Saturday night, Long Street. Lucy and I – among the sober minority for a change – fight our way through the crowd of piss-heads and prostitutes dancing to the atrocious covers of Bryan Adams and Robbie Williams, and up the stairs of the Dubliner.
God knows where they find that band, but their aural assault is well worth the light at the end of the terrible tunnel.
It is something akin to digging through dogshit to find a shining diamond; but if you can manage getting stepped on by inebriated tourists and the accompanying market of meat with their bovine eyes on all the Dollars and Pounds, you will meet the Piano Man.
His name is Dave. Cooler than a Tarantino movie, he drinks Southern Comfort on the rocks and has a voice like an icy glass of blended honey, angel wings and gravel. An odd combination, but much like stopping along a country dirt road for lunch, staring at the majestic mountains and thinking of God as a given.
If you can grab a seat at the glass-topped piano you’ll have a front row vision of his nimble fingers banging out everything from Neil Diamond to Coldplay and, of course, a large helping of Billy Joel.
His fans shout out requests and cheer like punters at an underground kung-fu death match – and more often than not someone from the industry passes by, gives Dave a kiss and a drink, and lends their voice to his soulful magic.
Now if they could only build a bridge over the dodgy, downstairs dancefloor, it wouldn’t feel like pulling teeth to get an icecream.
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