“You won’t be able to ring Lord Henry anymore,” quipped a friend when the news of the death of the legendary Slane Castle proprietor broke. I’ve only ever called Henry Mount Charles once, about 15 years ago when Oasis were gearing up to headline in his back garden.
I was in music journalism and he had graciously granted an interview and handed over his personal mobile number. He was a gentleman, in every sense of the word. Lord Henry is one of two celebrities whose number I have in my phonebook. The other is Louis Walsh, although I suspect he might have changed his since.
Lord Henry’s death ignited a lot of chat around the Slane concerts, but whenever Slane comes up, what people are really keen to talk about is getting there and particularly getting home. “It took us eight hours to get back to Dublin after Metallica.” “We had to walk five miles to the car after Harry Styles.” “I’m still on the bus home from Oasis in 2009,” etc.
The truth is, going to almost any large concert in Ireland is a serious test of endurance. Last weekend, the Phoenix Park hosted three concerts by American country star Zach Bryan. Reports that about 12 per cent of the tickets were purchased in Dublin meant that the fans would be travelling in from all around the country, and beyond.
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Obviously, the hotel prices were in the stratosphere, but even anyone lucky enough to be lodging nearby would still be subjected to the great Phoenix Park concert trek – a good 45 minutes from the entrance of the park to a concert venue itself.
I didn’t attend the Zach Bryan concerts, but I’ve done so, so many of these treks. As a punter who knows little of the logistical and safety arrangements for large events it’s tempting to imagine concert and festival planners sitting around the gaping maw of Mordor devising ways to make people suffer.
“I know, I know, let’s make them walk for four miles following signs for a blue car park, even though there is no blue car park.”
“Oh, you’re terrible, I love it. How about having no parking and asking people to use public transport, but then cancelling all the public transport?”
“Or, or, let’s put the campsite at the top of a hill so that they have to carry their stupid tents and little chairs all the way up. And obviously the car parks will be six miles away.”
We do it, though, for the experience. I attended the Beyond the Pale festival a few weeks back. It’s mercifully small, which means the treks are shorter, but there was still a moment as we wrestled up (it was obviously uphill) a slippery, muddy forest trail with air mattresses and six packs of Tayto when I hissed, “This bit is always hell, but it will be worth it.”
Eleven years ago this weekend, I attended an Arcade Fire concert at Marlay Park. Afterwards we walked the 8km back into Dublin city centre, rewarding ourselves on arrival to a slap-up, sit-down 2am meal at the wonderful Temple Bar Indian restaurant Shan. Unfortunately, I don’t think Shan survived the pandemic, but the torturous journey to and from a concert at Marlay Park is still very much with us.
I relived the experience this week, attending the Olivia Rodrigo show. We were bringing some preteens, so there was much investigating of extortionate private bus options and Google mapping of possible parking possibilities that might lie outside the road closures and resident-only restrictions. Because if there’s anything concert organisers love, it’s road closures and parking restrictions.
I was a victim myself during the Zach Bryan concerts. Leaving a pal’s house in Stoneybatter, I was met with no fewer than three different roadblocks while trying to drive home to Dublin 8. With each refusal I did a mental recalculation and headed for a different route, only to be rebuffed with no detour suggestion offered. When I finally found my way around the exclusion zone I was stuck in 40 minutes of traffic.
All around me were frantic designated picker-uppers trying to find somewhere to pull in to wait for their Bryan fan to make the at least 60-minute hike to find them. And for every designated picker-upper there was a Garda roaring at them to “move that veh-hickle”.
All I could think about was the girls I’d seen earlier on Parkgate Street heading for the Phoenix Park entrance. They were already hobbling a little in their cowboy boots and obviously oblivious to the trek still ahead of them. I hope it was worth it. It always is. Almost always.
