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To paraphrase the wise and powerful Elton John, a fella who’d sell his big toe to put on a great show, I remember when rock was fun, so I don’t have to think too long and hard about driving the 200km from Dublin to Limerick to see The Darkness, a band dear to the hearts of anyone who likes their music to sport a permanent grin/leer.
King John’s Castle has been standing by the River Shannon since the 13th century and has doubled as an outdoor music venue for many Live At The Castle gigs over the last several years. Its central location means there’s a very salubrious pub called Katie Dalys across the street with a large forecourt of its own, and Limerick’s rock fans aren’t going to miss out on the chance of a pint in the sun, so things are in full swing long before The Darkness leave their dressing room. Disaster temporarily strikes when there's a block-wide power cut, leaving at least one young barman having to calculate prices in his head, but the lights come back on in plenty of time.
Having enjoyed a brief catch-up with the band – frontman Justin Hawkins and I were apprentice joiners together back in 1990's Ealing and stayed in touch – I leave them to “get their heads together” and take in the support.
Seizing a last-minute opportunity by the scruff of the neck, Dylan Flynn And The Dead Poets make a serious impression over the two nights, and fans of 70s Bruce Springsteen or The Gaslight Album are pointed in the direction of their The Story After They’re Gone album. Local lad Dylan also has a fabulous moustache, which always helps. I’d be surprised if we don’t hear more from them.
The strains of ABBA’s Arrival over the PA means the time has come. A squeal of feedback heralds Rock N’ Roll Party Cowboy, the opening track from The Darkness's recent album Dreams On Toast and a hard-as-a-Rubik’s-cube subversion of the tropes they’ve been accused of over-espousing.
Justin Hawkins throws his leg over the neck of his Atkin JH3001 during Growing On Me, gives us a quick blast of Wind Beneath My Wings, removes his jacket to many admiring glances, revealing several fresh tattoos that reminds one of the line from Robert De Niro’s Cape Fear (“I don’t know whether to look at him or read him”) and then does a headstand on the drum raiser, ‘clapping’ his feet in time and revealing an admirably rainbow-themed pair of socks during Get Your Hands Off My Woman. The well-refreshed, sun-drenched Limerick crowd lap it all up.
From there, they veer into a brief version of U2’s With Or Without You, with Hawkins as pub singer. The mention of Bono’s name draws a round of boos to mock shock from the front man (“Come forth, who was it?!?”) and then it’s bangers all the way home. They show their serious metal chops with Motorheart (the one about the robot girlfriend) and – given the castle’s Viking roots – the location-appropriate Barbarian.
Drummer Rufus Taylor, a sickeningly decent young man and handsome too (more of whom later), takes centre stage for his My Only, one of the bonus tracks on the many different versions of the album. Sadly, we don’t get to hear bass player Frankie Poullain’s Peppermint And Chamomile. I made a point of complimenting him earlier on managing to rhyme ‘tincture’ and ‘sphincter’, which I think warrants at least a phone call from the Ivor Novello people. Anyway, Taylor displays a decent voice to go with all his other gifts, although he seems unsure what to do with his hands now that they don’t have sticks in them. Into his pockets they go.
The highlight is surely Walking Through Fire, also from the new album, mostly because of Hawkins' instructions to the crowd to march on the spot, to the left for one part of the chorus and to the right for another. Given the heat and the amount of business the venue’s bars are doing, this should be an absolute shambles, but no, they carry it off, albeit while roaring with laughter. Perhaps some of the castle’s military history is seeping up from below.
I Believe in A Thing Called Love levels the place as the throng, already having a very good time, go altogether bananas. The encore is ‘The Christmas Song’, which goes down like free drink, and any lingering doubters are battered into submission with I Hate Myself, the sound Wizzard might have made if they’d managed to secure some atomic amphetamines.
Depending on who you ask, Killarney's Gleneagle Arena can fit four thousand people when full. There’s a slightly smaller number present when at the crack of nine the band come on, again to the strains of ABBA, and Rock N’ Roll Party Cowboy’s riff emerges hungrily from another gargantuan wave of feedback. Dan Hawkins holds it down with his right hand of God rhythm, aided by the band’s secret weapon, multi-instrumentalist Ian Norfolk. Taylor pummels his kit like a sentient jackhammer and Poullain, in a powder blue suit, off-maroon shirt and white slip-ons, is just the world’s coolest man.
Justin Hawkins, meanwhile, is having a very good time, taking the piss out of himself by claiming the partition halfway back in the room is to improve the sound and the curtains at either side are there for shy people to stand behind. “It doesn’t have to be awkward, which is how I initiate most of my sexual encounters.”
It would seem that the ‘more selective’ crowd are driving the band to really go for it. Mortal Dread is akin to prime-era AC/DC, Heart Explodes soars, and the beating Taylor gives his instrument during Motorheart shows that if music doesn’t work out, he can always get work as a debt collector. Justin adds to the prog metal swirl of the song’s ending with a searing slide solo, delivered while also playing a chimes mark tree with his foot.
Keeping going with his let’s-enjoy-this-intimacy attitude, he offers a solo version of Little Feat’s Willin’ before acknowledging that at least there’s plenty of room for dancing. He asks superfan Ray, who's been to one hundred and three shows, where this one ranks. “It’s definitely in the top one hundred and three? Fuck you, Ray!”
The crowd walkabout during Walking Through Fire, “towards the black curtain, allowing the feeling of resignation to engulf you knowing that despite the fun we’re having, we’re all marching towards inevitable death,” still manages to be a bit of a mess despite the extra leg room as happy punters bump into each other, but they’re all grinning like loons so what harm?
Justin makes a bet with the audience that if they can remain silent during the break after the guitar solo in The Longest Kiss, he’ll play the rest of the gig without any pants. The audience fails in this regard so he has Frankie help him remove his silk shirt instead. For Barbarian (“we actually wrote this in Ire-o-land”) he gets another crowd member, Phil, to do the spoken intro. Japanese Prisoner Of Love is a furious melee, the Marc Bolanisms of Friday Night (“Dawncing”) are superb, and Hawkins manages to sneak another bit of U2 into it.
Because of all the arsing about they haven’t time left to go off and come back on so instead they go straight into ‘The Christmas Song’ which has a lovely moment when the audience, realising they're witnessing something special, spontaneously take over the children’s choir section.
They finish again with I Hate Myself and it’s glorious pandemonium, the sound of a supercar going over a cliff while on fire. Justin does some sort of mutated highland fling, wiggles his arse like he’s trying to detach it, throws his arm and his leg over the neck of the guitar, taps it like Eddie Van Halen and makes it scream like Steve Vai. Dan bounces like the floor’s on fire while chugging the chords like Malcolm Young’s love child, Taylor tries to tunnel through both his drums and the stage, and Frankie attacks his Thunderbird bass like it spilt his favoured tipple. They were good in Limerick, but they’re great tonight.
Backstage, the mood is jubilant, adversity recognised as the driving force. Justin is all smiles as we discuss our shared past, Frankie recommends some reading (Italian author Natalia Ginzburg), and Dan praises the region’s beauty, which he took in during a 16km (!) run earlier in the day. All that health stuff is out of his system now, though, as we discover the delights of the local Killarney Golden Spear brew.
Taylor is buzzing, telling a particularly epic Las Vegas tale that shall forever remain unrepeatable. When the others eventually head for their beds as there’s an early flight from Cork in the morning, he responds to a good luck text as I’m having a nightcap by charging back down the stairs for a few more. Fans are still knocking about, and he’s happy to chat and pose for photos, all the while discussing westerns and the strange microclimate of Cornwall, because he’s a very nice fellow.
All good things must come to an end, however, and we eventually part. I collapse into my hotel bed at another unknown hour with a smile on my face. Rock is still fun.
The Darkness have US and European shows lined up throughout the year. For dates and tickets, visit The Darkness website.
