HOT PRESS VOL13 June 1989

Alive, Alive-O by Liam Mackie

On the pavement outside The Olympia, a tout is looking to buy tickets, the only confirmation you’ll ever need that the handwritten sign at the box-office announcing ‘Concert - Sold Out’ is no idle boast.

Inside the foyer, where MCD’s Padraig Boran is the man holding the guest tickets, demand also seems to be outstripping supply. “tickets for the Clannad office,” somebody requests and Padraig exacts the goods from a neat little stack of brown envelopes. Somebody apparently called “Clohessy (2)” is the next satisfied customer but then a couple arrive with a story about tickets booked by Visa never having materialised. “You’ll have to talk to the people in the box office about that,” says Padraig. “We just did,” comes the familiar, unison response, “and they told us to come around to you.”

Meanwhile The Go -Betweens still haven’t claimed their glittering prizes. “It’s looking bad for them now,” Boran quips, as he endeavours to redistribute the limited wealth in the few minutes that are now remaining before showtime. “I call this my loaves and fishes routine,” he explains cheerfully, “except the original guy had a much easier gig.”

In the protocol of rock there are those, however, who need never worry about having to rely on miracles.

Enter, on cue, the REM entourage, all booming American voices, hand-shakes and back-slaps, a phalanx of people who seem to move as one unit, carrying themselves in the confident, unconcerned way of Those Who Know They Are Expected. Promotor Denis Desmond, himself hot-foot back from the RDS, is on-hand to accept and exchange greetings and to order instructions that they be immediately shown to their reserved box. As they disappear up the stairs, whoops and hollers from inside the venue indicate the imminent arrival of the night’s main musical attraction...

What with new members and guest-musicians, The Waterboys can come on mob-handed these days, but in their wild mix of musics and personalities, Mike Scott remains an unobtrusive centre-stage focus, decked out tonight in baggy two-piece suit and black shirt with only his mop of curls, barely held in check by a leather fisherman’s cap, suggesting the remnants of the raggle-taggle gypsy look.

They open with a flourish of locomotive bluegrass, Scott simultaneously riding the foot-plate, stoking the fire, and calling out ‘all aboard the train,’ before abruptly changing gear (and mode of transport) for “Strange Boat,” Sharon Shannon’s lilting accordian emphasising the song’s sea-shanty appeal. More abruptly still, Scott suddenly calls proceedings to a shuddering halt mid-song, bending over the lip of the stage for a word in the ear of a security man. One explanation offered later is that, these days, Scott gets genuinely distracted by camera flashes, especially early in the set; thus tonight, photographers are asked not to shoot their shots until near the concert’s end, by which time, presumably, the band are engulfed in their own self-made pyrotechnics.

The stoppage will be the one jarring note in a concert otherwise conspicuously characterised by a communal sense of merriment and intimacy. On the the first night, The Olympic’s stuffy attitude to audience expression had run head-long into Scott’s exhortations for them to get up and dance, but tonight they need no encouragement other than that offered by the music itself and particularly from “A Bang On The Ear” onwards, people power votes emphatically with its feet.

Before that though they get to hear “Girl From The North Country”, which with it’s fiddle and flute embellishment, recalls Dylan’s underated Budokan sound, a gorgeous “When Ye Go Away” with Gerry O’Beirne on second guitar and the intrepid Sharon Shannon playing in a manner as grand and free-flowing as the river with which she shares a name, and, introduced by Anto Thistlethwaite’s big smokey sax, “Has Anybody Here Seen Hank?” replete with cameo appearance by a pantomime character in 100-gallon hat.

The Waterboys’ infatuation with traditional Irish music - increasingly evident both on-stage and off - may have disenchanted those who wanted them to continue with their quest for The Big Music but the balance they’ve now struck bewween Bo Diddley and diddley-eye, between the rib-shaking thud of bass and drums and the mellifluous sorties of fiddle and box, has the capacity to really light the fuse in fusion.

“Old England Is Dying”, pushed by Scott’s urgent, tumbling piano was breathtakingly good, and after Anto Thistlethwaite had, Keith Richards’ style, taken lead vocal on “Billy The Kid”, with its outlaw boast, “21 men I’ve put bullets through and Sherriff Pat Garrett will make 22”, The Waterboys really went through the roof with “A Bang On The Ear”.

Extended from its vinyl incarnation, it formed the centre-piece of the set, combining organ mania, Scott’s electric guitar (the one time he strapped in on - and he made it roar) and, almost as a post-script, a belt of authentic Irish dance music to positively thrilling effect.

“The Whole Of The Moon” however didn’t sound quite the full shilling in its new acoustic-based setting but “Medicine Bow” was ample compensation, the inhaling, exhaling accordion providing a new and striking counterpoint to the song’s fierce rhythmic attack, as dramatised in Scott’s assertion: “I’m gonna play my guitar ‘till my fingers bleed.”

With the crowd now in celebratory mood, and the temperature near boiling point, the remainder of the night was not for note-taking as “Fisherman’s Blues”, Mr. Customs Man” and The Lost Highway”, amongst much else, rocked the house, the ensemble, expanded by the addition of Steve Cooney, Seamus Begley and Gerry O’Beirne, finishing in a flurry of arms and elbow, their musical high-energy reciprocated in full by an animated throng who looked like they might conceivably dance all the way out onto Dame Street.

Gerry O’Beirne, lifting a pint to his mouth in the bar reserved for band and guests after the show, is looking like the cat that got the cream. But it’s more than the Guiness that’s giving him reason to be cheerful.

“That was a big smile on the face gig.” he says, backing up his testimony with just such an expression. Seems that Gerry had had just happened to bump into Mike Scott in a 7-11 store a few nights previously, and The Waterboys’ main-man promptly extended an invitation for him to bring his guitar to the gig. He’d rehearsed with them this afternoon, and here he was now, savouring the after-glow of a performance that had clearly thrilled him.

Forming a little knot in the centre of the slowly-filling room, various R.E.M. people were peering and pointing at something on the wall. This turned out to be the Stall Bar’s legendary depiction of The Last Supper Of Irish Rock, which has confounded even close personal friends of those depicted. Your Hot Press fly-on-the-wall, taking a long, lingering look at this unique work for the first time, decided that the likeness of Van Morrison, was, all things considered not bad really, when someone helpfully pointed out that he was actually looking at Bono.

With Anto Thistlethwaite moonlighting with The Mary Stokes Band up the road in The Wexford Inn; it was Messrs. Wickham and Scott who were the first Waterboys to arrive at the party. While Steve was laughingly down-playing his new role as multi-instrumentalist, Capt. Scott was already set to begin the ‘unwinding’ process by settling down behind the piano to strike up an impromptu band including Sharon Shannon (this time on fiddle) and others.

“Your Cheatin’ Heart” got the aprés-show show on the road, and introduced the dominant small hours theme of a floating cast rendering country, trad and whatever you’re having yourself. More than one person present would subsequently remark on the absence of that atmosphere of strained bonhomie that often characterises post gig bashes, but then this was clearly an evening for friends and family rather than ‘The In Crowd’.

Karen from Chrysalis Records in London was immensly taken by it all and wondered if this was par for the course in Dublin, but we had to disabuse her of the notion that, say, The Pink Elephant would regularly play host to a pick-up band of mandolin, fiddle, accordian and guitar, or a man from HOPE who calls out Ciunnas before essaying a Scottish ballad with his hand clamped firmly over his ear. Hot Press bade farewell around 1.30 a.m; but the music and the jar was apparently flowing for a long time after.

Fast-forward finally to Sunday night and there’s a sense of “Well, it’s over” at the Olympia. The Waterboys have grooved in their summer shorts for four nights and that sense of relaxation and enjoyment has come to the boil. R.E.M. having utilised a welcome night-off to watch The Waterboys for a second time are standing about, approachable and friendly. Michael Stipe is in the corner of the bar. He’s wearing a strange green cap and there’s a “Keep Ireland Clean” leaflet peering from his shirt pocket. Pete Buck looks at ease and the Guinness fortune is gaining in steady pounds.

It’s not a gathering for liggers. Sure, there are plenty of musicians here - unshaven Flowers, Andy White, members of No Sweat and bearded trad warriors keep standing on my toes - but no-one really notices when the seven Waterpeople make their entrance; there’s no grand announcement nor star-struck treatment. They make their way to family but it soon becomes clear that all are part of the extended family that have cocooned, developed and, corny as it may sound, loved these raggle-taggled evacuess for the past few years.

Next door, a session is commencing. The energy-eaten Sharon Shannon and her sister Mary jam with Steve Wickham, Charlie Lennon and would-be bodhran player, Colm “brother of Liam" O’Maonlai. It’s loose and I’m beginning to see some light about where The Waterboys’ world is heading. A singer called Niamh Parsons joins in. She sang with the band earlier onstage and for someone that we know little about, she’s a striking and assured performer.

Back in the heavily peopled Stalls Bar, others continue variations on the theme of winding-down. Colin Blakey sits quiet and contented obviously enjoying his days as a Waterboy and the interest “The Roke” by The Clan is getting. Sharon Shannon bounds in and out, running not walking from relative to session. Mike Scott is surrounded by well-wishers and he looks not unlike a proud father at a wedding. He chats of what is to come; Scandanavia, Spain and Galway. Glastonbury he enjoyed and there’s a mischevious grin when talk turns to the Green Party’s Dail success. He orders a pint, discovers he’s no money but when you’re a Waterboy, there is always a Saint or Angel about to help.

What’s that you say? Did we mention Galway? Well yes actually, the word being that there’s a very strong possibilities of an open-air Waterboys, concert in the City of The Tribes on July 30. That’s presuming, of course, that tonight’s last megabash of the weekend has stopped by then.