Rowing over Garth? It’s a sign we are getting back to normal!
BEFORE I launch into matters, I’d like to make one thing clear: I am not a Garth Brooks fan. It’s doubtful this revelation will ruffle a hair of his now suspiciously fuller locks – after all, he is world’s top-selling solo artist of all time.
I find his honky-tonking, line-dancing, country-rock-and-pop melding of music bombastic and downright irritating, if the truth be told. I don’t blame the residents of Croke Park for getting all het up over the news that the larger-thanlife noise-bucket from Nashville is going to bring his enormous entourage and blast the bejaysus out of them for five nights next September.
And what could be more annoying than a five-day country-crossover fest, where you are essentially held captive in your homes (as traffic and restrictions mean you can’t leave) and forced to listen to the insufferable racket? That’s right, a couple of hundred thousand revellers are finally getting to wear their pink cowboy hats after the drama of Garthgate 2014.
Who could forget the period of national mourning that followed the cancellation of all five shows scheduled to take place in Croke Park that July? Everywhere you looked, there were people moaning and bawling about it.
All other news stopped. The country ground to a halt. Don’t even ask me what else was happening in July 2014, because it was lost to Garth. Joe Duffy’s phone line actually imploded with all the giving out.
It was those pesky residents’ fault. No, it was Dublin City Council that messed it all up. Scrap that, it was the greedy American who ultimately ruined everyone’s fun, by pulling the plug completely.
‘To choose which shows to do and which shows not to do would be like asking to choose one child over another,’ boomed King Garth from across the Atlantic. Eh, dramatic much?
But emotions were running just as high in the Emerald Isle, when his legions of fans, who had been waiting for him like small children anticipating Santa’s arrival at Christmas, were to discover that the man in red (plaid) was never going to show. Even our then Taoiseach Enda Kenny got involved, telling the Dáil how the mishandling of Garthgate was a ‘shock to the system, in terms of the economy of this city and the reputation of our country... He’s not coming. There will be no concerts at all now. None.’ Cue foot-stomp, door-slam (can’t you tell he’s a fan?).
I am in no way surprised that once more residents are up in arms over the prospect that the five-night American dream might finally come to fruition.
The warbling itself is not the real problem. It’s almost a week of restrictions, traffic, chaos and the aforementioned captivity, and then when darkness descends and the drink is lowered, you’ve got another wee problem with which to contend. No really, it’s actual wee – and it’s a big issue. I’m talking rivers of the stuff. Sorry if I’m putting you off your brunch here, but come on: all that beer, so few public toilets?
Who could relish the prospect of opening their front door to yet another stumbling randomer peeing in your garden or against your window sill, slurring along to Friends In Low Places?
Christ, I think it’s the stuff of nightmares, but do you know what? Maybe I’m wrong. Perhaps I’m just a miserable old hack who needs to embrace the line dancing and the plaid shirts and the pee. Because for a big swathe of the Irish population, anything Garth, below, does is positively dreamy.
It seems that despite all our notions of being very European, our wokeness and our new penchant for coconut soy lattes and fermented foods, we’re actually not that fancy at all. We are traditionalists at heart, who like Barry’s Tea and Guinness and fry-ups – you know, the simple pleasures. And there’s one thing we cherish more than being cool, and that’s having the craic. The reality is that country music remains hugely popular all over the nation, and after the last year-and-ahalf, it seems there’s little reason needed to dust off those pink Stetsons, break into a grapevine, and roar, ‘Yeehaw!’
Cuddly Garth is renowned for being a humble, genuine, authentically good guy (even though, let’s face it, he essentially cancelled Christmas by sticking in his spurred heels back in 2014). We like good people. He also looks normal. We like that too. We are inherently a needy bunch. So when Brooks says, ‘If you love me one billionth as much as I love you, I’m the luckiest guy on the planet. I love Ireland’, we believe him. In fact, we lap that stuff up.
And I’ll admit something else. This time around, when I saw his Stetson dominating our news feeds once more, I actually smiled. Because it signals something far more appealing and positive to me than the prospect of going to his gigs. The fact that we are being consumed by Garth, and not Covid, well, it can only mean one thing.
Lads, I think we might be finally getting back to normal.