One of the biggest names in rock ‘n’ roll once came to a rural ballroom in Tipperary, for reasons that remain a mystery.
THE LIBERTY MUSIC FESTIVAL is upon us again.
And it has come to my attention that this year’s lineup will include a Meat Loaf tribute act. He calls himself Peat Loaf, which I’m not sure was the best idea in the long history of choosing stage names, bringing to mind as it does the image of an extra large sod of turf.
But then turf, and its first cousin the briquette, are the great enemy of the Green cult. And any enemy of the Greens is a friend of mine, so we’ll give old Peat Loaf a pass on this one.
Of course, this will not be the first time the music of Meat Loaf has been heard on a live stage in Thurles. As the elderly among us will remember, the great man played the first Féile in 1990, and put on a very fine show while he was at it.
What might not be so well known, however, is that this wasn’t Meat Loaf’s first trip to Tipp. It wasn’t even his first time here that year.
About six months earlier, my friends and I learned to our great surprise that the Big Man would be bringing his operatic rock ‘n’ roll show to the dance hall in Dundrum.
I’ll say that again, since I can scarcely believe it myself, 35 years down the road.
Meat Loaf was coming to Dundrum.
Now, with all respect to the fine people of Dundrum, in 1990 it was basically a crooked crossroads in the middle of nowhere, in the depths of rural Tipoerary. For a fellow like Meat Loaf, this might as well have been the remotest badlands of Borneo.
Which begs the question — what was he doing there?
And I suppose there are really only two possible answers.
One, he had made some weird deal with the Irish promoter whereby, for every stadium show that was scheduled, he was contractually obliged to play a couple of rural ballrooms on what used to be known as the showband circuit.
Or two, like any rock star worth his salt, Meat Loaf was naturally drawn to the dark and lonely crossroads of this world, in the hope that one day he too might negotiate a deal for the sale of his soul, in the fashion of our old friend Robert Johnson.
If the crossroads in question hapoens to be a crooked crossroads, you would imagine his chances would be greatly increased. If this crooked crossroads happens to be within a hundred yards of a regular crossroads, as it is in Dundrum, then surely a man could be almost certain of a diabolical encounter.
All the same, I’d be leaning towards option one, though you might accurately conclude that either way it was a deal with the devil.
Whatever the case, he came to Dundrum, we all went along, and he and his band put on just as big a show as they might have done if they’d been in Croke Park. Or Semple Stadium, for that matter.
But it is not the music or the showmanship that stands out most in my mind when I think about that night.
It is the extraordinary number of fights that erupted among the large culchie contingent in the audience, the hardy lads who turned up for the big occasion wearing their best woolly jumoers, and a brand of aftershave that I’m certain was called Eau de Slurry — a fragrance which I am sure some ladies find alluring, particularly those who have suffered head trauma.
Anyway, one of these fine gentleman was knocked unconscious at my feet, and to my amazement his friends just carried on dancing as if this was an everyday occurrence. (I use the word dancing here, but there is actually no word in the English language that might accurately describe the kind of moves they were making. Imagine, if you will, a bullock doing a jig while simultaneously in the throes of a fatal electric shock.)
I don’t recall if this young man eventually came round of his own accord, or if an ambulance had to be summoned in the end, when his companions finally wore themselves out doing the Bovine Boogie.
And I have no idea where Meat Loaf went from there, or how many more far-flung rural outposts he had to visit before finally coming almost full circle and landing in Thurles on an August bank holiday weekend that has gone down in legend.
I don’t remember, either, if the Féile audience serenaded the Big Man with the chorus from Put ‘Em Under Pressure — Ireland’s Word Cup song from Italia 90, and our unofficial anthem throughout that glorious summer. Indeed, the Olé Olé Olé chant became a sort of eejit’s anthem for many years to come, when you might hear it erupt at random on any kind of big occasion. I have it on good authority that it has even been heard at funerals, to which I can only say, there are times we should be thankful that the dead can’t hear.
The crowd did give it a loud rendition that same weekend for the great Stuart Adamason, when Big Country played one of the finest Féile sets to ever grace the festival. And to his eternal credit, he sat down at the edge of the stage and played along on his guitar.
It is a moment etched in time. Like Meat Loaf giving it his all in the village ballroom while the farmers boxed the heads off each other to the beat of Bat Out Of Hell.
What a time to be alive.
CURRENT LISTENING: Republic if Ireland Football Squad — Put ‘Em Under Pressure
Scenes from a lost civilisation.
Loughtagalla Times 
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