The menu list including an all-day Irish breakfast was enough for me to relegate the much better restaurants in this leafy part of Dublin to also rans. The queue was small, affording us enough time to sate our hunger before heading to the gig. Having learned to eat fast in the competitive arena of boarding school I had to consciously allow for the fact that my wife ate in a more socially acceptable manner and insisted on letting her food hit the back of her throat before being dumped to the acid processing part of her digestive system. Feeling full was good enough for me; there was always Alka Seltzer for the side effects of gobbling your grub.
The queue patrons scanned those lucky enough to have reached a vacant table. The unspoken message was for them to hurry up. The seated concentrated, head down, on their order, moving food and drink without any need to lift their eyes in our direction; except for one man who cast one of those self-satisfied smirks in the general direction of anyone glancing in his direction. He was eating alone at a table for two crushed into a corner near the door. The maitre d, a young woman many miles from her home in some part of Eastern Europe, asked if we minded eating with the couple behind. Her smile cloaked what was effectively a no choice invitation. By the time the fish and chips were dealt with we had ascertained that we were county neighbours in Galway and Roscommon, she was a nurse in the same field as myself, he was a Dub but a converted cultshee. His family giving them a site to build their home on helped with his conversion. Without any introductions we swapped anecdotes about our lives with the practised ease normally associated with lifelong friends. The waiter was at our table as the last chip disappeared. We took the hint and moved to the counter to pay our separate bills. There is a limit to the extravagance of friendship that only lasts one meal. We parted to head to our different entrances to the Aviva Stadium.
I sauntered over to check directions with a six foot plus Garda with an accent that placed him from down the country, miles from the clipped D4 accents of Ballsbridge. Before I had a chance to tell him we were in the orange entrance my wife had guessed we were in the red zone. Guessing is her fall back position from facts. What I have never fully realised is that this is her way of opening a conversation. Her smile ensures that the other person usually wants to help out. I rely on getting the other person to confirm facts I have already checked a number of times. Between us we rarely get lost. The garda swung his pointing finger 180 degrees from red to orange and we headed off for the short stroll to the stadium.
As we made our way to our ticketed entrance it was noticeable that everybody, concert goers, Garda, security officers and ticket checkers were all smiling. This release from two years of head down Covid restrictions was palpable. I wondered if it was similar to being released from prison, having served your time. A female garda noticed me looking back and forth to confirm where to go once inside the ticket barriers. She gently steered us to our place and handed us over to a support staff. She exchanged a knowing smile with my wife while exhorting me to enjoy my first drink. That’s a new one for me, being encouraged to drink by a guard.
The stadium was still filling slowly, seagulls drifting back and forth in the evening sunshine, heads pointing down, trying to spot any opportunity to feed. As spaces on the ground disappeared they moved on. Must have heard that there were eagles nearby. The support group, a country rock foursome from Alabama started their stint. I hoped that someone had told them that there was no contractual obligation on them to warm up an Irish audience who had come to see the Eagles celebrate fifty years on the go. The album I had bought in 1976 was still in its sleeve back home, the lyrics of their hits embedded in my brain like the needle grooves on the overplayed and scratched vinyl. I was not alone. Sixty somethings like myself filled the seats while reminiscing about a much earlier life stage. The clipped hair and sensible clothes cloaked the long haired, flared jeans expression of our tilt with the Eagles first time round .
And then they were there. While the now full stadium erupted in a clapping, whistling, cowboy whooping welcome they lined up across the stage. No intro except 4 clicks on the drumsticks and they hit a perfect harmonised intro to their first number. People in the seats near the stage started to stand to express their excitement. Yellow vested stewards moved among them, encouraging them to take advantage of the higher price they had paid than those in the standing area behind. They persevered for about half an hour. But you can’t do justice to watching a Tequila Sunrise with your pal Desperado from your vantage point at the Hotel California. To Take it Easy when the rhythmic strain of this California Rock pours from the suspended speakers you have to be up and swaying. One man a few rows down broke from the group he was with to dance on the steps. His wife sat, shaking her head. A few tunes later she had joined him, as if permission to ditch her inhibitions had arrived. A young Garda and his female partner stood behind us. Despite instructions to maintain the erect position of a guardian of the peace he tapped out the beat with his shiny boots. A young woman at the end of our row shouted out Desperado at the end of each number. When they eventually played it she reacted as if they had heard her request. As far as she was concerned they were playing to her alone. It’s like that when you revisit your past especially via the vehicle of music. It’s very personal and you can find that solitary experience even in the middle of a singing swaying mob.
For over two hours we provided a backing chorus to our heroes, a group of pensionable men who could still belt it out. Joe Walsh, the tongue tied lead guitar caressed guitar solos normally associated with those well under his seventy four years. Stage crew darted on and off in their all black camouflage, swapping newly tuned guitars. The days of artists wasting time twiddling their frets were long gone. The feedback from the crowd urged them to greater levels of performance. Their trotting out of all their hits urged us to greater efforts that would ensure varying degrees of hoarseness in the morning. As the fingers of dusk spread their tendrils on the iron stanchions of the stadium roof mobile phone torches swayed in time to the tunes, a silent light show tribute to a one evening reawakening of times gone by and music that has no past.
Two and a half hours later they played their final number, handed over their guitars, stood together to acknowledge the standing adulation from a well satisfied crowd. They bowed and waved and then they were gone, probably never to come this way again. We eased out as one in our enjoyment, gradually splintering, like memories, to smaller lines to the nearby Dart station, waiting buses and parked cars. Overly optimistic traders offered cut price fake memorabilia in authentic Dublin accents with little success. I tapped my raincoat pocket to check my official and ridiculously priced t shirt was still there. Memories of a great night had already started to consolidate into a repeatable commentary, embellished by the contents of the mobile phone camera.
Fifteen minutes later my wife and I reached the house where we were staying. We had the street to ourselves.
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