October 2003 Archives

{ III }

Post-mortem. I’m back in Amsterdam having flown straight back after the show. Almost a week later we dissect the performance over the phone. By then I’ve formed an opinion and singled out the important bits. The innocence, the rawness, the punk roots showing, but most of all the undressing.

I know what you're thinking. But there's no tease to this strip.

He calmly disrobes to the words of Kathy Acker’s ‘President Bush’. 43 years old, possibly the most private man in Dublin reveals his freckled Irish skin. Strips to his jocks. Slowly straightens the socks. Adjusts the package. Slowly pulls on a black singlet. Slowly steps into his pant legs.

I tell him. “That was good. Because it’s so difficult, standing there in front of all those people and all you want to do is get your kit back on as quick as you can.”

“Yes! Did you see when I got the belt the wrong way up? I took it out…”

“… you started over, yes, I saw.” I did. I was impressed. Impressed with how he’s refined his craft over the last couple of years. With so little practice. Age becomes him.

What’s left of a singer when there’s no band to play with and no songs to sing? Just the bare bones of his life. Born in Dublin, loved by the ma, formed by the da, battered by the Brothers, baptised by glam, educated on punk, saved by the Mrs, burnt by love. Sacrum Cor Gavini. The heart of the matter.

He takes us on that journey, aided by poster sized images of the people that influenced him most.

His mother (‘Are you alright for socks and underpants?’), His dad (Arseholes!), Protestants (‘We scared the fuck out of Ian Paisley’), Oscar Wilde (‘I’m still having sex with Oscar.’), Bowie (’Allo Spaceboy.'), Johnny Rotten (‘You didn’t need a university degree to make music.’), Picasso (‘I could do that!’), Brel (‘I discovered there was music before the 70’s), Kurt Weill (‘Ich bin eine Puppe…’), his ex-wife (‘I do.’).

He sings a cappella, he jumps on tables, he draws a quick portrait of two front row fans. He has the fans laughing. He has his friends in tears. And most surprisingly of all, the usually so rowdy Dublin crowd is quiet. And that’s a first.

“You could hear a pin drop. Did you notice?”

I did.

BBC America are showing Cambridge Spies starting October 25th. There's an interview with the writer, Peter Moffat on the BBC America website, who states it was very hard to unearth the truth about the Cambridge Spies, including who recruited who.

{ II }

“Oh. You didn’t like it,” he says as I venture backstage after the show.

I didn’t say that. Ask me tomorrow. Not now. Right now I’m too busy offloading a bag full of programmes I cannot possibly fly over to Amsterdam.

{ The skanger }

“You don’t want them?”

I do, but not now. I explain it’s too much to carry through customs.

“I’m bursting for a piss,” he says, adjusting his pants.

Charming. Not so different then, from the ‘skanger’ who was getting in people’s faces earlier. Always has been more Behan than Wilde.

Let’s go back an hour and a half. The Big Brother theme thumps through the tent. Shards of Kylie's last hit, the Eastenders and Coronation Street themes are repeated and cranked up enough for you to want someone to make it stop.

It’s two fingers up to the Spiegeltent aesthetic –- there’s no way this man will allow himself to be typecast. He’s decked out in street gear, an Ireland soccer jersey, tracksuit pants, runners. Advertising on his back –- supermarket Spar’s emblem fucked up Friday-style: the tree’s a penis, the letters spell SPA. You wanted piano? Cello? Weimar? You're getting a bit of 50 Cent's In da club and some bowsie from the republic of Northside Dublin screaming for 'Jacinthaaaa'.

"This skanger’s going to look like he’s got the biggest cock in the world," he said with a grin, stuffing a bottle of water down his jocks before the show. He takes it out as he works the audience, "What are you looking at," he growls, pissing over unsuspecting punters.

Everything is off, of course. I know everybody’s cue and they’re missed one by one. The star’s a little off too, not as convincing, not as fluid as during the brief rehearsals. One character doesn’t come to life at all – afterwards, no one’s picked up on the spliffed out ‘hippie’ – he loses his lines during one of the others, put off by a face in the crowd.

That’s why I can’t get into it. It doesn’t equal the near gargantuan proportions this show has grown to in my head over the last month. With only one night to get it right, perfection is unattainable. And I do miss the music.

{ to be continued }
{ part I }