I've had a few messages on MySpace for people looking to find the article I wrote for the
Sunday Tribune about Delorentos. It never seemed to make it to the Tribune Review website for some reason, so I shall post it here. I don't think this is
exactly how it appeared in the paper, but this is what I typed up on my Google machine. Also, I've chucked in some photees that I took along the way.
Delorentos are Ro, Kieran, Ross and Nial. They released their debut album 'In Love With Detail' at the end of April on their own record label, and it immediately went in at number seven in the Irish album chart. The band from north Dublin has been touring the record constantly for a month. After gigs this year in New York and South By South West - the world's largest music showcase - American music critics equated their talent and potential to that of a young U2. This is an account of four days on the road with a band that sum the DIY approach to modern rock music and the challenges and joys that presents.
It's last Sunday evening behind a black curtain, the backdrop of a massive stage in Dublin Castle. Four men in their twenties are sweating slightly and dissecting a performance that has finished seconds before to resounding cheers from a crowd who have paid to see Sinead O'Connor. The band is Delorentos and their manager, Hugh, shakes his head with familiarity, "always analysing. Always," he mutters to no one in particular. It was a gig that was wracked with difficulties – amps blew and leads broke in a soundcheck that lasted just a few minutes compared to their usual near-hour - but the crowd loved it. They are all tired. It has been five gigs in four days all over the country, driving home to Dublin every night, catching what sleep they can in a van.
The previous Thursday, the guys are up at 6am, readying themselves for two gigs in Cork; one in a record shop, and other at Cyprus Avenue in the city. Standing at a deli counter in a petrol station on the way down, their eyes are bleary and their reactions slow, as they return to their red van to eat dodgy rolls and read magazines. Kieran, who shares lead vocals and guitar with Ro asserts his dominance as a music obsessive during a Q magazine music quiz, beating everyone solidly. Every shop he goes into, he heads straight for the music magazine section.
“This is the unfun bit," drummer Ross mutters after a quick kickabout in the loading bay of Mahon Point shopping centre in Cork with a plastic football with £4.99 written on it in blue marker. They load their gear into a Golden Discs shop themselves, setting up the speakers and surveying the less than substantial crowd. “Well I want to curl up in a ball and die," Ross says. He finds in-store performances "unbearable."
Three girls skipped school to see them, too young to buy tickets for the Cyprus Avenue gig that evening. They giggle awkwardly, sing along to the songs, and afterwards grip digital cameras in sweating palms to take photos of themselves with members of the band. Another male fan arrives with his friends and hands the band a DVD recording of their last in-store in Cork in a printed Delorentos case. As the band play through the hits on their album, a woman pushing a pram blocks her child's ears as she walks past. Upstairs, others lean over the balcony, tapping their hands on the safety rail. When it’s done, Ross lets toddlers in Cork jerseys mess with his drum kit.
The self-sufficient philosophy of indie bands is a blessing and a curse. Bands can take things into their own hands – allow for free downloads on MySpace increasing their audience, record demos in bedrooms and garages thanks to modern cheap technology, and the Irish appetite for live music coupled with the resurgence of guitar bands prompted by the success of DIY groups like The Libertines and Arctic Monkeys means that a band can conceivably now play over a ten date tour around the country. And people will come.
On the other hand, it costs, and with no record label to back you up, you’re looking at a serious financial commitment. Apart from bass player Nial who works a few hours a week to put petrol in his battered Fiat Cinquecento so he can drive to Belfast to see his girlfriend, none of the band has any sort of income outside of Delorentos. Singer and guitarist Ro was on the dole after graduating from business in DCU, Kieran admits he is heavily in debt. They depend on free food laid on from venues and beer tokens. At a bar in Cork, Hugh and Nial spend a good while pouring over cheque books and receipts while Ro, softly spoken and earnest bemoans a recent incident in Donegal when 11 of their t-shirts were stolen. The €200 worth of merchandise they shift after the gig in Cork goes a way to covering the stolen items. They buy the t-shirts for €13 and sell them for €18.
In Cyprus Avenue, the mood is lighter. The band are all banter and football, which they play in the empty venue with Ross smashing shots passed Hugh in a makeshift goal. Kieran sits alone on stage working out the fragments of a song before slipping into the chords of 'Fantasy' by The Blizzards. It was on Today FM on the way down and has been in everyone's head ever since. They run through a couple of songs from tonight's set before Kieran leave's the stage. The rest of the band jam about with a song they've been working on together. The bassline is ridiculously catchy. Outside, Kieran is sitting on the van's bumper having a cigarette. "He's not happy," Hugh decides. Kieran raises a mute eyebrow. He has strained his voice and is worried about the sound quality of the venue's microphones. As he walks to the shop to buy a can of Coke, he muses on his other concern, 'In Love With Detail' has barely dropped out of the top 15, an achingly close 18 album sales behind Take That. "That's the way it goes," he sighs, before skulking back to the venue. The support, an unambitious acoustic act strums away while the guys are out on the venue's roof smoking and eating free chicken sandwiches with too much mayonnaise. Ro has a headache and is pacing with his black hood up. Kieran and Hugh sit apart from the group discussing something serious with folded arms and earnest faces. "They look like father and son," Nial laughs. He and Ross are lying on the roof busy coming up with new slang names for ecstasy tablets, "flip flops, disco crackers, scoobily doobilies," they giggle.
Everyone eventually adjourns to the backstage room and plays 'squidge', the Delorentos name for the card game ‘switch’. Kieran gets changed. Most of his actions are preempted by a sung explanation, "I'm gonna change my motherfucking pants," he trills in a Christina Aquilera / Tenacious D pastiche, before dropping his jeans to reveal red boxers like those mooning Santas that stick to a car window.
The venue has filled and the crowd is clearly up for it. On stage, Ro is transformed from a skinny shy boy to a possessed front man, his body jerks along to the rhythm of his highly strapped guitar and he fixes his gaze on an unseen mark, only breaking the constant glare to roll back or close his eyes. He sweats profusely. Song intros are met with tipsy cheers and the rapid fire of hits displays a band with a record where every track could be a single. A radio DJ jokes a few days later that they're a bit like Moby in that sense. Kieran says, as he always does, “it’s a pleasure to play for you,” his charm forcing the crowd to move closer to the stage.
Everyone is please with the gig. They sign autographs and greet friends and acquaintances. Backstage, Kieran is giddy at the first incident of being asked to sign a fan's breasts, "I saw her nipple and everything," he tells Hugh. They adjourn for chips and chicken. Ross falls asleep in the back of the van listening to Jeff Buckely's 'Grace' album, and at 4am, they reach the Red Cow roundabout, where Hugh gets off.
The next morning, Nial is driving around Portane, the quiet north Dublin spot where he and Ross live and where they practice. He passes the Victorian mental hospital where Ross shot a video for his multimedia course in DCU, the cove where you can surf at night and the estuary where crabs shed their skin leaving strange shells on the shore, and if Nial ever got into yoga, this is where he’d go, “it’s nice. It’s so quiet. It can get a bit hectic with the band.” Back in Ross’ house, you can barely see the sitting room furniture or floor for their gear, amps and guitar cases that were piled in at 5 o’clock this morning.
Ross’ granny who lives next door comes out into her driveway with a copy of the local paper where there’s an article on the band. She also informs them that they were on RTE last night, “thanks granny,” Ross says. The rest of the cars arrive, and gear is loaded in to the soundtrack of Dry County’s new album which Nial is into.
The drive to Dundalk is in a convoy of sorts. The gear is divided between 3 cars - Ro's Dad, Keiron's mum and Nial all lend their wheels. Ross and Nial's trip is spent listening to the new Arctic Monkey's album. The band recently learned that they are supporting the 'Monkeys at both of their massive outdoor summer gigs in Malahide castle. The castle is just a few minutes from Ro's house, and when he and his mates would take a shortcut through its grounds, they always thought it would be a good setting for live music, "it's something to look forward to alright," Ro says, "but I can't think about it too much," a look of excitement and nervousness briefly crosses his face.
When they arrive in Dundalk for an instore, they are informed that they’re actually meant to be in Drogheda. In response to this, Ross is jubilant, Kieran looks around the shop, Ro examines a Republic of Loose poster ("they look like a proper gang") and Nial eats an apple turnover in four seconds flat. Instead, they head to the setting of that night’s gig, The Spirit Store, a venue perched on a pier. There’s more football to be played and an extended soundcheck given that they’re early. "It's great when they jam, you never know what you're going to get. They just go completely into themselves," says Ro’s Dad, John. This remark comes at a moment at the Spirit Store as the evening creeps in hazily when Nial picks out a bass riff and they slide into a soothing five or six minute impromptu instrumental. It's the sound of a band that know each musical tick and movement of each other. Their musicianship acts as a constant flowing conversation and as an indecipherable but intriguing code to those watching it unfold. "We won't remember it though," Nial jokes after. They play ‘Eyes Open’, a slow-burning ballad that Coldplay would politely kill for. It's Ro's mum's favorite.
Kieran walks to the corner shop to buy a Toblerone. He knows Dundalk well, having studied computers here in college. "My voice is more reliable than me,” he thinks. In the shop, he reads Heat and reflects on the reasonable behavior of the band. "I can't exactly get hammered tonight. My Mum's picking me up," he laughs. "That's not very rock and roll to me… We're all bonded by the fact that we're broke. Some people say 'I have no money' and get into a big car and drive home to their fancy house. But we actually have," he stabs the air with a finger to reinforce the point, "No. Money." Before every gig, Kieran drops his jeans in whatever dressing room is available and changes into black trousers and a selection of t-shirts that cause observers to refer to him as 'the stripy one.' During this routine, he sprays himself liberally with deodorant and instructs onlookers to avert their eyes, even though his torso is broad and lean, a physique not to be ashamed of. Off stage, he switches between the seriousness of an academic to a fantastic wit with darkly framed glasses and self-driven conversations that take in everything from the poisonous composition of chocolate to the reasons for the end of the cold war. His studiousness drops constantly though, for joking, mimicry and sexual innuendo (Ross has a dog who pees when she sees anyone, and when Kieran was warned of this by Ross' mother he replied, "don't worry, I haven't made a bitch wet in years") and his three rings that cuff his left ear and denote rock and roll. He is charismatic and confident and at restaurant meals, he gets his order in before anyone else at the table, and he flirts with fans at the merchandise stall after the gigs - a tactic which shows a marked increase in t-shirt sales. Even though he sings, he smokes, and balances this habit by downing shots of a foul throat lubricant that smells of wheatgrass and slurry before gigs. He almost always nearly vomits it back up.
Back in the venue’s bar, Ross is reflecting on his ever present nerves. He's the only member of the band who refuses to do interviews because of his shyness. "If someone asked me a question on live radio, I'd be petrified." Even in college, he would stutter and stammer through presentations. He tends to drink more than the others before gigs. "When I'm playing and if I think about it too much, I become really aware of my limbs. I'll think 'I'm hitting this now', and then I can't get out of it and then I fuck up." He slaps his thighs with his hands as a despairing full stop.
Backstage, following an impromptu quiz of what tracks were on Abba’s first Greatest Hits album, instigated by Kieran, Karen, the lead singer from support band Cowboy X makes the mistake of asking what Delorentos means. "It means balls in your mouth," Kieran says, joking, obviously. She walks out of the backstage room unimpressed, much to the chagrin of Ro and Ross, "fucks sake Kieran, now she's going to think we're all bastards." Kieran shrugs and promptly nearly vomits as he knocks back his throat drink.
The next afternoon, Kieran and Nial are DJing in Topman on Grafton Street and talking about Keane, and how they work, “Music is like maths in some ways, if it ticks all the boxes it works,” Kieran decides. Nial adds, “we were never very good at maths… but we’re good at music,” they laugh at the corniness of the line.
Later, a cheery ex-army man drives them down to Waterford where they are late for a radio interview. As usual, Ross sits it out and heads outside to smoke and debate to himself which is better, the KFC across the road, or Burger King in general. The DJ asks the band what Delorentos means, and Kieran makes an obscure Albert Camus reference. “That’s not true,” Ross says, listening to the station in the van.
The club they’re playing is an indie night and they’re not on until late, so they can grab a Thai dinner first and exclaim at the spiciness. The soundcheck went well. Ro though the lighting was “deadly” and as they set up their gear, Kieran got a text message saying that they’re song ‘The Rules’ was on ‘The Premiership’ on RTE. “That’s better than having a hit album,” Kieran decides. Their soundcheck lasts over an hour as they run through a few on the set and some more newer ones that fill the room with the crescendo of a hit. Before the gig, they sit in a room upstairs quietly downing a crate of Warfsteiner bought in the off license next door until Nial finds an old set of CD decks and before long has them hooked up and is blasting out pre-gig tunes; Interpol, The Strokes, CSS. They go onstage at half twelve with a couple more drinks on board than usual. The crowd dance manically to every song - namely 'Stop' where the floor of the club physically moves up and down such is the force of the jumping. It’s a brilliant gig. They cut three songs out to fit with the atmosphere. The room is filled with beer, sweat, cheers when they walk off stage almost ecstatic at the reaction. "I fucking wish we could stay over tonight," Ross says, in between Heinekens and dancing to Hot Chip. Tonight was the first time sweat poured into his eyes obstructed his sight. Kieran sticks to selling t-shirts while Ro, Nial and Ross rip up the dance floor. “There’s nothing like this in Dublin,” Nial decides. They mean to leave at 1.30am, but it’s after 3.30am before they make a move towards the van. Tonight, they can afford some sleep, because it’s a late-ish start in Dublin Castle tomorrow, and then a few days off before eleven more gigs in Ireland and two in London ease them into the summer and a new single. But for now, they’re shattered. All of the chippers are closed and they’re starving. There’s nothing to do but get in the van and try and get some kip on the way home. "We're hardly rock and roll," Kieran says hourly, "what the fuck are you going to write about
us?"
c. The Sunday Tribune
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