The Boy Is Back In Town & Other Stories: Dublin August 05

[apolla]

This is my second attempt at writing this in a manner that is articulate, intelligent and succinct. Not sure how it's going to work out, given that I'm still in the "OMG!" stage. I'll leave my other stuff in the old post, cos I'm sure that most people reading this aren't going to give a flying one about my wander through St Stephen's Green and Dublin Castle.

I might as well just cut to the chase.

On Friday 19th August 2005, I joined four thousand people (according to Roisin Dubh.info) at the junction of Grafton Street and Harry Street, right in the heart of Dublin's shopping district. I was not the only English person there, although I was probably the only person from my own particular suburban hellhole in Hertfordshire.

When we got there about 45mins before, there were already hundreds of people in Harry Street. Living where I do, when I do, I forget sometimes that there are so many other Thin Lizzy fans- I'm so used to having to explain who the fuck Philip Lynott is (I find the quickest way is "The black Irishman who sang The Boys Are Back In Town" but I hate it being that simplistic) that to see a street swarming with fans was very strange. Cool, but strange.

Couldn't see a fucking thing. Am five foot two if I'm lucky and counted myself lucky to be stood at the junction, more or less, of Grafton and Harry Streets. There was a really good atmosphere despite the crowd, and when they started taking the box apart, the crowd kept cheering:

These pictures were taken stood on tiptoes, arms stretched as far up and forwards as I could get without pissing off the people in front of me or falling on my arse, so really it's nice they came out this well. There were speeches that we could hardly hear where we were, then the friendly Garda started to let people through slowly to the statue. It was at this point that people started getting really impatient and pushing a lot. Then they started taking the barriers apart, but a quick and stern word from some dudes in uniform sorted them out pretty quick.

That's the best picture I got of the actual ceremony- that's Philip's mother Philomena with the grey hair. More of her later.

Then, just as we were getting closer, some annoying bird from Sky News barged into us to clear us out a bit so she could film a segment for Sky News. She clearly didn't want to be there, miserable bint, and was just getting in the way. Felt like grabbing the mike from her and doing it properly, but I think I might've got into trouble. Didn't have my NCTJ certificate to wave in her face, did I? /snark.

So anyway, finally got to the statue and it turned out to be pretty nice. I mean, it's not a patch on having the real thing around, but in the absence, it'll have to do. I kept thinking, rank sentimentalist that I am, of a line from Cleopatra: "Why are the eyes of a statue always without life?"

But you know, it could've been worse. It could've been a horrible likeness. They could've made him look unlike himself or ugly. Worse still, it could've been some abstract nonsense that means nothing. In the event it was unmistakeably him, leather trousers, cuban heeled boots, bass and that hair. Yes, this is the closest I'll ever get.

Anyway, it became obvious that the ground floor of the Bruxelles had been taken over for the VIP guests and stuff- the fans hanging through the window gave it away. Managed to get close enough to take a picture of Brian Downey and Eric Bell's heads, then a bloke who'd handed Downey his record collection to sign panicked when the overwhelmed drummer handed them back in the opposite direction. Cue a lot of running and "They're mine!" shouting from him and snickers from everyone else.

Then, Rachel grabbed my arm and pulled me away from said window, because she saw that a lady had just emerged out of the bar to have a cigarette (smoking's banned in Irish pubs and stuff now). Despite being quite clearly overwhelmed by the whole thing, Philomena Lynott had come out for a fag. With the glass in one hand and the cig in the other, she reminded me of every somewhat elderly Irish lady I've ever known (and there's been a few). Now, I'm one of those people who does not like to bug people just because they're famous/whatever. I don't think I have an automatic right to talk to them...

but fuck me, I'd gone all that way, I was a foot away from her and I was going to talk to her. Anyway, she smiled at me and I just said in that babbling sort of way that I knew she was talking and stuff, but that I just wanted to say that her son means the world to me. She also saw my notebook in hand and asked if I was doing an interview!

I got to tell Philomena that Philip means the fucking world to me. I wasn't yet four years old when our boy died, and I'll never get to say it to him, but I got to tell Philomena. And in response she smiled, thanked me and asked if I liked the statue. I said yes, etc, that I'd been a bit leery of how it might've turned out but that it was cool. She said that if any birds tried to defecate on it, she'd shoot them.

And then this:

By the way, she'd look less OMG if it weren't for the bloke who tried to put Rachel off taking the picture but just distracted Philomena. Git. Anyway, Philomena is beautiful and gracious. I'm not used to seeing people in her position being so open and friendly- most of the people I've liked down the years have either been dead or inaccessible. Yet almost every Lizzy fan has their own Philomena story, and I know we love her for it. She has given us her son, and we love her for it.

Back to Friday: We went into the Bruxelles (downstairs of course, because the ground floor was for the lucky bastards) to get a drink, and I was in a weirdly happy-manic state far beyond my usual eyebrow-quirked-cynicism thing. So we're sitting there and next thing I know, Eric Bell is there downstairs talking to us plebes.

For those of you unfamiliar with him, Eric Bell played the guitar on the Lizzy rock version of 'Whiskey In The Jar'. If you've heard the awful Metallica version, he's the guy they've ripped it off. Suffice to say that the camera got pulled out pretty quickly again. Got his autograph and said that he was part of the reason I got into Lizzy because I saw him in the line-up on Buzzcocks. This is true- it was that moment that made me buy more than just Jailbreak and a Best Of I already had. He said that Buzzcocks had been a weird experience, and then Rachel took a picture:

Could've been better if he'd had his eyes open, but I'll take what I can get. Anyway, Eric spent ages downstairs with the fans, rather than the select few upstairs, and I think that was very cool.

It was at this point that Rach and me went back up into the street, which was still full of people milling around. Noticed a small throng around someone, and it turned out to be Darren Wharton, he of late-period Lizzy keyboards fame:

Darren, to my mind, is one of those people involved in the Lizzy legend for whom we fans (and I really can only speak for myself) have a lot of respect but not necessarily affection. And from the back he looks like Brian May, which made me snicker.

Anyway, we hung around outside a bit longer- everyone was dead cheerful and everything, the sun was shining. We were about to sod off to Temple Bar when Rachel once again noticed a throng (I was much too manic to notice anything at all). Now, Rachel is not a Thin Lizzy fan, but she knows a throng when she sees one. She asked who it was and it took me a minute to realise, because last time I'd seen this bloke, he'd been 18 years old and on a DVD. But it was unmistakeably Robbo. I just stood there for a minute, which gave him the opportunity to make a break for the Westbury Hotel, where I suspect they'd all been put up. I was happy to just watch for a sec, cos you know, if he's trying to feck off back to his hotel, it's not cool to chase after him. But other people waylaid him, so Rachel pushed me across Harry Street to the hotel, where I said the following once everyone else had fucked off (poor bloke was just trying to get inside to get a drink). This is loosely paraphrased cos I don't remember what the fuck I said:

Clare: Er, Robbo, I know you're after getting a drink but would you, like, you know mind if I got a photo and that and please and so on...
Robbo: Yeah, all right.

He was really very sweet about it, wrapped his arm around me waist and Rachel took a picture:

By the way, I really wish I didn't have that stupid "OMG I'M WITH A FAMOUS PERSON!!!!OMG" look on my face in all these pictures, but what can you do? Anyway, more niceness from Robbo and his mate, who offered to take a pic with him of me and Rach. Both were patient while he worked out how to use said camera:

He's really very thin, and was wearing flip flops with his leather trousers. But coming from someone who once wore spangly purple spandex trousers in a video, I'm not surprised. And if you're wondering why the fuss about this bloke who looks older than his years (but looks younger than he deserves), let me tell you that among other things, he played on The Boys Are Back In Town, and you all know that one. I don't know what he's been up to since leaving the band, although I know he's been around.

Anyway, after that, Rachel dragged me away from the scene before I caused some sort of jail-worthy scene. Went to Oliver St John Gogarty's to show Rach some trad. Irish music. then went back to hostel and collapsed. I fell asleep listening to Thin Lizzy on my iPod.

Went to Jameson's on Saturday morning, where I got to the do the Whiskey Taste Test. This was fine during the Irish whiskeys part, but less good during the Scotch moment, cos I fucking hate that stuff. And the bourbon selected was Jim Beam, and I hate that. Anyway, turns out I like Power more than Jamesons, but if it's Irish, I'd probably drink it. Then it was off to Dublinia to muck about with the interactive learning, to City Hall and then to O'Neill's for a bucketful of lunch. But we don't really care about that, do we?

No.

Got ready for concert at the Point Theatre:

I dug the hat much more than the top thing, by the way. Ended up chucking a shirt on over it to look less like everyone else. Walked to the Point - much further than it looked and waited in the queue for ages, cos they didn't open the doors on time.

***

Managed to get to the front, stage right as you look from the audience. Had a family from Norfolk in front/to the side and some Irish blokes probably in their early twenties to the other side. Had only daughter of the Norfolk lot in between me and the front barrier. Nice.

Anyway, the concert started with a band called Neutonic playing with a girl singer called Alaska Lyle. Arena barely 1/5 full at this point, and although I don't dig the art of dodging support acts (you miss some good stuff sometimes, and you know, Lizzy played support once), I don't think the people hanging at the bar actually missed anything. Alaska was OK, but Neutonic were... I do not mind showboating guitarists if they have something to show for it. Gary Moore himself used to leap around the stage like a Mexican Jumping Bean on Gummiberry Juice, but he had the musical chops to back it up. This dude from Neutonic who was the singer and lead guitarist was just a show-off.

A group called 'Skye' were next, featuring a much too excited singer chick and stolen Led Zeppelin riffs. Their first song was such a blatant rip-off of Stairway that people in the audience started singing the fucking words to it. Their second seemed hopeful but then just segued into Kashmir-but-not. It basically sounded to me like some 12 year old getting the originals wrong! Also, while the singer was OK-but-not-great, her backing singer girl was properly bad. Smushing modern RnB with rock would be a better idea if the people involved could actually do it.

Next was Dare, featuring Darren Wharton. Considering he was the keyboardist in Lizzy, he didn't go anywhere near the keyboards. Anyway, they got the first warm reception of the evening, and they weren't bad in a sort of Terry Wogan radio show way... until they did a cover of Emerald.

Advice to wannabe musos: Do not take a heavy metal song at a tribute to the singer full of metalheads and turn it into a pan-pipe, Celtic Collection compilation style caper. It just didn't work. In another context on another day, it might be OK, but not then, man. It wasn't my cup of tea personally, but as a cover it didn't suck.

Have you ever waited forty-five minutes for something? Trains, planes, automobiles? Parents? Children? Spouses? Television shows? Have you ever waited, stood up in a crowd, for something you don't even want? Welcome to my world while waiting for Wheatus. I don't know what possessed them to book said group for this particular event, because the metallers weren't exactly thrilled to see them in the first place. After that long waiting (due to technical problems, which seemed related only to the button that made the singer's guitar semi-acoustic sound electric rather than just amplified, in which case he should've just cut to the chase and saved us all precious minutes of our lives), the audience were shouting obscenities and cheering "Lizzy! Lizzy!" over and over, as if that would fucking help matters.

At this point, a smelly, drunken Scots fuckwit appeared behind us, jeering, baying and generally making himself a nuisance, thinking that pushing us would make us move out of his way so he could be at the front. It did not. He seemed only to be there for Gary Moore. Nuggets of wisdom from said fuckwit, directed mostly towards Wheatus:

"Ah, Garreh will blow ye off the stage, ye bastards!"

"Garreh! Garreh, fookin' show these bastards!" and that sort of thing. A brief word from a very large security dude shut him up, but he remained pungent and annoying for the rest of the night.

Anyway, Wheatus sucked, as Wheatus do, but at least they got on eventually. They got bottled a few times and most people just shouted during their set. They were then followed by Johnny Fean, a great guitarist and member of Irish folk heroes Horslips, and a group of assembled musicians (Danielle Pfiffner, Jason Swindle and Neil Murray) who suffered from not being able to hear themselves in a nostalgically typical Lizzy shambles kind of way. He sang Jericho and Trouble With A Capital T and then the woman sang a terrible version of Because The Night. Terrible because she clearly couldn't hear what she was doing, and terrible cos it's a pants song.

Then finally, finally it was time. Philomena came on to say a few words and to have us sing Happy Birthday to Philip.

Watching a bunch of heavy metal fans who'd been heckling Wheatus get teary-eyed as an old lady asked them to sing Happy Birthday would've amused me if I hadn't been busy singing my own little heart out.

Brush Shiels, Dublin personality/musician/friend of Teh Philip, then came out to sing a song for his old friend and then it was time for he Scotsman's calls for 'Garreh' to be answered.

It's at this point I should point out that some of these are really blurry cos being at the front I was being pushed around constantly. Bah.

He opened with one of his, then went into Jailbreak. I should also apologise for lack of set list- wrote it all on the back of my hand but had the wrong fucking pen and the spangly blue just smeared up my arm. Will try to remember, but I abandoned any journalistic principles and lessons I learned up North in order to stand screaming like everyone else.

The last time I saw Thin Lizzy was in 1979. Well, that's not true, but the last Thin Lizzy video I watched before getting on the plane to Dublin was 'With Love', made during the Roisin Dubh era, when Gary Moore and his gold spangly jacket were part of the gang. Back then, they were all lithe and vital, young and boisterous. Scott Gorham's hair was long enough and fabulous enough for a Pantene commercial, while Philip was at his most devilishly charming: "This casanova's roving days are over... more or less."

So you might imagine that the next time I saw them, August 2005, would be a bit of a shock. Visually you'd be right. Gary Moore's got genuinely middle aged in all ways, but I saw him on Never Mind The Buzzcocks back awhile ago (Mark Lamarr: He once played behind Phil Lynott and now it's Phill Jupitus, now isn't that a comedown?). Unlike many rockers of his age, Gary seems to have allowed himself to grow old genuinely and gracefully (take that Sir Mick and Botox McCartney) and I find that very cool.

More importantly than that, the man can still play a mean old blues riff. Unlike the Not-Doors back at Wembley, this was about music. Unlike Ian Astbury, Gary Moore does not have to pretend to be anything or anyone he is not. There was no Philip wannabe up on stage- in fact, the bassist made a point of being as unobtrusive as possible.

Gary made an attempt or two at "Are you out there?" in a Philo-style, but it wasn't about trying to emulate him- Gary's never needed to do that - he's the one that left Lizzy back in the day to pursue his own solo career. That was what made this as good as it was.

He doesn't leap around like he used to (I don't think he stands still for a second during the Sydney concert back in 78) but the expressions are still there:  the "This is SO intense!" grimaces and the 'Concentrating Really Hard' hunched over the guitar, the "Man, this is almost too much!" head throwback moves are all still there.

He sang the slow version of Don't Believe A Word, which I don't think he pulled off well. It may be that it's the most played song on my iPod right now (beating out the Doors and Robert Plant by quite a margin). But you know, it's one of those songs that pretty much lays everything down. In it, the singer says basically "I'm a bastard and a liar and you shouldn't believe anything I say. I'm a scoundrel, but you know what? You love me anyway. I'm a bastard, and I'm sorry about that, really I am, but it won't change."

The likes of Philip Lynott, with charisma by the truckload and charm by the tonnage can pull this off. If Errol Flynn was a rock star, he could've done it. Gary Moore, great guitarist though he is, has never been a showman or a frontman like that, and it doesn't work with this song, no matter how strong a singer he is (he's not bad).

He brought Robbo out first, and I'm open to correction but I think this is the first time these two guys have played together- certainly on this scale. They played Emerald, and did a much better job of it than Darren did. I think, given that I can't play you the music, that it's best I just present you with the visual record:

Seeing these two on a stage together, these two guitar monsters, was like nothing else... except perhaps Lizzy in their heyday. When they played the extended solos on Emerald, in beautiful, perfectly-timed harmony, it was like heaven. It was like the moment during the Not-Doors concert (I know I'm talking about that a lot, but it's the best comparison I've got) when Ray played the Light My Fire intro... except that this wasn't just five seconds. This was two great guitarists getting the best out of each other, like some cutting contest in the jazz clubs of Harlem. I could've stood there and listened to these two guys until I fell over, and even then I'd probably lie on the cold concrete floor, getting trampled, and still carry on listening. I'm practically Sally fucking Simpson or something.

Anyway, all too soon it was time for Robbo to depart, which he did with all the goodwill in the building directed solely towards him. Then we were told one Mr S. Gorham would be coming out to join Gary. A flash of blond hair caused an uproar, but it was gone, only to be replaced by chants of "Scotty! Scotty!" and the following remark from Moore:

"There's always some fucking cunt late in this fucking band."

Which aside from being a little inarticulate and a lot funny, says a great deal about Lizzy through the ages.

- The Late Scott Gorham.

So anyway, he arrived after a minute or two with his black Stratocaster, which he's apparently been playing for the last eight years, having ditched the Les Paul. Him and Gary played a little song you may have heard of called The Boys Are Back In Town. Crowd went mental, I took lots of pictures.

Uncharacteristically Girlish Ramblings About Which I Should Know Better: Scott's hair is too light. At least it's long - it's my educated opinion that there are two people in rock and roll who must never lose their hair: Robert Plant and Scott Gorham. Girly pigeonholing it may be, but they need to be longhaired in my opinion. Anyway, he doesn't look too bad, but I think he's had some work done. Unlike Gary though, he still roves over the stage like he used to, and of course those "I'm so into this I'm practically shagging this guitar, you know" expressions haven't disappeared off his face.

Oh and you know, he winked at me. Yes, I know that everyone in an audience thinks that someone on stage looked right at them, but I should point out that the lights up the front were on, so the guys on stage could actually see us lot at the front, and I'm not the only one- practically the first thing Rachel said to me as we left was "You know the blond one winked at you, right?" It was probably a 'that girl down there seems to be louder than us' look, but whatever.

Back to the music, which is the important thing. Like Gary and Robbo before him, Scott can still really play. I missed out on seeing 'Thin Lizzy' a few months back in London because I didn't really want to see 'Thin Lizzy'. However, if he played then like he did on Saturday, I missed out.

And then, man alive and Gott in Himmel, they played Roisin Dubh! This is the song that pulled me into Lizzy. I liked The Boys Are Back In Town and I liked Whiskey In The Jar and Dancing In The Moonlight, but the song that pulled me into a life of Lizzy t-shirts, copies of Kerrang! from 1983 bought off eBay and a trip to Dublin to see a statue, was Roisin Dubh. It's nearly 8 minutes long and manages to reference Cu Chulainn, Van Morrison, Brendan Behan and Thin Lizzy themselves in the whole thing. I stupefied my music class in the third year at uni by playing it to them in class. The 'is this Danny Boy on an electric guitar?' look on their faces will stay with me forever. Anyway, it's that song, as far as I'm concerned, and to hear Gary Moore and Scott Gorham play it to me on Philip's birthday was something I'll fucking remember for the rest of my life.

It was pretty good, by the way. Again, I think it's best I just show you the pictures:

Scott went off after that, to be replaced by the first guitarist Thin Lizzy ever had, Eric Bell. Gary described him as the only one who could play Whiskey In The Jar properly, but Eric's been saying that himself for years.

Also, he shared singing duties on it with Gary. Have never heard Eric sing before, and he's not bad.

It was around this time that we became aware of someone skulking with a camera in the wings, and the sight of Brian Robertson filming the concert and then filming the cameraman filming the concert caused much merriment, which was nice because it was, if I recall, during Gary's extended solo.

Now, let me explain. Once Eric left the stage after Whiskey, Gary started in on the first verse of Old Town. Being in Dublin for this concert, I thought hearing that song would be wonderful- I'd only just been on the Ha'penny Bridge the day before, the very spot Philip filmed the video for said song. I'm taken to understand it's a bit of a Dublin anthem, so I thought it would be so cool.

Except that he stopped there and went into Parisienne Walkways instead. And when I say went into, imagine the song is a department store. He went in through the front door, up the escalators to the very top of the store and dawdled his way back down through every conceivable department, stopping to test the furniture, try on some clothes, check out some housewares and search for Christmas presents for all the family.

You might say it went on for awhile. You might say it had more false endings than Return Of The King. Now, I didn't particularly mind, because as a Led Zeppelin fan, I'm well used to three-day-long solos. After hearing the likes of drum solos like Ginger Baker's Toad, it's hardly even a hardship to get through a very long guitar solo.

Rachel, on the other hand, had never heard the likes of this before in her life, and I'm taken to understand that she'd started to give herself a DIY tracheotomy in order to have something more enjoyable to do.

I've heard long guitar solos before and they've felt like they only lasted a minute. This felt like it lasted a fortnight. A fortnight, if you'll allow another Blackadderian metaphor, in Butlins, Bognor Regis with only a copy of a How To Build Your Own Carburettor manual for reading material and Peter Andre for company. Seriously, Gary Moore is a great guitarist. I've always thought so and he proved it earlier on. This solo was boring and lasted much too long.

And of course, he was sweating to Angus Young proportions by this time- he'd been on stage a bloody long time.

It's at this point I should mention someone who has gone as-yet unmentioned. Brian Downey. The reason you see no pictures of Brian is because I couldn't see him. I think of all my photographs, you can only see him on the drums in one of Robbo, because the way the cymbals were angled, I couldn't see him at all. I could, however, hear him. Brian Downey, who to me has always reminded me of all the very Irish looking blokes I've grown up around, has more power and consistency in his arms now than many drummers today have in their youth. To me, he's always come across as quietly brilliant, the kind of musician who sits down, gets on with it and does it in style. That's what he did on Saturday. With the revolving door policy towards guitarists (a comment on the career of Thin Lizzy if ever there was one), hearing Briandowneyondrums all the way through was, as it was back in the day, the glue that kept it all together.

And finally, at the end, I got my picture:

And then... that was that. No amount of chanting or cheering got them back out on stage. There was no encore. No moment even where they were all stood on the same stage at the same time. No moment of 'let's all get on stage and have a Philip moment'. Now, perhaps I'm just more sentimental than them. Perhaps I've got no understanding of the shit that I'm sure is still going on between them all, the complex power struggles, ego wars and bullshit rock macho nonsense, but couldn't we get one fucking moment? One?

Anyway, we hung around the front barriers for a few minutes, just waiting, watching, even after it became clear they weren't coming back on (the dismantling of Downey's drums being the big clue), and it was just as well really, because who should emerge from backstage but Robbo, still with his camcorder, now recording everyone who was hanging around. I know he's been a tosser in the past and possibly in the present, but on Friday and Saturday, he was an impish, cheeky specimen and it's easy to see why he's so beloved of Lizzy fans, even without his guitar skills.

Then, that was it. Over. We wandered out into the cold night air and left it all behind. Well, not entirely. We walked all the way from the Point along the Liffey, right back up Westmorland Street and back to the shiny new statue of Philip, for I had decided that I wanted a photo with it (finally- hadn't been able to get close the day before) after his concert and on his birthday. Despite the late hour, it turned out that a lot of the audience had had a similar idea, but I wasn't going without my picture:

And yes, we're both wearing Cuban heeled boots. Note if you will the concert tickets left by other fans. Hopefully this particular rock shrine will be treated better than one in Paris that will remain nameless but covered in fucking graffiti.

A trip to Burger King later and we left the day behind.

You know, before going, I was terrified that it would suck. I'd said so. I was praying that it wouldn't be another Not-Doors, because I wouldn't be able to accept that from these guys.

It did not happen, because they are all fine musicians. They have nothing left to prove, so they just play. None of them need to pretend to be anything they're not, so they don't do dodgy impressions of other people that leave me cold. They've all pretty much accepted that they're older now, and that's cool. Rock and roll doesn't have to be a young man's game, but it's generally best when it's honest and real.

But it was not Thin Lizzy. In fairness, it wasn't even billed like that. 'Gary Moore & Very Special Guests' it says on the programme, which cost twenty sodding Euros and wasn't even fucking proofread, but that's another issue. That's exactly how it went, but everyone was there for Thin Lizzy.

But Philip was not there. I'm not going to try the 'ah, he was there in spirit!' thing, because that's not what comes out of amplifiers. Did they do a really bang-up job because it was for Philip? Probably, but he was not there. He was not there any more than The Beatles can be found at the Cavern these days. There was a Philip shaped hole in the middle of that stage, no matter how unobtrusive-but-solid the bassist was, no matter how much Gary put into his singing, no matter how nice the statue was.

The tragic thing to me? If the others are still this fantastic, imagine what 56 year old Philip would be like! I imagine there'd be nothing to stop him conquering the world, but the reality is that he could not even conquer himself. I've loved Lizzy and their singerman for a fucking long time, and I will for the rest of my life. Being able to be there for that unveiling and that concert was unreal to the point I can still hardly believe it. I was there. I was there, but he was not. Imagine if he had been.

That Moore solo would've been more bearable, for a start.

For all the lack of Phil, for all the dull solowork, for all the lack of an encore and the dodgy support acts, it still blew my mind. They still got it, baby. Rock and roll is no longer the preserve of the young men, because the young men who did it best have got older. Older, but not necessarily old.

By the way, on Sunday I finally got the picture I really wanted - me with the Bronze Philip, the crowds now quieted enough to get it:

I swear, I've never been to one statue so many times in my bloody life.

And just to finish (finally!), the morning after the concert before, at the Guinness Storehouse. Note if you will the bad back, exhaustion and ever present new hat:

To borrow a phrase from Bernard Cribbins: And then we went home. PS. Don't nick my photographs. I doubt any of you would want to, but a vague disclaimer is nobody's friend.

Comments

[annearchy.livejournal.com]

You had a wonderful trip. Great photos. Good thing I'm not on dialup!! :)

[marquiserachel.livejournal.com]

Oh my god. The solo that would not end. No matter how much I prayed. Seriously, this man needs to know when to Give. It. A. Rest.

[empressov.livejournal.com]

Ooh, excellent pictures! It looks like you had a blast! And also, I soooo want a hat like that--hee!