Rick Wakeman

Midway through Rick Wakeman's spacey take on Pachelbel's Canon in D, it becomes abundantly obvious that the grand piano is anatomically no different from the harp. The harp's just mounted horizontally, with tiny hammers tapping on the strings. It seems to be something that Wakeman's perfectly aware of. His playing is fluid and continuous, gliding effortlessly from one end of the instrument to the other as if brushing his fingers across the instrument in its upright position.

That much is manifest throughout the setlist – a few Yes numbers, Cat Stevens' ‘Morning Has Broken’, and solo numbers such as ‘The Jig’ and ‘The Dance of a Thousand Lights’. But tonight's show also sees Wakeman trade musical performance for anecdotal tales. A man of Wakeman's vintage (he's seemingly at pains to remind the audience that he's now sixty-four) doesn't need encouragement. But Wakeman's not Uncle Albert just yet. To brush him aside would be to turn down tales of entertaining pensioners with the UK's first ever laser-light show, Yes frontman Jon Anderson's penchant for painting daffodils, and getting stubborn with Cat Stevens. And his old piano teacher's bust, of course.

In this perpetual, post-Olympics scrounge for significance we ought to be careful with the term ‘national treasure’ – but in the case of Rick Wakeman, an exception might have to made. If you find your eyebrows aloft, give your dad a ring, he'll tell you. A genuinely fascinating character, and unarguably talented performer, Wakeman's An Audience With...-esque show is a triumph.