A Complete Explanation Of Everything

A report from the frontline of the irish music scene.

Thomas Read's played host last night to the Sunday Roast, an acoustic type get together in Dublin's city centre supposedly aimed at those wishing to simply chill out from the excess of Saturday night.

It was Rob who mooted the possibly of going in and despite the excess of his Saturday night made it, whilst I dragged from myself from Suburbia and a ridiculously undebauched weekend to cast critical eye and ear over proceedings. Our merry group was rounded out by the addition of Hugh and an unexpected Gar. The musicians in question clearly had quite a task ahead to get any kudos from this lot.

Despite being advertised for 8pm, proceedings did not get underway until roughly 9pm when the diminutive Shelley took the stage. The west coast usian drawl that accompanied the in-between song banter was not out of place with the self-professed "glam-folk" that she was peddling. I kept thinking Mamas & Papas minus the resplendent harmonies.

Rather more advanced in years than the main act, you'd wonder what Shelley's goals actually are in terms of music in Dublin at this point. If she's here to have a good time and play some gigs more power to her plectrum I'd say but anything more than that would seem unthinkable based on last night's performance.

Then came ms Bluechild, seemingly hailing from Australia, apparently if we'd been keeping an ear to the radiocharts (something I never do and by the cut of the jib of the audience in the pub, I wasn't alone in this) then we'd have been exposed to ms Bluechild long previously. She certainly wasn't backwards in coming forwards with that information and it wasn't long before the studied indifference of her audience made ms Bluechild rather catty.

The addition of keys, to the now standard male guitarist accompanying female artist hardly clarified proceedings, the sound was muddy at best and the organisers minds were clearly focused on the prospect of picking up a gong at the Fringe Fest awards across town. This hampered the technical delivery of the uber bland pop that ms Bluechild seems to trade in but quite honestly the audience didn't give a fig, or even a complementary roast potato which the house was offering (Sunday Roast, get it?) and were lost in contemplation of their metropolitan selves.

Meanwhile, back at our table, Rob was kicking my ass in chess. It was two stupid moves to one in his favour and defeat was but a moment away.

Approaching 11pm, Rebecca Collins flanked by another member of the Dublin's female phalanx of sultry chanteuses, Miriam Ingram and accompanied by accordion and trumpet took the spotlight. This was not the first occasion that the music of Collin's has graced our ears and though years have passed, it still retains to my taste that originality which is crucial and has only been improved by advances in technique and songsmithery.

I didn't know any of the tunes from past incarnations tonight but what was played was certainly enough to whet one's appetite for an eventual, fully realised, commercial release from the girl.

It can't come too soon.