“Just for One Day” at Shaftesbury Theatre

Franco Milazzo in the West End
12 June 2025

Let’s start with the obvious: in lesser hands, the Live Aid musical Just for One Day could have ended up being overcooked nostalgia and some poor sod in a Freddie Mercury moustache belting out “Radio Ga Ga” like it was karaoke night at the Dog & Duck. By some divine miracle, it is something else: surprisingly brisk, clever, and occasionally even moving – though not always for the reasons its creators may have intended.

George Ure as Midge Ure. (No relation.)
Photo credit: Evan Zimmerman.

Despite this jukebox show – with a book by John O’Farrell – having already had a well-received run-out at the Old Vic last year, there will be some who will query this whole endeavour. The lyrics of the original Band Aid single “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” (including “tonight, thank God it’s them instead of you” and “there won’t be snow in Africa this Christmas time”) are problematic through a modern lens. Will having a very sweary Bob Geldof front and centre alongside a musty list of musicians and pop-rock anthems attract young families? And why would anyone want to turn this story about a humanitarian effort trying to feed starving Ethiopians into a feel-good singalong?

And yet, the miracle is that it actually works. Mostly.

We can begin with the good stuff. Craige Els, playing Bob Geldof – the shaggy lead singer of The Boomtown Rats – is a hoot and a half. He growls, he pleads, he commands the stage like a man who hasn’t eaten a vegetable in 14 years. His Geldof isn’t just a musician-turned-saint – he’s an exasperated, hungover saint who decries compromise, makes and breaks promises between breaths and sees things only one way – his way.

But the real engine of this thing is the ensemble: a gang of actor-musicians so talented you wonder if they’re powered by some sort of illegal multivitamin. They sing, they dance, they strut, and they bring to life the many characters around Saint Bob. They’re basically human Swiss Army knives in sequins. The energy is relentless from the 20-plus crew whose efforts raise the roof of the Shaftesbury Theatre every time they throw themselves into one stadium filler after another.

Julie Atherton, meanwhile, delivers a turn as Margaret Thatcher that is, by turns, a work of genius and a fever dream. She’s equal parts Wicked Witch of the West and pantomime villain, prowling the stage with the confidence of a lottery winner and the malicious charm of a cobra. The audacious rap battle between Madam Milk Snatcher and the obstinate Bob – over VAT of all things – is a highlight that lives long in the memory. Seeing the Iron Lady in shoulder pads riffing her version of Elton John’s “I’m Still Standing” would have had Denis either applauding or sobbing into his G&T.

The show moves at a clip – snappy, punchy scenes give way to a stream of classics from Phil Collins, The Cars, Paul McCartney et al. There’s no time to get bored, or even confused. You’re either on board or under the bus, and the bus is moving fast. Director Luke Sheppard (appropriately enough) keeps the pace at “coked-up 80s TV exec” level, which is exactly what this material demands.

But – and this is a but the size of Wembley Stadium itself – there’s a subplot here involving two fictional teenagers, falling in love against the backdrop of geopolitical crisis and synthesized basslines, that is painfully redundant. Our young lovers are earnest, wide-eyed, and as annoying as a date-night zit. He’s an indie fan! She’s a pop lover! He buys tickets to go to Live Aid! Along the way, there’s stolen glances, barely coded lust and long talks about just what this crazy mixed-up world is really about. Even Geldof tires of their budding romance, huffing “fucking musicals!” at them as he walks away. It’s all unnecessary emotional scaffolding around a building that was already standing tall on its own.

The story of Live Aid is big enough – colossal, in fact. You’ve got a scrappy Irish rock star phoning up half the pop world and bullying them into a cause aimed at saving millions of lives. You’ve got the politics of the era, the music, the global satellite feeds, the sweaty glitz of 80s pop culture – all of it ready-made for musical theatre without needing to stick a record-shop Romeo and Juliet subplot in the middle.

In fact, the whole enterprise would be stronger with a tighter focus on what it actually was: a bonkers, heroic, ridiculous, unprecedented moment in cultural history. Reimagine it as a show with more documentary edge and less teen yearning, and you’ve got something close to theatrical gold. Or, at the very least, gold-plated VHS nostalgia with a solid moral centre.

Still, for all its faults – and there are a few – the show captures something real. It captures the ambition of a generation that believed pop music could save the world. It captures the madness of trying to organize a global concert with little more than a landline, a fax machine, and buckets of chutzpah. And above all, it captures that brief, bright moment when everyone from David Bowie to Spandau Ballet and Status Quo thought, “Yes, let’s actually try to do something.”

So go, if you love Eighties music. Go, if you enjoy musicals that rock you right back into your seats one minute and the next have you reaching for your hankie (or a handy substitute). And go, if you want to see Margaret Thatcher sing like she’s auditioning to replace Freddie Mercury.