Alright for socks and underwear?

{ 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.