Paul Simon – Hammersmith Apollo, London 29/05/11

Consider this: you’ve been touring on and off for 55 years, you’ve won 13 Grammys, and you’ve got more gold discs than Carl Lewis. While playing the biggest festival in Britain at the ripe old age of 69, you contract a nasty sore throat.

Few would begrudge you a week off to rest and recuperate. And yet, rather than a perfunctory cancellation of forthcoming touring commitments, one could almost see the disappointment on Paul Simon’s face as an online statement was released on Tuesday postponing his show at the Hammersmith Apollo. With his “fans best interests at heart” and driven by a desire to “deliver the best show possible”, he pledged to return and try again the following day.

Next time the ceremonial gongs are being handed out for ‘Nicest Man in Rock’, Dave Grohl might find he’s not the only name in the hat.

It turns out that Simon’s equally humble in person. Several songs into his set, he apologises if his voice is still suffering the effects of his weekend ailment: “I can use it as an excuse if things go awry,” he says. He needn’t have worried, for his warm, sing song timbre is in fine fettle throughout the evening. Mere mortals might expect to struggle with holding a knife and fork at 69, let alone a melody, and yet Simon’s voice shows quite remarkable endurance.

It’s the crucial focal point which drives a two-hour set spanning Simon’s chameleonic back catalogue. Peering out from behind a succession of acoustic and electric guitars, Simon guides a his instrument-swapping backing band – all eight brilliant players – through classic singles (‘50 Ways to Leave Your Lover’, ‘Diamonds on the Soles of her Shoes’) and new tracks (‘So Beautiful or so What’) with equal vim.

Tiny and white haired he may be, but Simon’s whippet-like stage exuberance belies his autumn years. When not rocking out lustily at the microphone, Simon gestures hither and thither to denote the next drum fill, sax line or one of the many shimmering afro-centric licks from Cameroonian guitarist Vincent Nguini. At one point, Simon imitates his second percussionist playing a serrated metal vest with two imaginary drums sticks. ‘Still Crazy After All These Years’, for sure.

Diversity rules supreme. Of the set highlights, which come thick and fast, the most memorable employ dashes of colour from a variety of musical palettes, signposting Simon’s career as they go. The reggae-swing of ‘Mother and Child Reunion’, for instance, serves as both a reminder of Simon’s musical foresight – a white dude recording reggae in Kingston with Jimmy Cliff’s backing group in ’72?! – and his gift for gloriously sunny hooks. Elsewhere, an acoustic run through of 1965 breakthrough hit ‘Sound of Silence’ pairs down the Dylan-esque folk-rock of the famous version, recalling instead the forgotten original which appeared on Simon and Garfunkel’s debut LP. Meanwhile, a haunting rendition of ‘Slip Slidin’ Away’ has one and all collectively reaching for their handkerchiefs; Simon’s long-standing fascination with death seems ever more acute as he ages.

The set closes with a no holds-barred rendition of crowd favourite ‘You Can Call Me Al’. It seems to stretch on indefinitely, with layer upon layer of voice, guitar and syncopated rhythm culminating in a mesmerizing crescendo of tribal-pop grandeur. It seems as if it, along with Simon, could go on forever. If tonight is anything to go by, there’s plenty of life left in him yet.