Philip-Lynott.com
(Another in the MM series
of balanced reviews – let’s do another hatchet-job on Lizzy)
Thin
Lizzy – Dalymount Park, Dublin 21st August 1977
DEREK
THE DOG seemed to be enjoying himelf, at least. But then
Derek
was comfortably ensconced backstage at Dublin's picturesque
Dalymount
Stadium, in Thin Lizzy's dressing room with his Young Master.
Brian
Robertson (the erstwhile Prince of Decadence). We, however, were
strapped
out on the terraces with the Irish breeze whipping a fine dance
about
our ankles and the threat of rain hanging with sombre menace
above
our heads.
And
there on stage was Faiport Convention, presenting a selection of jigs-‘n’reels’n’tradfolk
epics that were about as entertaining as a rumour of cancer.
Fairport
followed two local ensembles, the Radiators From Space (who'd completed
their
set by the time we'd negotiated a passage into the stadium) and Step Aside (an
innocuous pop band).
It
was an inauspicious introduction to Dublin's first major open-air rock festival,
I
was less than enthralled and headed for the nearest pub.
Festivals
have this way, you know, of disintegrating around your shoulders that
breeds
a certain indifference to whatever music's being whacked out over the Tannoy.
Still,
the cavalry were soon to the rescue in the rock and roll disguise of Bob Geldof
and the Boomtown Rats, who are as good as we keep telling you.
You
remember those great rock and roll anthems, full of wit and perception that Ian
Hunter used to pen? Well, Geldof's writing them now, and they sound even better.
The
band rock like an invitation to a party. The music is spearheaded by the twin
guitar of Gerry Cott and Garry Roberts and it capably embraces an impressive
variety of musical styles, from the classic rock and roll attack of “Neon
Heart” to the passionate and reflective “Joey”.
Their
future success and popularity is virtually guaranteed by their musicianship and
the visual flair of Geldof.
Graham
Parker and the Rumour, who had to succeed the Rats, were faced with no
easy
opportunity to impress a defiantly partisan audience.
I
mean the Rats had just scored two encores and there were already chants for Thin
Lizzy, who were headlining the bash. Many bands would’ve bottled out the joint
by spinning through their greatest hits and heading for the door. Parker came
out and snatched the festival straight at of Phil Lynott's mouth with a set so
fiercely intense it would have shocked a corpse out of its socks. Past faves
from “Howlin' Wind” and “Heat Treatment” were liberally interspersed
with cuts from the forthcoming album “Stick To Me” (the title track is a
real stunner).
“Thunder
And Rain” with a characteristically elegant Brinsley Schwarz guitar solo and a
passionate Parker vocal was immediately impressive, but two other new opuses,
“Playhouse” (a vindictive cry of rage against some hapless woman) and the
panoramic
“The
Heat In Harlem”, with its sultry horn arrangement and vivid imagination
(Parker’s writing has matured dramatically with these new tunes), really took
the biscuit.
The
best music of the festival. No arguments, Jack.
And
so to da Lizzy. Listen, if I was a guitar riff and I heard that Scott Gorham and
Brian Robertson were looking for a new lick to hammer to death, I’d slip on a
pair of shades and take an extended vacation to Cuba.
Lizzy,
you see, have no ability to impose discipline on Phil Lynott’s occasionally
pertinent and memorable pop chunes (sic).
Everything
is of gross aural spectacle. Lynott also has this tendency to aspire toward the
significant with songs like “Warriors” (or as Philip would have it,
“Worriers”), “Emerald” and the new “Soldier Of Fortune” which hacks
away at the mercenaries with less force than SAHB’s “Dogs Of War”.
Similarly,
their presentation is a crashing headache of exploding bombs, fireworks,
flashing strobes and mirror balls. It’s the type of show that causes serious
outbreaks of imaginary guitar playing and hysterical head-banging.
It
was suggested, (by me as I’m such a smart-arse) as they thundered toward a
furious climax, that they should conclude the affair by firing Derek The Dog
over the stadium with a rocket up its arse.
I’d
love to have seen that.
ALAN JONES