At Stockton’s ARC Centre, Chesney Hawkes proved there’s more mileage in him than a dusty pub quiz answer, delivering a set fuelled by charm, graft and a genuine affection for the craft.

Words and Photos – John Hayhurst

“Alright, you do know there’s a new record, yeah?” he grins, absent-mindedly tweaking his guitar between songs. A ripple of cheers cuts through the low hum of the ARC crowd. He chuckles, shrugging it off: “Mad, innit? I didn’t see it coming either.”
Fleeting fame has a habit of chewing people up, spitting them out and moving on without a backward glance. Back in the early ’90s, Hawkes was briefly unavoidable—the golden boy behind a sugar-rush anthem that refused to leave the airwaves.

Then came the drop-off: lesser-known releases, dwindling chart presence, and a slow fade into nostalgia-circuit territory.
But here’s the thing—he never really clocked out. While last year’s Living Arrows didn’t exactly set the charts alight, it’s clear Hawkes isn’t chasing a second coming. Instead, he leans into the nuts and bolts of performing, revelling in the details with an infectious enthusiasm that carries this ARC crowd with him for the better part of an hour and a half.

Sporting a tousled quiff and flecks of grey, he’s fully aware of his legacy—and plays with it. Alongside the usual run of tour shirts and tote bags, the merch table winks knowingly at his former heartthrob image, with a few cheeky items thrown in for good measure. Whilst I was possibly tempted with an ‘I Heart Chesney’ shirt, I drew the line at the thong merchandise.

There’s a homespun looseness to it all, too. Behind the band, a makeshift backdrop flickers with video clips of yesteryear, such as Buddy’s Song—the film that launched him alongside Roger Daltrey—while detours into songs by Nik Kershaw and The Killers give the night a slightly chaotic, karaoke-with-mates energy.

Midway through, Hawkes settles at the piano for a whistle-stop medley that initially lands as one of the evening’s more disarming moments—loose, affectionate, and knowingly daft. That is, until he veers into ‘Imagine’ by John Lennon—a swing that feels a touch overreaching even by his own tongue-in-cheek standards. “Didn’t write that one, mind,” he shrugs, disarming any scepticism before it properly lands.

Audience participation reaches its peak with his now-regular golden ticket ritual. Each night, one fan is plucked from the crowd; in Stockton, that honour falls to Paul—a man I’d clocked earlier contorting himself into a reverse selfie while Hawkes roamed the stage. Clearly devoted, he bounds up at the invitation with unfiltered enthusiasm, soon perched beside Hawkes at the piano for an acoustic run at The One and Only. It teeters into awkward territory—selfies and singalongs—but Hawkes navigates it with the ease of someone who’s seen it all before, steering things back on course without missing a beat.

There’s a tight-knit knot of VIP laminate superfans planted firmly at the barrier, clearly not on their first rodeo. A small plush penguin in a West Ham United shirt appears on his piano. Hawkes clocks it, thanks its mysterious benefactor, and watches as one member of the front-row contingent turns crimson (not Paul, this time). “What are we calling him then?” he asks. “Bubbles!” comes the instant reply from the back. “Absolutely—perfect, from now on you shall be called Bubbles” he nods, tipping a wink to his favourite football club’s terrace anthem.

Still, it’s not all nostalgia and novelty. Tracks like I’m a Man Not a Boy land with a polished confidence, while Nothing Serious glints with the same easy sheen. A quieter moment arrives with the piano-led LOUD!, and a heartfelt take on Silence Is Golden—famously tied to his father, Chip Hawkes—adds a touch of lineage to the set.

But there’s no dodging it forever. “Right then—this one,” he says, rolling his eyes with mock reluctance. The opening chords hit, the room lifts, and suddenly The One and Only is everywhere again—echoing around Stockton like it never really left.
For a man long defined by a single song, Hawkes still looks like he’s got plenty left to give.