Today's gig is designed to celebrate and commemorate seven years of democracy for South Africa, and Trafalgar Square is chosen because, as luck would have it, this big public square is London's most noted place of protest. The South African Embassy takes up one whole side of the square, and was for years the focus of a 24 hours a day, 7 days a week demonstration against apartheid.
London being London, of course, no-one's ever considered putting on a concert here before, so the organisers are having to learn as they go. In trying to limit numbers, those who wished to attend had to dial an 0898 number, leave their details and hope for the best. Unfortunately, this fact has been so poorly publicised that many have turned up simply imagining the show is free to enter, and are stuck behind the gates.
Once inside, you also see how cautious the organisers have been. Trafalgar Square contains more people than this at 2am on a Friday night, and it's usually a lot noisier. Most people's stereos would give it a bit more welly than the restrained PA. The effect is strangely sterile.
You soon realise, though, that this is, at least in part, down to the acts. This is not a full-on showbiz affair (thank heavens), and a pattern soon emerges where the chart acts, such as Lisa Roxanne and The Corrs, who you'd expect to be loved, fare rather badly. Meanwhile the less obvious choices, from the numerous South African acts to Billy Ocean, are able to create an atmosphere. It's quite a shock to see that Billy has become a grey haired man with vast dreads, bearing a strange resemblance to Old Father Time, but 'When The Going Gets Tough' seems to reach parts the miming pop stars don't even know about.
The reason, it seems, is that much of this good-natured crowd is here for the cause and the event, and anything that touches upon that helps to spread the beginnings of a vibe. Had this been a sunnier day, the event would have been a real party. Also, compere Mark Lamarr manages the unique trick of being funny at a rock concert - how many comedians can do that? - and skilfully helps make the day hang together. And so the afternoon goes.
Things, though, are about to change gear. There's a brief break, which extends into quite a drag due to structural problems. Dave Stewart finally emerges, which is horrible, obviously, but then Lamarr introduces the South African High Commissioner, and an expectant hush descends. After a few words of thanks, she, alongside Tony Blair (who is booed when his name is mentioned) bring on the frail figure of Nelson Mandela to a vast roar that must have been the envy of every band on the bill. The BBC aren't kidding when they describe Mandela as 'one of the most highly regarded men on the planet'; it's a pleasure to see him, and to many here a significant emotional event, too. (Later, when Lamarr reflects briefly on the point of Mandela's struggle, he urges the audience not to take their right to vote lightly. 'I'm not suggesting you vote for any of the pinheads you might have seen on stage today, mind', he says - so that's the knighthood buggered.)
The initial delay, plus Mandela's unscheduled appearance, means everyone's sets from hereon in must be cut short; just an hour is left for the next six acts, including REM. Beverly Knight is beside herself; she's clearly just met Nelson Mandela, and is quite tearful as she appears on stage, which is all rather touching. Atomic Kitten and Mel B go on to waste our time, although both play just one song. Mel is wearing her traditional skimpy gear and, following a bit of overenthusiastic gyration, perhaps more of herself is on display than she'd like; the cameramen move in for a close-up, and Mel's nipple gets a cheer so loud you'd think Nelson had popped back on. Hugh Masekela and Ladysmith Black Mambazo barely begin before they have to leave, although they both have a spark the previous pop girls couldn't even imagine.
REM's set - introduced by Mark Lamarr as "sponsored by Yoplait and Munch Bunch", a reference to Peter Buck's transatlantic yoghurt-flinging strop - seems out of place, initially, as if they don't quite belong on the same bill, but things soon settle as they begin their most recent top ten hit, 'The Great Beyond'. It's the first of seven tunes, for which we have the novel experience of feeling grateful to the police, who've allowed the show to overrun.
After new album 'Reveal's 'Imitation Of Life' and 'The Lifting', Michael Stipe reads a carefully chosen quote from Martin Luther King. Simply done, it captures the poignancy that sits behind the event today. After all, the decade of Mandela, the much-loved statesman, was preceded by 30 years of unjust imprisonment. It's that same bittersweetness the South African musicians can tap into.
'Losing My Religion' and 'Man On The Moon' nearly provoke a riot, and the show seems to have concluded on a high. But no - there's one last thing. Labi Siffre is introduced and, as if to confirm the strange rules of today, 'So Strong' is mighty, heartfelt and surprisingly powerful. The South African National Anthem closes the show.
The upshot? The day's been fun, and much of the music was great. You also feel a little guilty, impressed by those who protested for what was right, and ashamed you weren't one of them. But also heartened, because the mood of today's event - and the fact that it could happen at all - reminds you that even when your government is filled with pustulence (Thatcher was fond of Botha, and stood in the way of many political attempts to bring democracy to South Africa during the '80s) the people of a nation can have an effect. And seeing that makes you want to get up off your arse and do something.
A success, then.
