Gig played on 31/05/05

An hour and a half into his bid to turn Earl's Court into either (a) a luxury cruise ship complete with hip-shaking cabaret band, (b) a plush Vegas ballroom crammed with handbag rattling blue rinses, or (c) a combination of the two, Neil Diamond does a terrible thing. He's already run through every aspect of the Diamond oeuvre, from the clapalong favourites ("Beautiful Noise", "Forever In Blue Jeans") to the showboating brow-beaters ("Love On The Rocks") to the heartfelt acoustic ones ("Play Me", "Glory Road"), and he can tell from the way the grannies on the front row are ecstatically blowing kisses and everyone else is cheering the roof off the place, that he's still Mr Showbiz, the emperor of Entertainment.

So he decides to make a confession. "You know I had to make a living in the Sixties," The Diamond declares, resplendent in sparkling black shirt, like Johnny Cash given a Liberace makeover. "And I came up with some pretty bad songs." He's talking Monkees-era classics, and, naturally, plays an example. "Look Out Here Comes Tomorrow". A genuine beat pop gem, one of those simple finger-clicking beauties that takes a purity of talent to master. And he's trashing it in favour of overblown nonsense like "Coming To America". We are not best pleased.

That's always been the curse of Neil Diamond, of course. He's either been approaching cool or leaving it far behind, but never been smack bang in its epicentre. His one moment of unimpeachable stylishness - "Girl You'll Be A Woman Soon" - goes unplayed tonight, which speaks volumes. Instead we get a truckload of schmaltz ("You Don't Bring Me Flowers" is actually worse minus Barbara Streisand, unbelievably; his introduction to "Coming To America" sounds like a Reagan-era presidential speech; and, yes, he does the rap during "Red Red Wine"), or a ton of happy clappy Godsquad stuff. With sunrises and blue skies on the video screens, at times this is closer to a Billy Graham rally than a conventional rock concert.

But despite all of this, The Diamond is still spectacular. He tell us that, to him, England "has always meant quaintness", and in many ways the feeling's mutual. He never quite makes it to cool, isn't really as subtle as he thinks he is, but the moment at the start of "Love On The Rocks" where his silhouette is caught in the beam of the spotlight and that voice utters "Love on the rocks/ain't no surprise", is untouchable, draining the guilt from the notion of guilty pleasures. "Sweet Caroline" taps into the same essence, kicking off a massive post-pub style singalong from the nation that made Tony Christie the year's longing serving number one (so far).

So we forgive his moments of naffness because, really, that naffness is his driving force. And this writer forgives him for "I Am I Said", the song we've been waiting for. We experience towering pathos, unintentional hilarity, melodrama you can bask in, all tied to a melody that soars and soars. And best of all, a roadie places a high stool at the front of the stage, so that when our man sings "And no one heard, not even the chair", he can point at the chair. That, more than anything, tells you all you need to know about the living legend of showbusiness that is Neil Diamond.

by Ian Watson