This is way more than a sort of homecoming for the working class hero’s working class hero. This is the Temple of Damo, a gathering of his most fanatical, evangelical, long-standing disciples. Snatches of pre-gig conversation around me run thus – “I first got into Damo during the singer-songwriter sessions back in 1997 at The Temple Bar Music Centre,” boasts (what I presume to be) one non D-13er. “What, you missed his fucking stormer at the school disco in 1989?” comes the genuinely incredulous reply. Not that there’s any aggro. Predictably, it’s all good, and serotonin seems in plentiful (possibly chemically enhanced) supply. Indeed, I haven’t witnessed so many embraces, twinkling eyes, beatific grins and declarations of “I love you, bud” since the heyday of my misspent, whistle-blowing youth.
Still, fuck the love, the crowd’s unbridled outpouring of devotion and fervour is like getting swept up at Nuremberg – it’s burn, baby, burn – and burn is the operative word. Even without the volcanic atmosphere among the capacity crowd, it’s the hottest night of the year, and in a space more likely designed with your cousin’s lavish wedding in mind, it’s less that we’re hot and moist, and more like a unisex wet T-shirt contest. As charming a venue as the Shieling is, it lacks frilly pretensions such as sufficient air-conditioning for a throng this sweaty, and in the spirit of D N-E supremacism, we’ll gloss over the low-ceiling acoustics, shall we? Suffice to say that during Pauline Scanlan’s support, the crowd could barely decipher her ultimately prophetic pleasing teasing about the Dublin-Kerry match scheduled the following day.
Regardless, the gods are smiling, and they’ve even sent assorted Dubliners along to preside over one, who in part, at least, is their spiritual heir. For the first of a million times, the heartfelt, eager chant of “DAMO, DAMO” goes up – a fittingly grand introduction for a pretty comprehensive trawl through the Dub-reggae, Alright-Mama acoustics, and Luka-rap of Damien’s Luke Kelly-ordained back catalogue. Naturally, the anthemic moments – ‘Jealousy’, ‘Bad Time Garda’, ‘It’s All Good’ – are practically drowned out by the impeccably prole crowd’s vociferous sing-along. Indeed, the rapturous appreciation is so intense and intimate that if I didn’t share the thirteen postcode, it would seem less like a gig, more like waltzing in and finding hundreds of people in flagrante.
The sun, it would seem, isn’t setting on St. Donagh’s just yet. Just ask anyone here, and they’ll tell you that Damien Dempsey is something to be.