- 05 Apr 01
Liam Fay teams up with the IMRO hit squad as they venture north to Monaghan in search of bars, discos and other such venues that do not have a licence to thrill, or at least a licence for the public performing of music.
“You come home late, and you come home early,” whines the bleary-eyed man with the beachball belly and the deflated, puckered face that resembles nothing so much as a balloon the morning after the party the night before. “Sometimes, you don’t come home at all.”
The singer (for that is what he claims to be) is perched upon a three-legged barstool which possesses all of the act’s charisma and stage presence. Its tendency to creak and snap beneath his weight also adds a much-needed melodic touch to the proceedings.
His voice is probably not quite the worst in the world, but it’s definitely a safe bet for the European title. When he tries to croon, it sounds like a garbage disposal unit with something stuck in its teeth. When he chances a falsetto, there’s mutiny on the high Cs.