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 a lurid stadium rock fandango, the profoundly anonymous other two - if possible even more faceless in real life - dispensing contrite grins and winks and nudges. The Corrs try very hard at seeming fazed by the scale of their surroundings. After all, mammy might be watching - wouldn't do to come over like Celine Dione in a strop.
A clever gambit; play down your success, make like you're shy, gobsmacked, ill-at-ease with the vast banks of vid screes and horizon-gobbling audience. Ireland doesn't like its pop stars to swagger, to revel in their success. We don't go for big, hollow, gestures - how many of us secretly think U2 would be better off without Bono?
It can't last of course. The Corrs sell squillions of records and pack arenas in places Boyzone haven't even heard of. These aren't four winsome girl/ boy next door types who got lucky any more - how could they possibly be? 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 pretension that 40,000 bawling fans could possibly leave them wide-eyed and awestruck ever again and settle down for an evening of pomp and excess worthy of Pink Floyd at their irony-free heyday.
An airbrushed folk session grotesque in its Dionysian immensity unfolds. 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 (those accents - were did they come from? Certainly several thousand miles away from Dundalk), 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 - only, let's be honest, everybody has come to hear the hits and can only imbibe so much vacuum-packed pseudo-Celtic shlock. Sure, this stuff probably goes down a riot in Buenos Aires or Tokyo or wherever but it just won't cut it this close to home.
The Corrs, however, are nothing if not consummate in their professionalism; just as an air of abashed restlessness has settled about Landsowne Road they resume their amble through those breezy radio hits. For our patience, we are rewarded with Runaway, Forgiven Not Forgotten et al. Phew! for a while there, this was in danger of turning into Spinal Tap with tin whistles. Not a comforting thought.
Still, such a nice family . . .