7. lemon
The Ambassador Dublin was not full on Friday night, which Evan Dando acknowledged in the slur & ecstasy of his high. The second support act, Stefan Murphy, confessed fanboy of Dando, was effortlessly good. He added to the good expectations of Dando’s relative sobriety as a witness to his brilliant sound check earlier that day. He mentioned a fifteen songs set; we would end up leaving after seven or so, perhaps, maybe. It is unclear. Everything was cobbled in a bricolage of miss starts & jettisoned half-way-throughs.
Dando necked a pint, almost—except for the bit part dribbling onto his shirt—on entering the stage with Uncle Fester-looking collaborator, John Perry. He said something about being authentic. An authentic drunk is the biggest irony, especially when drunkenness is conflated with honesty or bravery or punk.
Usually under three minutes, Dando’s songs gallop without much kick, head to tail to head. The between-song banter came with neither head nor tale. Dando’s eyes came crossed & heavenward via a secret ecstasy that most didn’t share in the Ambassador.. “God” spilt from his mouth along with more alcohol. Through the dregs of hair & full beard, a big shiny rictus occasionally revealed itself, Hollywood white teeth gleaming through tight lips like a polished skull.
Many people didn’t know where to look: at each other, the stage, the exit. Perhaps they too, like us, were hopelessly naive to Dando’s slim chance of sobriety. In that moment of regret a roadie appeared with a “glass of milk” (someone says) with clinking ice & a sliver of lemon maybe? which Dando necked— almost.
Some less naive yet sadistic attendees whooped & laughed along. The saddest moment was when Dando hit the wrong chord, completely out of tune. He said, “Sorry,” like a child, sobered by some memory that had nothing to do with music. Then jumped into the next song, trying & failing to forge something steady & strong from the liquid dependency that churned in Dando’s belly & brain.
The next day Dando apologised on Instagram for his “fuck you!” outbursts when the slim audience thinned to despondency. According to family, his performance at Róisín Dubh Galway on Saturday was a controlled mess, his feet dressed in disposable hotel slippers.
