Galway Arts Festival: New York Dolls, David Gray, Primal Scream

The Roisin is exactly the right size for a bunch like the New York Dolls, who, let’s face it, were never a stadium band. Worth waiting 36 years to see live? Oh yes. Did they cut the mustard? With a chainsaw. Tight? As Johansen’s trousers. Sylvain, a clued in Dwayne Dobermann played jester to David’s Jagger junior shtick. How they love each other. And how the crowd loves it when they kick off with ‘(Lookin’ For A) Kiss’. Between greatest hits (and misses) we’re treated to the splendid new album’s title-track ‘Coz I Sez So’ and the haunting ‘Better Than You’. Dream renditions of ‘Mystery Girls’ (Sylvain gurning insanely and milking the absurd sustain opening for its considerable potential), ‘Jet Boy’, and the Arthur Kane dedicated boogaloo workout of ‘Stranded In The Jungle’ follow in quick wham bam thank you mam succession. And then they’re gone. Until Sylvain wheedles and cajoles and cheerleads them back for a version of ‘Personality Crisis’ that leaves us and them exhausted, ecstatic, euphoric. My ears are still ringing.

Yes, Virginia, you can put your arms around a memory. Are David Gray fans happy in the woodchip-floored big blue tent in Fisheries Field? The young man on my left eating curry chips says he’s “rocking”, while the young lady on my right with a reefer professes to being “mighty”. As is the roar that greets the appearance of the man we’re here to see. And although far from my cup of Earl Grey it has to be said that Mr. G. performs very creditably indeed, a singalong crowd greatly enthusing over old faves like ‘Sail Away’ and ‘This Year’s Love’ along with much of White Ladder and a heapin’ helpin’ of new material from Draw The Line.

Two nights later Primal Scream leave the crowd in no doubt that they’ve come to rock. As I chew my lamburger and the DJ spins Mr. Pop’s ambition to be someone’s dog and Mr. Hendrix’s to kiss the sky I sense a certain impatience quickly dissipated by the arrival of the boys. Fighting my way to the stage I arrive in time to be blinded by red and blue strobes but blown away by a thundering version of ‘Country Girl’. Mr. Gillespie, all mouth, black hair and trousers bounces about very energetically for a lad of his age and the string section come on very old Stones/Faceish. Perhaps one third of the crowd actually know the songs but a thundering good version of ‘Damaged’ gets everyone who’s chilled but not actually dead up and cheering. As I fade into the night the famed whooping of ‘Sympathy For The Devil’ is setting in. My sympathies to those who missed this fitting end to a terrific festival.