They are of course unfailingly polite; Andrea all frantic schoolgirl squeaks and florid curtsies, Caroline coyly demure, acknowledging the front row shrieks as if this were merely a Sunday night fiddle 'n' bodhran knees-up in some pokey midlands pub rather than a lurid stadium rock fandango, the profoundly anonymous other two dispensing contrite grins and winks and nudges. The Corrs try very hard to seem fazed by the scale of their surroundings.
A clever gambit; play down your success, make like you're shy, gobsmacked, ill-at-ease with the vast banks of video screens and the horizon-gobbling audience. Ireland doesn't like its pop stars to swagger, to revel in their success. So, a smattering of favourites, Only when I Sleep, What can I do to Make you Love me, perfunctorily dispensed with, they curtly drop the pretence that 40,000 bawling fans could possibly leave them wide-eyed and awestruck ever again.
Traditional airs drift past like smoke from a plane wreck; Jimmy McCarthy's Heaven Knows is dusted and then watered down, the Corrs, at last enjoying themselves, variously wiggle exposed midriffs, dispense bland banter and play improv jazz piano mush.
It's all perfectly lovely - no matter how some of us might loathe them for their mildness and unremitting chirpiness we have to admit the Corrs can play. And such a nice family . . .
