|
|
|
|
|
|
|
It wasn't really the 10th anniversary of Fleadh, as the posters claimed - that's next year - but any excuse for a party. And for almost the first time since the Irish-music thrash launched in 1990, the weather obliged. Sunshine at Glastonbury, now the Fleadh -next thing you know, there will be reports of Van Morrison smiling. Hell has yet to freeze over, though, and Morrison, making his biannual Fleadh appearance, was still the picture of old grumphood. Thanks, though, Van, for opening with the classic Here Comes The Night and Brown-Eyed Girl, proving that you weren't always an irascible sub-jazz bore.
Most of the other 30-odd acts were set on making the most of the heat, which had induced much of the crowd to simply flop on to blankets and fall asleep. Even Elvis Costello, hardly Mr Entertainment, bustled on with a cheery "How ya doin'?" His crowd-pleasing best-of set (Accidents Will Happen, Oliver's Army), which he has toured with pianist Steve Nieve for the past few months, was exactly right. Elvo inspires respect rather than excitement, but his punk-era hits inspired a golden glow in the oldies and indulgent foot-tapping in the youngies.
That he was billed under Ronan Keating can only be a sign of the times. The Boyzone leader, introduced as "the most gorgeous man at the festival", received the reaction diplomatically known as "mixed". Women cheered, men jeered and one couple played backgammon rather than watch him sing his four songs. None was a Boyzone number, which was a misjudgment, for gorgeousness doesn't give license to bore with unfamiliar tunes performed with a stolidity that makes Billy Bragg look like Elvis Presley.
Keating should have checked out Lonnie Donegan. The presence of the skiffle relic went un explained - a Glastonburyish heritage spot? - but he was the surprise hit of the day. Lonnie and his band have a combined age of around 480, but played their ancient tunes with teenage verve, while the actual teenagers somehow knew every word. The sight of 18-year-olds stamping their trainers to Rock Island Line suggests that an Ibiza remix can't be far behind.
Donegan may be three times the age of Shane MacGowan, but I know who I'd lay odds on living to see the millennium. Headlining the second stage, MacGowan painfully made his way to the mike, slurred a few words, lurched into one of his identikit Oirish drinking songs, then did it again, wheezing and waving a wine bottle as the house delightedly encouraged him. But he never missed his cues, hinting that the plastered act might just be a bit of stagecraft. In any case, he's been getting away with it far too long. He and third stage headliner Ardal O'Hanlon (best joke: something about air-kissing that ended with "Get off me, you European style-bastard!") drew the biggest late-evening crowds, leaving The Pretenders to play their main stage show to a diminished house.
They made the best of it, with tender-tough icon Chrissie Hynde. Dedicating songs to Patsy Kensit and long-deceased early Pretenders James Scott and Pete Farndon, she provided a sweet conclusion to a day of sunny delight.