Ringer

LIR/RINGER (Whelan's, Dublin)

Tonight's opening act are in fact between names at the moment. Having gone from Dead Ringer to plain ole Ringer at this gig, they announced a new name which escaped these ears and those of the Lir fans in my immediate vicinity . . .

I would've asked one of the band members but then he might have asked my opinion of the gig, to which I would have had to reply: "In Pierce Turner's interview with Liam Fay about twenty-one months ago, he describes a disturbing experience he had at the Nightrain once when a rock band was playing and he . . . 'couldn't believe they were Irish. They had the American style down so perfectly, they were delighted with themselves . . . I wanted to shoot the whole fuckin' lot of them. There was nothing interesting about what they were doing at all'. I think he was referring to either the Golden Horde or you." And thus one who is dedicated to avoiding confrontation, I decided to remain ignorant.

In 1986 or so Ringer's reasonably individuality-free bombastic cabaret might have been within a country mile of the zeitgeist, but in the thankfully less chestbeating year of 1993 the furthest they can expect to go is second on the bill at a Lir gig in Whelan's.

And it was quite a gig, from Lir's point of view, an event even. The adulation which greeted David McGuinness' every syllable, his every shuffle across the stage, was eye-opening even for this non-believer among believers. And the gig confirmed my suspicion that he is to Lir what Vedder is to Pearl Jam, a writer and vocalist of rare sensitivity and power whose band doesn't really deserve him.

The audience response here would suggest that Ireland has been conquered; all they need now is their Ten, and the world awaits . . .

• Niall Crumlish