|
This year's model and the Attractions were brought last Friday into the, ahem, strife-torn territories of Belfast from Dublin courtesy of Irish hi-speed rail. Da Blighty Hacks and their escorts, meanwhile, flew in from London on a wing and an atheist's mumbled asides. I had no immediate impression of the hostilities.
I had thought at least to cop a view of Strummer and Mick Jones and 4 few of their cronies in paramilitary drag throwing a moody shape or two against the barricades while the troops looked on superciliously.
But the lads from Clash were nowhere to he found, and the war's presence at Aldergrove airport was relegated to a number of desultory wiremesh fences, tank-traps, and a roadblock manned by a contingent of soldiers who at first glance looked too young to be taken seriously; then you clocked the artillery they were wielding and forgot all about the ruddy, boyish complexions and kept your bead down and the gabble clamped.
Da Blighty Hacks, on their first tour of duty here, were only mildly alarmed when their driver announced that he carried a revolver and accepted with commendable nonchalance the information that the hotel at which we were billeted was not so long ago redesigned by something explosive lobbed through the restaurant window. "I wasn't hungry, anyway." reflected Elvis' PR. Glen Colson (and didn't you just know he'd make an appearance somewhere along the front line!)
It was St Patrick's Day in Belfast, but as we motored into the city there was little evidence of either celebration or devastation; we could have been anywhere on the South Circular.
The Micky Jupp hand were onstage, ignoring the impatient demands of the Ulster Hall audience for Elvis, as we arrived. The strangled echoes raced through the draughty hallways, followed by the swearing and stomping boots of restless locals in loudmouthed jackets and catalogue trousers (to borrow a description from Ian Dury).
Elvis and the Attractions were in their dressing room sharing a drink and a joke with Da Harks. There is some talk of their American tour, history so recent that the ink's still wet on its pages, a gruelling but satisfying jaunt from all accounts, despite the hazards of travelling in sub-zero temperatures and blizzards that reduced the tour bus to a barely mobile wreck by the time the reached Nam York.
It was by then without one door, smacked off in a collision with a snow drift, and had to be pushed along the freeway by our freezing heroes (overtones of Eastwood's The Gaunlet, here).
It is, however, made clear the moment that EC and the Attractions bang into "Waiting For The End Of The World" that seven weeks of intensive US gigging has honed to a vicious edge music that is anyway sharper than that of almost any other current rock band. The last time I saw the outfit in action was at the Nashville In December and they were lagging slightly, but still putting out more heat than most of us could take without screaming.
Tonight the music is slicing across the airwaves in lateral sheets, the sheer impact of which is unimpaired by the inconsistent acoustics.
| 
