DUBLIN......the day after AND sober version.

Day one is in the books, and I do declare that Dublin treated me extremely well. I was able to fully confirm the rumor that Guinness tastes ten times more fabulous and delicious when consumed near its source at the St. James Guinness brewery in Dublin, and I got to ra ra ra rawk at the world famous “Wheelan’s,” a venue setup in a style similar to the House of Blues but much more intimate. Shara opened up doing about five songs solo to make up for the fact that Binzer, our stunning and phenomenally gifted drum substitute, had learned the material literally in one day. It’s always a great thing to watch Shara perform her music alone. It comes out of her body in a way that gives me such goosebumps that it’s frightening. She is an artist whose music comes out of her in a way that makes her almost unreal, and she feels it in such a way that it forces you into some other realm where time suspends and your heart seems to stop beating. She’s only about 5’1’’, but has a voice like a giant and a stage presence which falls somewhere in between Bjork’s quirky innocence and Nina Simone’s boisterous and commanding physical self-assurance. During this solo intro, you could hear a flea fart as the crowd watched in complete silence, hanging on her every word, some of them even mouthing the lyrics to each of the songs. One girl in the front row actually looked like she was on drugs during Shara’s rendition of Prince’s “how come you don’t call me anymore.” Binzer and I came onstage after this beautiful, quiet, delicate performance, and proceeded to rock the house with reckless abandon alongside our fearless captain. After our set ended, the Dublin hospitality proved itself to be superlative beyond any shadow of a doubt. The crowd had been genuinely respectful and appreciative of the performance, even in spite of being completely shit-canned drunk – a fact which surprised me. After we finished our load out, the rest of the Diamond retired back to the hotel as I stayed at Wheelan’s. Three pints of Guinness and a shot of Jameson later (when in Rome….), I found myself in the backstage area with about ten friends of the opening act, Jennifer something. I can’t remember her last name, but she was excellent. In tow were a few ex-patriot Americans about my age give or take, living in Dublin for a change of pace and a sense of adventure. We sat around talking for a bit, smoking hash and discussing how everyone in the world hates George W., until all of a sudden a peculiar thing happened. Aidan, who had played the djembe in Jennifer’s group, busted out a guitar and began playing David Bowie’s “In the Port of Amsterdam.” He sang loudly and Irishly, strumming the guitar with a fire and a passion, closing his eyes as he played. Before I knew it, this turned into a full-on sing-along a la 1967 San Fransisco, with every single person in the room singing along with every word, even harmonizing the melody. Eric Cartman popped into my head for a second as I thought to myself, “fuuckin hippays!” I didn’t know the words, so I just sort of sat there with a grin on my face. Seriously, picture a room where every single person is jolly drunk on a Tuesday evening in Dublin and singing along to David Bowie. I felt like I was in a scene from Brigadoon or some other exultant musical. I was seriously sitting there waiting for everyone to get up and bust right into a coordinated dance routine, complete with a BIG FINISH! Needless to say, that didn’t happen. There’s no such thing as spontaneous synchronized dance routines. After this joyous little moment, I took my leave to our hotel and bade farewell to my newfound inebriate pals (and yes of course we exchanged myspace friend requests). We’re on our way to Belfast today, and if it’s anything like Dublin, Ireland might just become my new favorite spot on the map.