Roger Daltrey and friends: an occasion almost too overstuffed with good stuff

Roger Daltrey was worried about the time. Having arrived on-stage after 10 pm at the conclusion of a packed bill at the Royal Albert Hall, the veteran rock star kept sneaking glances at his watch and urging his band to speed things up.

Back in their glory days, The Who were not particularly noted for punctuality. At the Isle of Wight festival in 1970 they did not start their set until 2am. Topping the bill at Woodstock, the year before, they kicked off at 5.30am. At 79, he could perhaps have been forgiven a hankering for regulated hours and an early bedtime, but Daltrey was more concerned about Sunday-night London venue rules. “Sod’s law,” he explained, “but if we go on past 11, it’ll cost us more in fines than we’ll make on the gig.”

This was Daltrey’s 21st annual week-long gathering of artists for the Teenage Cancer Trust, a good-hearted affair in which a huge range of musicians and comedians assemble to support a valuable cause. The occasion had been almost too overstuffed with good stuff. Kelly Jones of Stereophonics opened with a blast of country-fried rock from his side project, Far From Saints. He later joined Daltrey for a rip-roaring assault on The Who’s Substitute that had elderly men jumping to their feet shouting, “We are the Mods, we are the Mods.”

The great Joan Armatrading followed with a fantastic set. If the 72-year old weren’t already celebrated as one of Britain’s seminal singer-songwriters, she should surely be more remarked upon as a lead guitarist with skills to match the best in the world.

And then, armed with just an acoustic guitar and resonant voice, Richard Ashcroft reminded us that he is Britpop’s neglected hero. He played five songs, every one a masterpiece of power and emotion, including an astonishing The Drugs Don’t Work and mesmerising Bittersweet Symphony. By the time he departed, the 5,000-strong crowd was on their feet for a standing ovation. In what unjust world did Liam Gallagher become the rock hero of his generation and Ashcroft get shuffled aside? He is an artist who needs to be rediscovered.

Daltrey is secure of his own place in the rock pantheon and treats a night at London’s most august venue as if he’s playing a family shindig in his living room. “This is not the ‘oo,” he noted with his usual jovial cockney bluster, as his nine-piece solo band joined him for acoustic flavoured romps through some Who and solo classics, including a rambunctious accordion-led take on the lusty Squeeze Box. “I’ve noticed the ladies like to sing this one,” said Daltrey. “I think its Freudian.”

Although pressed for time, Daltrey couldn’t help but ramble on in his usual pugnacious manner, offering unasked-for opinions like the patron saint of London taxi drivers. “In today’s world, I have considered the matter of [gender] pronouns, and I have come to the conclusion that I am an ‘all’,” he proclaimed, apropos of nothing. “I’m all f---ing Roger! Let’s get over it!” Thanks for sorting that out for us, Mr Daltrey.

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