IT WAS in Heartbeat City in Tullamore that Six probably began to realise that it was all over. There they sat, all six, behind a desk in a record shop waiting to sign copies of their new single. Just a few months previously, pandemonium was the order of the day on Grafton Street when Six turned up for a signing session at HMV. Gardaí were called and private security was required to deal with screaming, hyperventilating fans.
Six had the fastest-selling Irish single of all time, and the band who had been found through a TV talent show and launched at a do in a brewery starring Bertie Ahern himself were set to be the smiling, happy faces of Ireland 2002.
In Tulla- more, how- ever, Six waited and waited for fans to show. Waited for anyone to show. The single played over and over again on the in-shop sound system. Those with the band tried to avoid looking them in the eye. An album and a tour would follow, but it was too late. The swiftest rise and speediest fall in Irish pop history was on.
Three years later, Six are just another band who didn't become the new Westlife or Boyzone. They join the unlamented Carter Twins on the list of Louis Walsh acts who failed to do what he claimed they would do. There's probably a footnote on file in the Sony-BMG accounts department about unrecouped costs and a large consignment of their debut album sitting in a landfill somewhere.
Meanwhile, the band members get on with their lives. It was fun while it lasted, but it probably left a bitter taste in their mouths. Pop failure always does.
Yet, what happened to Six should be a lesson to those acts who have emerged from the hothouse environment of Irish TV talent shows. There's no denying the power of TV to catapult an act to a higher level, but there's also no doubting the power of TV to pick donkeys rather than thoroughbreds.
The latest poor sods to fall off the TV talent show merry-go- round are Donna and Joseph McCaul. A brother and sister from Athlone, the McCauls aim to boldly go where Mickey "Joe" Harte and Chris Doran have gone before them and represent Ireland in the Eurovision Song Contest. Before they leave the country, the pair will be styled, groomed and coached. Expect to see many soft-soap features in the Irish press on the McCauls as they prepare to sing their little hearts out on their big night out in Kiev.
It's only when the contest ends, the fancy suits are put away and the pair are back in Athlone that the story will really begin to get interesting.
Just as Six met their Waterloo when the prop of TV exposure was pulled out from under them, the McCauls and their karaoke routine will not appear quite so attractive six months from now. Indeed, by the time next year's You're a Star bandwagon starts its engines, the McCauls may well have returned to semi-obscurity in their hometown, unless they actually win the damn thing.
But do not underestimate the fickle nature of pop. Six months after selling 120,000 copies of their debut single and breaking numerous chart records in the process, Six were a beaten docket. Little had changed: the band had not altered their musical style, they had not rapidly improved or deteriorated, and they hadn't become devil worshippers.
Instead, it was the public that had changed. They decided that they had had enough of Six. They wanted something new. They wanted something different. They wanted Mickey Joe Harte.
How long, then, until the public tires too of You're a Star and other TV talent shows? Global trends indicate that recent winners are finding the TV talent show tag more of a hindrance than a help.
A ratings slump would be bad news for RTÉ and those record companies who have bet the house on these shows as revenue and talent sources, but it would be good news for the rest of us. Proof finally that you won't always find real music talent on your TV no matter how hard you look.
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