"I never ever went to a gig or had even heard of the term ‘gig’ before I joined the band," says the little girl who owns pop’s most exquisite voice. "Rock concerts, that’s what I used to call them. I never went to one, I’d never seen a live band that actually wrote their own stuff. I’d seen pub bands, that was all. I played piano and took lessons for seven years. That was my kind of music."

So the first gig you attended was one that you were taking part in?

"We went to one beforehand just so I could see what it was like an d what you did. I didn’t even realise that these things took place or that these bands existed in Limerick"

So what did you used to do of an evening down at home?

"Oh, I’d go up and play the organ in the church."

Dolores O’Riordan and three other blokes and me are sitting in a van that’s parked in a yard behind Charlie’s Bar where later on The Cranberries will bring tears to the eyes of grown men and ensure that all present can say "yes" when asked if their weekend was happy and filled with nice things.

The three other blokes are Noel, a guitarist, Mike, a bassist, and Fergal, a drummer. I speak with them for forty minutes and generally have my socks charmed from my feet, the spring put in my step and all semblance of a chill factor taken from this typical October evening.

I mention this merely in an effort to chase any preconceptions which may have been created by the opening paragraphs, firmly away. When I say that Dolores had never heard the term gig before joining the band I am not taking the piss or ridiculing her. The Cranberries in general, and Dolores in particular, bring new meaning to words like innocence and naivete and are honest and open and unaffected to a degree that is positively thrilling.

Born in Limerick a year and a half ago as The Cranberry Saw Us (shudder) the three boys decided that they wanted a girl to call their own. "Myself, Ferg and Noel have been hanging around together since we were fairly young," says Mike. "We just started a band going and put up a notice looking for a female singer so Dolores turned up."

"A girl in my class told me about it," adds Dolores. "She knew the lads and said they were very nice so that made it easier to audition for them."

And did the lads turn out to be very nice? She pauses for a moment and the van overflows with the sound of helpless male laughter.

"Well they were townies you know," she finally says, "and it looked to me that when townies hung out together they all dressed the same, did the same things, went to the same places and I was really different. I wasn’t like them. Every single guy I saw had torn jeans and docs and they all had long hair.

"I met the lads and started talking to Ferg. I didn’t like Mike," she says. "I strolled in and he didn’t like me, he was at that age when he didn’t like people if they didn’t look cool so I hated him because he used to be really sarcastic and I didn’t know him well enough to realise that he was only messing.

"So I auditioned for them and they auditioned for me and we got to like each other and at that stage we didn’t give a shit what each other looked like, we just realised that there was talent there. I remember the audition really well. I walked in and there were twelve fellas sitting in this room and I had to sing in front of them all. It was so embarrassing." She winces visibly at the memory.

Are nerves a factor with The Cranberries? It’s been written that you look absolutely terrified when you parade your songs in front of live audiences.

"That’s definitely not true," says Fergal, the world’s most talkative drummer.

"It’s just that we’re not a noise band," adds Mike, we don’t jump around the place but we’re totally comfortable with going out on a stage."

And you’re not at all nervous?

"No," they chorus, four voices speaking as one.

Even when you’re playing to audiences that consist entirely of journalists, A&R men and general music biz types.

"I’m not nervous," says Dolores, "but I’m just not the type of person who goes out and can say (adopts hysterical Lita Ford persona, clenched fists raised to the sky etc.) ‘Rock On Babes’. Everybody expects you to be really loud and if you’re in any way quiet they think you’re nervous but you mightn’t be. I think all the lads are the same, they’re all kind of into-themselves people, not loud or anything which I think is nice. At least it’s a bit of a change."

So there aren’t any plans to duet with Wendy James?

There is a stony silence. Dolores hides her head and turns away and it’s left to Ferg to say in solemn tones: "Don’t even mention that woman’s name in Dolores’ presence."

Critical acclaim for The Cranberries has been immediate, enthusiastic and forced upon us not just in Ireland but in Britain too, in quantities so large that entire rain forests quake at the knees at the merest mention of this band’s name.

And why not? Dolores’ voice is truly extraordinary. She’s been compared to everybody from Harriet Wheeler to Liz Cocteau to Madonna and sounds, not like a teenage girl from the wilds of rural Limerick, but like several teenage girls from the wilds of rural Limerick, a heavenly host of exultant angels and three hundred trembling divas singing their battered old hearts out. And all at the same time.

"We kind of take the acclaim for granted," says Fergal, much to my surprise. "I’m sure this is the way it happens for everyone and we definitely don’t let it get to our heads. It’s one thing that we’re always really conscious of, that it must never affect us like that because no matter how big you become you must always be the same person."

"I think," continues Dolores, "that all this, everything that’s happened to us makes you say what you want to say a lot more. Before I was in the band if I saw that something was happening that I didn’t like I’d say nothing and go along with it. It makes you a lot more confident," she adds to an accompaniment of vigorous nods and affirmative uh-huhs.

The Cranberries have just released their debut EP. Acquaint yourself with it as soon as is humanly possible. This band is a heart of glass, flags all a flutter in a gentle breeze, beautiful babies being born into the world. And their continued existence, damn them, means this writer can no longer fall back on one of his favourite lines.

I may no longer be the best thing that Limerick has yet produced. That’s why.