals. More importantly, a few listens revealed that it’s a fantastic set of songs, only losing steam in the final few tunes. My time in a female fronted covers band showed what absolute crackers If It Makes You Happy, A Change Would Do You Good and Everyday Is A Winding Road are. When you add Maybe Angels, Sweet Rosalyn and Redemption Day (which Johnny Cash deemed good enough to cover), it’s a staggering achievement for someone who had been written off after the bitter split with the first album’s co-creators.

After an almost equally good follow-up, The Globe Sessions, Crow hasn’t hit those heights again. There have been undervalued (by me) highlights: the latter-day Be Myself, great songs on the overproduced Wildflowers – and some big mis-steps: neither the ersatz soul of 100 Miles from Memphis, nor the attempt to court a country audience with Feels Like Home contribute songs to her current setlist. The latest offering has a few highlights (Do It Again, You Can’t Change The Weather) but is largely overproduced and underwhelming.

What I’ve enjoyed more than the albums are gig recordings – the set at Glastonbury in 2022 got a few viewings, and the YouTube recording of their set at Willie Nelson’s outlaw festival is always worth a visit. Sheryl, like McCartney, has finally settled on a top-notch live band and stuck with them for many years. With ex-Black Crowe Audley Freed on lead guitar and Nashville session ace Fred Etchingham on drums, it’s a well-drilled unit that add to, rather than trot out, the hits. Unfortunately, the amazing Peter Stroud – for many years the Mike Campbell to Crow’s Tom Petty and the one I’m most looking forward to checking out, is not here tonight. In his place there’s ex-Jellyfish man Tim Smith who was the bass/auxiliary player in this band 20 years ago, but is now strictly rhythm guitar.

So: to Hampton Court Palace to see a gig, not a phrase I ever expected to type. Sheryl and the gang have only been over here as part of the bill on sold-out festivals or supporting what’s left of the Eagles at Wembley – neither of which warranted the large outlay, despite my fandom. It’s taken a few years for a proper show to turn up anywhere near me. With no other venues on offer, we ordered a couple of decent looking tickets and ignored the subsequent bombardment of offers for a glass of champagne on arrival, luxury picnics, access to a private gazebo (add £230) or, if your balance between money and sense has snapped like a twig, £510 for a VIP ticket, champagne reception, three-course meal and – wait for it – a lanyard.

We’re welcomed in by liveried staff and ushered through the historic halls, past the courtyard where the gig takes place, into a huge geometric garden with a row of food and drink stalls. In lieu of a proper support act, there is a young lady with a guitar on a tiny bandstand singing, God help us, slow covers of popular favourites. It’s like half an hour of John Lewis adverts while we consume into our overpriced wraps. The amplified sound of a dentist’s drill would be preferable.

The merch stall is barely doing a growling trade, let alone the full roar. Aside from the fact they are selling some of the ugliest t-shirts I’ve seen for a while, this is clearly not a t-shirt crowd. If monogrammed ‘SC’ cashmere sweaters, to be tied round the shoulders of similarly branded polo shirts, were on offer, Team Sheryl might be quids in. In summary: Toto, I don’t think we’re at the Brixton Academy anymore.

Sheryl is due to hit the stage at nine on the dot, but because about half the crowd can’t combine punctuality with the need for another Pimms, appears a little late , probably costing us a song. On rocks Sheryl, more One Show presenter than rock chick these days but still full of energy, working the crowd with winks and finger pointing. The curious opener is Real Gone from the ‘Cars’ cartoon franchise – me neither, but I suppose if you had kids of a certain age in 2006 you’ll know it whether you care to or not. Then – hurray! – a series of crackers from the early albums. Hampton Court’s setup is small enough to do away with big screens and it’s pleasant to see an act close enough to see the whites of their teeth, if not their eyes. Watching Sheryl live shows what a great country rock voice she has, with a massive range unaffected by the years, and Freed shows why the Crowes thought him the best replacement for Marc Ford all those years ago – his soloing is quite something.

The middle section, as you’d expect, is a rum old mix. Be Myself is one of my favourites and I’d have been delighted with more from the album of the same name, but instead we get Evolution, the rather ponderous title track from the new one. Then a real head-scratcher: Peter Gabriel’s Digging In The Dirt. Sheryl mentions something about how the song resonates with her mental health struggles, and fair enough, but the biggest struggle I can see is the band wrestling this song: Gabriel’s tight, glossy funk is not a good fit for this lot.

After another cover of First Cut Is The Deepest (off her Greatest Hits, apparently – the rest of the crowd love it) we get back on track. A stab of the Stones’ Heartbreaker ushers in There Goes The Neighbourhood, and then my highlight of the night – If It Makes You Happy is a copper-bottomed banger, one of the very best things you can play on a Fender Telecaster, and this version is triumphant. As the single encore Steve McQueen crashes satisfyingly to a halt, we speed-walk back to the station to avoid the further wallet abuse of a taxi fare from London Bridge, and I’m more than happy. If I got all the songs I thought would be played, plus another favourite, played with some flair and energy, it can’t be that bad.

The audience:

As above, far more well-heeled than I’m used to. A lot of pink blouses and white trousers ‘And that’s just the men,’ quipped the GLW, floaty dresses aplenty too. They were well-behaved enough but not super keen on standing up or getting into it. I would have preferred to stand in a field or the Brixton Academy, but here we are.

It made me think..

More than half the set is from those first three albums. Sheryl namedropped Lionel Ritchie during the set, who apparently advised her to play the hits, and nothing else. She’s largely stuck to this and, at the heritage rock stage of her career, isn’t going to disappoint.

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