"Ah, sure he's one of our own," proclaimed a portly gentleman with a beer belly - it, and him, swaying unsteadily in front of the urinals. "And I knew him way back in the early Seventies when he had only a battered piano."
An audience, predominantly comprising women "of a certain age" lurched to and from the bar of the Olympia theatre, clutching large plastic beakers of beer or g and t, bosoms heaving, chattering excitedly, for once the stylised DART accent noticably absent. The ladies, women accompanied by sheepish looking husbands, many sporting peaked caps, were intent on reawakening the fevered fantasies of their teenage years. And, borne along on a wave of nostalgia, there would be no stopping them.
Frizzy-haired troubadour
Through a fog of cigarette smoke, snippets of conversation floated round the densely packed bar - past operations, errant husbands and lovers, hairdressing disasters, and troublesome offspring. Overhanging all was a palpable excitement at having the opportunity to worship at the altar of a frizzy-haired troubadour who, all these years later, could still awaken pulsating emotions. "Oh God, Mary, did you see him on the Late Late?. Wasn't he only gorgeous? He hasn't changed in 30 years. And that hair. . .it can't still be all his own, surely?"
The object of all this admiration was a certain Gilbert O'Sullivan, the stage name of Raymond Edward O'Sullivan, born in Waterford in 1946. He changed his name prior to releasing his first top-selling song, Nothing Rhymed. Gilbert, for anyone from the Planet Zog not familiar with his work, is a prolific and accomplished songwriter and singer with a string of hits. He specialises in bouncy, foot-tapping, "sing-along" lyrics which often contain layers of "deeper" meaning.
Highly successful in the 1970s, he is currently on tour promoting a new album which, it is hoped, will bring his music to a new audience, while maintaining that loyal fan-base among the HRT generation.
"The performance will be starting in three minutes," an announcement gravely intoned. My wife and I sat uncomfortably alone in a near empty theatre. Ten minutes later, having been prised out of the bar, groups of giggling ladies came tripping - literally, in some cases - down the aisles, clutching their drinks. In the boxes other boxes were being opened, Big Macs and French fries to sustain the body, while the musical soul roamed free for a few hours. It was going to be that sort of night.
Stencilled letters
We rose, as one does, to allow a group of high-spirited women slide by to their seats. The first had a large red capital "L" stencilled on her sweater, the second had the letter "B" covering an ample bosom, the third an "R". . .well, you get the picture. Alas, we were sandwiched between "B" and "E". but some good-humoured banter, and a mutually agreed realignment of the seating arrangements, restored the correct alphabetical sequence. Drinks were slopped, crisp packets rustled, the lights dimmed amid squeaks of anticipation.
Then Gilbert loped onstage, thin, angular, frizzy-haired. As his fingers keyboarded their way through the opening numbers, our alphabetical ladies, though appreciative, were distinctly restive. They wanted the old, familiar songs, played for hours in bedrooms on rainy Sunday afternoons on battered record players. At last Gilbert obliged. ` Now here's one for you, which you may know," he smiled winsomely. "I know the one I'd like to give him," Ms T, to my right, shrieked. To the familiar strains of Claire, and I Will, our phalanx of ladies rose, arms outstretched, singing and swaying.
The rapturous response spurred Gilbert into some interaction with the audience. Someone asked what colour knickers he most fancied to be flung onstage. "Please, no more knickers," he grinned ruefully, "although I did have a bra thrown onstage in Limerick."
Apart from some glitches in the opening chords of some songs, words and music tumbled effortlessly from our troubador. A track from his new album, along with more of those oldies, kept the fans swaying and singing. "I have picked up a viral infection," our hero said, "but I'm not seeking sympathy." A big AAH swept round the theatre. "Jaysus, I adore him," said Ms L.
Craft of songwriting
Gilbert was moved to philosophise, at some length, on the craft of songwriting, the relationship between words, music and poetry, and his experiences in Japan (where he remains immensely popular). Crisp packets fluttered, drinks were supped. No one really wanted to know. They wanted Alone Again (Naturally), Nothing Rhymed, and other tunes of their teenage years.
Gilbert seemed vaguely puzzled by his audience, accepting their obvious devotion, but somehow conveying the impression that he longed for a more cerebral response to his art form. Nonetheless, being the consummate professional he is, and ignoring that viral infection, he delivered full value for their money, motoring on entertainingly with a varied selection, old and new, from his extensive repertoire.
When the final note of the last number died away, the Gilbert ladies, hoarse and red-eyed with emotion, spilled out on Dame Street, tearfully, wistfully satiated - slim-hipped teenagers again, if but for a few short hours. Gilbert O'Sullivan, entertainer, can justifiably add therapist to his CV.