It's the fifth year for Party in the Park, the Prince's Trust-endorsed parade of pop lovelies that regularly attracts an audience of 100,000. Most of this year's crowd, along with quite a few of the acts, were probably too young to recall the great days of 1998, when Gary Barlow was still in with a shout and Westlife were not even cultures in a petri dish.
Things change, yet remain the same. Barlow has been supplanted by Gareth Gates, B*Witched by Atomic Kitten, Bryan Adams by - actually Adams is still with us, doggedly rocking on, the odd one out in a day dominated by hair extensions and doe eyes. Thanks to his work with the Trust, he bagged a spot near the top of the bill, but it must have been a thankless task to play to a sea of people who hadn't the faintest idea who the grizzled guy with the guitar was.
Adams's presence may have made some of the more thoughtful artists contemplate the fleeting nature of pop stardom. Westlife, who entered to a fusillade of explosions, may have enchanted the house with their depleted balladeering, but will they be around for Party in the Park's 10th anniversary? On the other hand, the leather-panted Shakira unleashed such a booming voice during her two songs that her future seems assured. Singers like her don't fade away, they become Adams's duet partners.
Atomic Kitten, Enrique Iglesias and A1 slipped past almost without trace, leaving a faint impression of self-tanner and indefatigable smiles. The latter had the misfortune to be slotted between Ja Rule and Wyclef Jean, whose mad-headed performances had the place reeling. Jean connected with the crowd by climbing a lighting tower and over-running by three songs. They were, as ever, rap versions of unlikely numbers such as Tom Jones's What's New, Pussycat? - does the man ever write a chorus of his own? Jean was the only act who seemed to enjoy the furore he provoked, raising the question of why the others wasted their time at stage school. What is the point if, like Pop Idol's Gareth Gates, you intend to sleepwalk through your two singles, then scurry off without so much as a waggle of your skinny tush?
Still, this annual finger on the pulse of pop was instructive in one sense: if any of the other bands saw Westlife brushing the soot off their hair, they will now know that pyrotechnics only make you look silly.
