It was not easy to get there, but he and three others somehow managed it with two buses, before duly making their way out to Salthill, burrowing their heads against the driving rain as they walked along the grey windswept streets. Having arrived he checked his notebook for the address before engaging the bell but with no ringing, he reached down and pressed in the letter shutter allowing it to snap to a close. His brother pulled open the door of the student house and they filed past the young fellow who remained gazing out at the flock of seagulls battling the gusts. He closed his notebook as the drops had already made that which was written smudged.
After the initial greetings, they sat for a while in the living room before a briquette burning fire and drank some sweet, pickled tea as the rain tapped out a frantic telegram in angular melting beads onto the windowpane. Aware of the time and the brewing storm, they arose, left the urban dwelling with the knocker rattling in their wake and made their way towards Leisureland as the grey light receded to be replaced by darkness.
It was his first rock concert but two of the group didn’t have tickets and so rather than waiting amongst the crowd at the main entrance, they filtered off to see if there was anyone selling any spare tickets. Behind the glass doors, the venue was a haven of activity and then a man with a mop of blonde hair briefly appeared. He recognised him as Adam Clayton, the bassist from U2. Having pointed him out, the others looked but were unsure. Nonetheless this had added another briquette to the fire of excitement.
At seventeen his brother had begun a civil engineering degree at the university. Galway was a small city with a population of just over fifty thousand but was popular amongst the people from the west and the midlands. His mother often told how their grandfather would drive his family down to the seafront in the summer where his mother, his aunts and uncle together with their gran would either walk the promenade or sit on the sand preparing a picknick, all the while their grandfather continued to sit in his Model T Ford leafing through a newspaper.
It was however February, and the terrible twin of summer was raising its angry face as rain continued to stream down from the black slate roof above. The two who had gone in search of tickets shoved their way to the front and with blank expressions watched at they entered the warmth of the building. He glanced back to see their long faces and dark upper and lower eyelashes, standing like seals on the shore as the waves poured forth.
Their tickets having been checked, they trundled forward into the concert hall in their quest to get to the front. Having established their standing domain, which was not quite the front, they waited, occasionally swaying with the movement of the crowd. Various voices sounded from the hall, one of these shouted Stiff Little Fingers. The back-up band was not in fact Stiff Little Fingers but he felt a surge of excitement at the prospect.
Stiff Little Fingers were a rock band from Belfast who sung politically charged songs. The previous year had been the Harrods bombing in London and things in the North of Ireland were progressing in the worst possible way. Music however was a vehicle which helped elevate one above the turmoil and SLF together with the band, The Undertones gave a voice to the disenfranchised.
Finally, the first band appear, Big Country and got the show started. The only song he recognised was their hit, in a big country. It was non the less enthralling to watch a rock band play. The only rock bands he had seen up to then were some youth bands singing in Irish at an Irish music competition called Slogagh. It did not quite seem the same to hear youngsters of his age, sing songs whilst peeling electric guitars.
Big Country finished and they waited anxiously. Then the floodlights exploded, and Brian Kerr stood crouched with one leg bent and the other raised as he held the microphone and the stage erupted into a mesmeric sound with drums beating out the start of Up on the catwalk. The crowd then began to move back and forth with all the energy of a tossed sea. To him, Brian Kerr appeared so much like a superstar, present but yet so very illusive.
The concert reached its peak and then it was over. The crowd began to recede, and they stood disorientated facing each other before turning and making their way out. There was a young man completely unconscious with drink lying on the rubbish strewn ground in the foyer. They exited the glass doors and were quickly reunited with the two ticketless friends. These fellows were turning their heads in all directions like chickens, their eyes large and wide.
I think we had better get out of here!
Why?
I have just been involved in a scrap and I think the fellow is getting his friends. (at this began pointing at a young fellow with a crewcut who was shouting to others to come and support him and his friend.
The urgency of the situation was not lost on Phelim who flagged down a taxi and all six the group piled in. Des began to relay what had happened.
There were two drunk fellows who were trying to start agro with the people in the queue. Myself and Finbarr were sitting on a wall. I just thought that if those fellows start on us, I am going to get stuck in. Then after a while one of them came over and before he could start anything, I got up, grabbed him by the collar and threw him over the wall. There was a bit of a height behind so he must have hurt himself. The other guy then came and me and I tore into him. However, he was not as drunk as I had first thought. Finbarr had not anticipated any of this and had just frozen and that caused me to freeze. Then I saw the other fellow making his way back up and so we made ourselves scarce. That is when we met you coming out.
The taxi passed the breaking surf spewing up on the promenade with the storm at its peak. There was a collective sense of relief when they arrived back at Tirellan Heights. The fire had gone out in the living room and the place was freezing. Some disappeared to the kitchen whilst he endeavoured to start the fire again. A few cans were shared and then he made his way to the kitchen where Phelim was drinking wine out of a carton. He seemed a bit drunk and went to the other room, returning shortly afterwards breaking into a run as he yelled loudly. Someone had spilled some of the wine on the kitchen floor and Phelim was soon upended and sliding on his butt across the floor.
The carton had done the rounds and was now empty. People began to filter off to different rooms. Flanagan was in a sleeping bag with the one of the Pilkingtons. His brother had bedded down for the night. There was no where now but one free chair in the living room. That would not have been so bad, but Delaney arrived with three delinquents from Athlone. They set off up the stairs to dump his brother out of his bed. He ran up and blocked them outside the bedroom on the landing. There followed a stand off but thankfully Delaney intervened and gently pushed the aggressor back, who then turned and made his way back down the wooden stairs.
He for his part lay on the frayed carpet in the landing to protect his younger brother. The Athlone fellows set off to find a car to steal. The next morning, he arose and went down to the sitting room. There were various bodies sleeping on chairs and the fire had gone out as the bale of briquettes were already used. The place was freezing so he went to the kitchen and plugged in a kettle.