THANKFULLY a hard rain didn't fall on his outdoor parade, as Bryan Ferry completed his world travels in his native north.

Ferry, the lordly jet-set singer, was on his first tour for five years, playing what he called "a civilised alternative to Wembley". Very civilised it was too, starting with candle-lit picnics, Cuban records and bluegrass musicians doing nothing to disturb concentration on uncorking a bottle.

Enter Bryan's harpist, all-female string quartet in leather trousers and his brass section, 13 players in his biggest ever band, ahead of Ferry's entrance, looking typically immaculate in black set off by a white shirt.

With no screen to provide pictures of the Ferry man at 54, there were two options: watch tiny Bryan from the distance amid constant chatter or walk down to the front and observe big Bryan's familiar jerky movements and facial grimaces from close-up. Or do both.

From the hill, he wasn't offering much of a spectacle, particularly as his jazz-flecked suite of nostalgic songs on As Time Goes By would better suit a smoky, intimate cabaret setting.

From closer quarters, once Bryan changed into a white jacket - old habits die hard! - his worn velvet voice could be better enjoyed for its romance and drama in the climactic run-through his Roxy Music and solo back catalogue.

Yet this glossy fashion magazine of a concert remained merely tasteful rather than exhilarating or involving, and there was no sense of this being the final night. Do the bland, as much as Do The Strand.

picture-Bryan Ferry,

Castle Howard