SLANE at 40: Helicopters, Gazebos, Handbags and Gladrags

21st August 2003 - Stereophonics

ANNE CALLAN

Honestly, the Stereophonics was not on my list of favourite bands, but it didn’t matter much because it isn’t so much the who is playing Slane that is important, as the being free on the day of the gig that matters. Slane is a ritual akin to going to Fairyhouse on Easter Monday or celebrating the summer solstice on the 21st of June, it is just the done thing. The Welsh band had been in the lineup in 1999 and now they were the main attraction for Slane’s 21st birthday.

One might have preferred the headline act to be a mega rock band like those that played in the early days of the eighties and nineties of course but there was a buzz around the Stereophonics. They’d received a gong at the Meteor Awards earlier in the year, in March 2002. I’d been at the Awards and the jollies afterwards in Café en Seine with an admirer, a Slane man would you believe.

He had always attended the concerts, and this year, was intent on showing me a good time.

In 2002, swish air travel wasn’t just the preserve of rock stars. Travelling by helicopter had caught the imagination of the Irish jet set. Playboys and playgirls who liked that sort of thing dropped into the landing pad in the VIP carpark. From there one entered a gazebo where tickets were checked, and wristbands placed on one’s wrist by the elegant reception staff. Then you made your way along a treelined path to the VIP compound at the front of the castle.

I arrived at the Stereophonics gig from the sky, emerging from the short flight giddy from the aerial view of the sprawl beneath; the stage, the river, the Castle, people moving, traffic crawling, buses lined up on the approach roads, and feeling slightly nonsensical from the sheer fun of it all.

Back then there was a bar set up between the columns in the main hall of the castle. Up the stone steps, through the massive wooden doors, a cabaret played out in the spacious interior. Fellows crowded round the bar posturing at jaunty angles, high on free-flowing booze and their own private substances. I was pleasantly surprised to find I knew quite a few people there.

The VIP compound has a tiered seating area right beside the castle. It affords a sweeping view across the field to the stage. What I really liked about the compound was civilized access to the bar and on a practical level, little or no queueing for the Ladies. The Ladies was tended and kept clean with hot water and a constant supply of hand towels. And furnished with proper mirrors. Compared to the field there were no more or no less drunks per capita, I’d say.

Charlatans, Nickelback, Counting Crows, Ocean Colour Scene played that day. I’m not sure I took much notice, distracted as I was by love. I stood back to appreciate the fireworks display, enjoying the pleasure of not having to join the exodus swarming from the site, knowing that I would be driven home.

The man who brokered the chopper trips, let’s call him The Driver, was more interested in the infrastructure of the site than the music, I believe.

Shortly after the Stereophonics had been whisked away, I became privy to a whole other side of things I had never considered before. An army of crew moved in to dismantle the stage. It was organized like a military campaign. Metal clanged in the night air as the structure and its paraphernalia of lighting and sound equipment was taken down for packing in huge lorries to be transported to the next gig on its itinerary. I didn’t want to think about it too much, lest the magic evaporate.

Supper was served in rooms at the top of the Castle by invitation only. The cast: ancestral Conynghams; old guard estate staff, administrative and outdoor people who had a genuine warmth for the Castle and its incumbents despite the odd slighting remark let slip under the influence; beautiful people of all ages, Very Individual Persons; hangers on, characters who wouldn’t miss the concert even if they had never heard of the band, playing at being gentry for the night; inevitably there were connoisseurs who spoke about the headline act as if they knew their entire back catalogue; and Twink, who was charming and friendly, gathered in discriminate socializing. Every person there had a genuine regard for Henry. His family showed it openly because they could. Others, connected only by association, had it etched on their faces. All grateful for his vision and his largesse in having given them a day, and a night, to remember.

Acquaintances wore out as the night wore on. The Driver left on occasion to give lifts home to people from the locality who were too spent or too impatient to wait for taxis. It was daylight when I skipped out, exhilarated. The heady scent of early morning filled the air as we strolled the arboreal path garlanded by fairy lights to where the car was parked.