"I've played in some strange places over the years, but this is a first - I'm playing in a supper club!" exclaims JESSE MALIN with what sounds like a mixture of incredulity and amusement. "Still, I guess if you come to Ireland, then play in a pub - it makes sense."
New Yorkers are renowned for letting you know their opinions, of course, so it's no surprise this hard-boiled and magnificent performer has plenty to say about his first visit to Limerick, even though personally this writer (it's his first visit to this venue too) is delighted with Dolan's. From the outside, it's a typical, old-fashioned dock road drinker but inside a two (three?) storied affair that goes way back from the road. Brilliantly, the organisers have realised the importance of segregating the weekend drinkers from the punters who actually WANT to see the band, too, so the herd are heading for a separate room at the back of the building from the one where the band's equipment is set up. Hell, there's even plenty of time to comfortably buy in a Jack Daniel's or two before the band come on. Result or what.
So, despite the initially reserved and respectful atmosphere, few people are in any doubt that they are in the presence of one of the year's greatest shows from the moment Malin's band stride onstage - looking so utterly Noo Yoik it hurts - and batter into the lowdown, tom-heavy tattoo of the tremendous 'Riding On The Subway' . Thus proceeding to transport us to the raw heart of The Bowery for the next hour and three-quarters.
From what I can gather, the only member of Jesse's touring band who records with him is unflappable drummer Paul Garisto (how can such a small guy pack such a punch? He's a pocket battleship!) but the remainder of his touring band are of serious quality. I didn't catch the name of his great, lanky bassist but his melodic sensibility and lo-o-ow down stance reeks of class, as does lead guitarist Steve Dawson's flash and quicksilver intensity - even if he does look disconcertingly like Mick Jones beneath his peaked cap. Then there's keyboard player Carla and she's simply revelatory. Not only does she harmonise supernaturally with Malin throughout, but she's wearing the cutest pair of boots ever. Wowzer.
As for Mr. Malin himself, he's very much the natty man in black and - initially - happy to let his gritty, unmissable rock'n'roll speak volumes for him. This it does eloquently as the band hammer their way through classic noo wave anthems from new album 'Glitter In The Gutter' like the saucy 'Black Haired Girl', a super-defiant 'Don't Let Them Take You Down' and the amphetamined-up 'Prisoners of Paradise' before taking it down a tad for the aching 'Downliner.' Indeed, you can tell how well things are going when they play the cathartic ballad 'Broken Radio' to perfection and you only forget Bruce Springsteen's not there as it's winding down.
The aching 'Brooklyn' is presaged by a hilarious and 110% true story of Malin's days as a removal man and an assignment involving moving Barbra Streisand's bed across Manhattan. I won't spoil the punchline other than to mention it involves a downpour, an accidental trip to Coney Island and one very aeriated maid. Suffice it to say I'll struggle to watch 'Yentl' with a straight face again.
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The song is driven to a huge, overdriven, Hendrixian climax. Shortly after, the band (save for Dawson) depart and Malin slides into the brief, acoustic mid-section. A lonely and regretful 'Solitaire' is marked by Malin going walkabout through the crowd and - with Carla re-appearing - it segues into his beautiful version of The Replacements' 'Bastards Of Young'. W&H disgrace themselves by forgetting the words when Jesse thrusts the mic our way (inexcusable!) but I doubt there's anyone in this room not welling up by the time it elegantly fades away.
The band return for a further blast of supercharged rock'n'roll taking in the breathlessly brilliant likes of 'Almost Grown', 'Little Star' (with Carla feeding in some great, Cars-style synth) and a chugging and anthemic remoulding of Fred Neil's timeless 'Everybody's Talkin'.' They take their leave after a smouldering version of 'Wendy' only for Jesse to re-appear alone for a further acoustic showcase.
This time he insists we come way, way closer and by the time the band re-appear for a doozy of a bash at the 24-carat classic 'NY Nights' there's a palpable throng going utterly radio rental at last. The euphoria is maintained through a fist-pumpin' 'In The Modern World' and an ear-splitting thrash through a Bad Brains-style hardcore riot which signals the band's departure for a second time. This time the house lights come on and it really is the end. The bassist's set list suggests they were thinking of 'Lucinda' and maybe a couple more, but really we're just about sated at this stage and we shouldn't be TOO greedy.
Besides, their points have already been made. Not that this writer has been in any doubt of Jesse Malin's talent since the arrival of his debut album 'The Fine Art Of Self-Destruction' some five years back, but it's when you see him up close and personal, you realise he's unquestionably one of the greats. To paraphrase Lou Reed, Jesse Malin's gig beats your week. No shit.
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