I have been to over 40 of his shows in my time - I’m from Belfast, it seemed the right thing to do at the time - but it’s the best part of a decade since I paid money to see Van Morrison in concert. On that occasion, he treated us to a rambling, strictly by-the-numbers, soporific wander through his last three or four albums. Each song was presented as a subtle variation on the one that went before but just a little bit duller, and apart from a perfunctory trot through ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ the oldest song on offer was ‘Days Like This’. That was the second of two Belfast shows that week, and I was assured by the Canadian in the seat next to me (who had travelled from Canada for the experience) that it was a “gazillion times” better than the first night - I can only assume that Van must have actually fallen asleep before the audience did on that first night.

Van and I parted company after that, and to be honest it had been a long time coming. I kept the CDs; I let him have the big bag of harmonicas.

(Contd.)

A few months ago ads began appearing for a series of concerts by Bob Dylan and Mark Knopfler.

Now, there was a time when, to a generation of Golf-driving estate agents with rolled up Top Shop sleeves, this may have seemed like a dream ticket. That was however some 30 years ago – when Knopfler was dividing his time between fronting Dire Straits and assisting Bob Dylan to record “his best album since Blood On The Tracks”.™

In the intervening decades Dire Straits have become a guilty pleasure; the ‘Brothers In Arms’ CD, said to reside in almost every household, hidden behind an unread copy of 'A Brief History of Time’ alongside a cracked Rubik’s cube and ‘Kama Sutra 2’ on VHS.

For the record, I have never owned a copy of ‘Brothers in Arms’.

Dylan meanwhile has receded into and emerged from cultdom at least twice, and continues to tour to the delight of fans and the consternation of critics. I fall squarely into the former category. That said, I have seen some dreadful Dylan gigs in my time; but I also know that he has, at least as recently as 2009, remained capable of greatness on stage. His two Dublin gigs in 2009 were amongst the best of his shows that I have seen.

Did I really want to risk one more gig that might undo the memory of those 2009 highlights? Needless to say, I was on Ticketmaster faster than Oprah on a baked ham.

(contd.)

Vicar Street Dublin is a small venue by rock superstar standards, holding only 1200 or so, but it has in recent years played host to Bob Dylan, Brain Wilson and Neil Young amongst others. Tonight Paul Simon is the latest heavyweight to opt for a small intimate gig as part of larger venue tour ...

(contd.)

The headliners I should say at the outset were Def Leppard. More later.

There was an early and thoroughly so-so opening set from Thin Lizzy, who appear intent on remaining their own tribute band despite an earlier showing this year which had left me wishing they would ditch the Phil Lynott backdrop and record some new. Someone from Snow Patrol who wasn’t Gary Lightbody - you know, the other one, whattsisname - joined them for ‘The Boys Are Back In Town’ and threw some slightly fey and very unconvincing shapes. This was the highlight apparently.

As the house lights went up roadies scurried across the stage setting up the rig for the second opening act, Alice Cooper. Not ordinary roadies I might say, but roadies dressed head to toe as skeletons. And indeed no ordinary rig. The backdrop is a decaying gothic castle, there are giant grey hospital screens behind which lurk who knows what. Life size dolls and strange blinking equipment apparently liberated from Dr Frankenstein’s laboratory are scattered across the stage. Finally a huge front cloth bearing Alice’s panda-eyed visage is hoisted into place. I came with no expectations, but this looks like fun ...

Contd. ...

The O2 is a strange thing. A monument to ego and vanity, now re-tooled and re-made for a new century and a new purpose, it is a fitting venue for the presentation of Roger Water’s grand statement ...

by, about or pertaining to the HJH. This isn't normal, is it?

I counted them - I suspect that isn't normal either.

EDIT: 97 - Howard Sounes' "Fab" arrived this morning.

It is a fairly last minute decision to nip down the road on Tuesday night to see Robert Cray where he was playing in a small club – in what as far as I am aware was his first gig in Belfast.

Robert Cray was of course the next big thing … back in 1986. A good looking young guitar-slinger, with a sweet soulful vocal style, feted by the older generation of bluesmen, pals with Eric Clapton and, with ‘Strong Persuader’, able to loft a blues album into the Billboard Top 100. I saw him perform a great set back then, and again a year or so later as support to a Tina Turner stadium spectacular. Two albums later and he had slipped from my radar.

He has aged well. Resembling a youngish Harry Bellafonte in a Hawaiian shirt, he fronts an accomplished three piece band. It looks set to be a great night.

A few short mid-tempo songs later however and I start to feel a little restless. Despite the guitar work there is little to distinguish one song from another.

This is perhaps the reason why his commercial career stalled - too ‘blues’ for a pop audience, but too ‘pop’ for the blues aficionados. Lyrically often lightweight, there is a limit to what can be done with a commercial rock/pop song in a blues style, before repetition dulls the effect. Tellingly the best performances of the evening come on two tracks from ‘Strong Persuader’ when the formula was new, and on a slow blues workout in a traditional style when he and the band truly catch fire.

Robert Cray may still be that good looking, soulful guitar-slinger, but what he does – and what he did back in 1986 - seems now simply to be a commercial cul de sac.

I last saw Stevie Wonder at the O2 in London in 2009, and came away feeling slightly let down. Despite the appearance of most of if not all of the big hitters from the back catalogue large portions of the show dragged, interrupted by long instrumental noodling, and communal singing conducted by the man himself. It seemed odd that someone in the business for so long appeared to have so little idea how to pace a show.

Clearly someone has had a word. Walking on to the stage last night, alone with his key-tar, Stevie set up the riff and, heading straight for the mic, kick-started the band into ‘My Eyes Don’t Cry’.

From there in it was a near perfect set list – all the hits and a few surprises including a truly funked up cover of ‘We Can Work It Out’ and an (almost) instrumental version of ‘Human Nature’ - it being the eve of the anniversary of Michael Jackson’s death. It recalled Miles Davis’s take on the same song.

The only negative aspect – and honestly this is not a prelude to a joke or sarcastic aside (I wouldn't count on it – Ed.)– was that so little attention had been paid to the visual impact of the staging. The side screens were small and grainy by modern standards, and the camera and spotlight work was appalling, to the extent that it did begin to distract from the performance. A close up of Stevie taking a drink during ‘Higher Ground’ gave the impression that he was attempting to play the solo on a bottle of Lucozade Sport. When the backdrop screen did spring to life about twenty minutes in, it divided into four or five small screens each with a garish blue neon border – it was fantastically retro; and oddly reminiscent of an episode of Catchphrase.

That aside the pace rarely let up and the extended version of ‘Superstition’ was the highlight of superb show. If you get a chance to see him in Hyde Park at the weekend then definitely go, if only to keep any eye out for Roy Walker manning the lighting rig.(I knew it – Ed.)

The venue last night was the Old Common Room at Queen’s University, Belfast. This is a room approximately 25ft by 30ft with tall sash windows on two sides, dominated by a large marble fireplace and the imperious gaze in oils of some long gone University grandee. There are 30 chairs arranged in a semi-circle around the fireplace. The audience comprises five men and twenty five women. I am prepared to speculate that each of the latter has at least one potter’s wheel and two spare pairs of Birkenstocks at home.

First, we are treated – and here I use that word in entirely the wrong sense – to a women’s choir singing speedy versions of ‘All You Need Is Love’, ‘Forever Young’ and bizarrely ‘Be My Baby’. I am on the point of requesting ‘He Hit Me, And It Felt Like A Kiss’ but the heat overcomes me and I think better of it.

After a short break, Jane Siberry takes command, re-arranging the seating and delightfully singling me out to move to my right so as not to disrupt the energy flow in the room. I begin to fear that the five sets of external genitalia in the room may be interfering with a ley line.

Then begins a long monologue “… I came around the side of a building and saw a pearl, a superhero’s cape and a shell, and you said ‘Call magic!’ and I said ‘ You’re freaking me out, I need to get on with my show …’.

Initially I have the sense of watching someone’s medication slowly wear off.

There are songs sung to a subtle orchestral backing track, sung to the accompaniment of an audibly out of tune acoustic guitar and sung a capella. Some of these are truly quite beautiful. Jane outlines her manifesto, to return music to its intimate beginnings before artists and their work became corrupted by commerce. She is travelling alone, playing to small audiences, staying with fans, and giving her music away.

The performance – and this is effectively performance art – lasts an hour and a half. It is mesmerising and genuinely affecting. The simplicity of the message occasionally appears hopelessly naïve but the beauty of the songs slowly suspends scepticism … even mine.

Last night, we were seated up in the gods in the Odyssey Arena, Belfast – OK I’ll admit it … it was a corporate box, but we were paying for the drink. Usually this is not a particularly good vantage point, and the sound quality is lousy. Tonight however we are afforded a perfect view of the massive rectangular stage set up in the middle of the floor of the Arena. I would guess it is about the size of a basketball court with a low central drum riser. There are eight microphone stands, with one at each corner and one on each side of the stage.

As the lights go down there is a single deafening roar from the 8,000 strong crowd that is unlike anything I have heard before. An array of green and red lasers streak across the stage as the band launch into ‘That Was Your Life’. This is loud - louder than the Who; louder than bombs; louder than AC/DC wearing Timmy Mallet’s dungarees.

James Hetfield appears larger in real life, prowling around the stage visiting each microphone at random. The most amazing aspect of the show however is the crowd. Reacting as one they punch the air and bellow the lyrics. Three songs in and I want to get a tattoo. Ten songs in - during ‘One’ - and I have decided to invade Poland, or at very least storm Downing Street.

Down on the floor a group of around twenty guys, stripped to the waist, hurl themselves at each other. From the gallery I imagine I had a view similar to a Roman Emperor watching some gladiatorial contest. For all the violence there was no anger, no hate. After each song they hug and smile before returning to the fray as the band kick into the next onslaught.

What amazes me is how tight the playing is. Each man roams around the stage with minimal contact with his bandmates yet the playing is taut and the sound is perfect. A pyrotechnic display, the heat from which reaches even the boxes, accompanies ‘Enter Sandman’ and closes a spectacular main set. The walls of the Arena vibrate. The only disappointment was that ‘Harvester of Sorrows’ and ‘Whiskey In The Jar’ were missing from the setlist. Twenty minutes and a three song encore later - including a Budgie cover(!) - we stumble, deafened from the venue.

My head was still ringing this morning, so much so that I had some trouble dialling the Tattoo Removal Clinic.

The O2 Dublin is full; a sizeable percentage of the crowd sporting make up and face paint; the stalls outside charging €5 to render an approximation of the band member of your choice. There is a huge black curtain across the front of the stage emblazoned with that logo.

A crack of fireworks and the curtain falls to the floor to reveal the drummer behind his kit, high above the back of the stage. As the pyrotechnics explode a cantilevered platform rises from behind bringing the rest of the band up and over the drum kit, depositing them at the front of the stage.

Wearing the traditional make up and black leather, they stride around the stage on stackheeled boots that have been outlawed in the civilised world since 1975. But Kiss are no respecters of the laws of man or good taste.

I am no long term fan, but tonight Matthew I am part of the Irish Kiss Army - which sounds unnervingly like a group of touchy feely terrorists. With only four musicians onstage it is hard to tell how much of the display is live, but it hardly seems to matter. Every chorus is chanted to the rafters, every flick of Gene Simmons’ tongue - shown in hi-res diamond vision - elicits cheers and hysterical applause. ‘Black Diamond’ is a sing-a-long highlight. The spitting fire, and rocket launching guitars are pure theatre.

Gene is slightly larger than in his younger days - think Fleegle from the Banana Splits - and I imagine several beefy roadies hauling him up to sing from the very top of the lighting rig. For a man who doesn’t play rugby, he has a ready way with a blood capsule ... and he has a bass shaped like an executioner’s axe ... see what he did there?

Paul Stanley, pinched mouth and pointed chin, resembles nothing so much as a tubercular Patricia Hodge, although from the back, shaking his thang, he does a very convincing Donna Summer, particularly during ‘I Was Made For Loving You’, sung from a spinning platform in the middle of the audience. He talks - or more correctly shrieks - like a slightly fey New York cabbie and the carefully scripted in-between song banter whips up the crowd.

‘Kiss are not one of those bands that tell you how to live your life, or how to make poverty history. We can save the world tomorrow’ he says, ‘tonight is a night off.’ And for that moment there isn’t a U2 fan in the house.

God may have given rock’n’roll to us for free, but everything else - the Kiss T-shirts, scarves, hats, dolls, badges, mugs, posters and programmes - you have to pay for handsomely. Cash only please.

This is nakedly commercial rock’n’roll, Hollywood style. It should be everything I hate but I had a spectacular time.

I’ll be joining Greenpeace tomorrow obviously but, just for tonight, you can call me ... 'Dr. Love'.

It was 26 years ago that I last went to a Joan Armatrading concert. Then her last notable hit - 'Drop The Pilot' - was a recent memory. In the intervening period she hasn't troubled the charts much to my knowledge, and has reinvented herself as something of a blues artiste. So, with two of my fifty-something friends, I pitched up at the Ulster Hall, Belfast for an age-appropriate Saturday night out.

The support act was Lisbee Stainton, a pretty girl with a pretty voice and a pretty strange name. Looking around the audience I did wonder if it was short for Lisbee-Anne, but I cast aside such churlish thoughts. Singing her own songs, accompanied by double bass and snare, and by her own impressive 12 string guitar, she was a joy. Fans of Shawn Colvin should note the name. Needless to say it is unlikely that she will achieve any degree of commercial success, unless she can persuade her dog to also learn guitar and join her band.

Then the main event. The band comprises drums, bass and keyboards with Joan handling all the guitar work. Dressed in black silk trousers and collarless jacket, a long fringe hiding her eyes, she resembles Chairman Mao in an ill-fitting Beatle wig. The opening song is a slightly lacklustre 'Show Some Emotion' which receives a rapturous response. This sets a pattern, with the older material sprinkled throughout the set provoking loud cheers, and the newer material drawing polite applause.

It is clear however that it is the new bluesy material that draws the most passion from the singer, and she politely declines requests for some early songs. There is some stunning guitar work as well, and I end up feeling that I would rather see Joan Armatrading in a blues club where she could avoid the requirement to deliver the singalongs and swaying arms of 'All The Way From America'. Occasionally the band, which is overall tight and focused, does indulge in some retro soloing; 'Tall In The Saddle' at one point drifting into some extended electric piano noodling.

It was an enjoyable show but it trod a fine line, and some of the old material sat uncomfortably with the new. Having said that the newer songs were well received - if it had been Cat Stevens he'd have been booed off the stage twenty minutes in. Joan Armatrading deserves more from her audience than an expectation to simply sing the hits, and I think if she pushed them harder she might be rewarded.

And amazingly, to round off the evening, on the way out we bumped into Valerie Singleton.*

*No we didn't.

"On the very eve of the 1970s, quite literally New Year’s Eve 1969, I kissed a girl for the first time, in Wales. It was a bit like Withnail and I actually. There was no sexual congress because I had to speak to someone, although she did it later with a midget who had a beard. The next thing I knew I was living in London - the fulcrum of the very Zeitgeist pendulum - as it swung. As I once said to Jimmy Page if you don’t live in London you’ll end up abandoning yourself to a world of small mindedness, bitterness and regret, churning out turgid prose in self serving autobiographies. As we shall see dear reader, as we shall see ...

(contd. in comments ... )

The venue is the Waterfront Hall, Belfast – a gleaming modern testament to the new frontier, and frequently the most soulless of venues. Fortunately we had a front row vantage point, directly in front of the two chairs and three acoustic guitars lined up on stage.

A perfunctory introduction and Lyle Lovett and John Hiatt wander on to the stage. Hiatt has come to resemble Ronald Regan’s Spitting Image puppet, and Lovett, eyes half closed and grinning through tight lips, reminds me of a slightly elongated De Niro at his most method. There was a brief silence as the applause died down and we seemed suddenly to become extras in one of David Lynch’s less commercial offerings. Neither man is a born raconteur; and there began a strange, stilted and quite deliberately self conscious dialogue, that they kept up throughout the show. It seems at once an accurate reflection of their personalities and a gentle send up of the classic scripted ad lib double act.

“Did you sleep well?”.
“I did”.
“Good … you didn’t feel you missed anything?”
“Not really, no”.
“A song?”.
“OK”.

They have very different styles. Lyle Lovett and his material are the more naturally suited to a sit down acoustic show, although John Hiatt’s country blues guitar playing is certainly the more infectious. Alternating songs, they watch each other closely, clearly enjoying the experience. They rarely play or sing together.

“We are not a duo In fact, if you’re expecting a duo, you may have come to the wrong show”.

As the night progresses Hiatt begins to play little embellishments on Lovett’s songs; and once or twice sings harmony on a chorus. The songs from ‘Bring The Family’ and ‘Slow Turning’ bring Hiatt the most applause. It is Lovett’s second album with which the audience seems most familiar; and if there is a better song than ‘If I Had A Boat’ I have yet to hear it

The only proper duets of the evening are the traditional ‘Ain’t No More Cane’ and Hiatt’s ‘Thing Called Love’, and during the latter Hiatt embarks on an extended breakdown - and I mean a full 3 or 4 minutes - repeatedly asking an inscrutably smiling, and resolutely silent Lovett if he can shed any light as to why Bonnie Raitt omitted the middle eight from her hit version of the song.

These guys come from different backgrounds, play, sing and write in totally different styles. On paper it shouldn’t work. On stage it’s a delight.