The Rocker - Italian tribute page to Philip Lynott & Thin Lizzy. Sito dedicato alla memoria<br>
di Philip Lynott
e stroll on, around the corner of Church
Street. A PA system is blasting out songs by Irish bands.
“In The Name of Love”,
by U2 segues into “Here Comes The
Night” , by Van Morrison. The street
is chick full of Irish fans, clustered around the bars
on the pavements. A few of them are dancing around,
but only half-heartedly. Most of them are just drinking.
And then suddenly, a strange thing happens. The sound of Philip
Lynott and Thin Lizzy
comes blaring down from the loudspeakers. There is a
tumultuous roar of recognition from the Irish fans.
They wander from the bars into the middle of the street.
They all start to jump up and down and sing along and
dance, they clap their hands in the air, first one section
of the street, then another section, until in a few
moments the whole street is singing, as far as your
eye can see, right down to the junction, which must
be half a mile away. It’s an amazing sight. And
the sound! I don’t know if you’ve ever heard
“Dancing In the Moonlight”
sung by ten thousand Irish soccer fans, but for some
reason I cannot really figure out it is unforgettably
moving.
t’s
a wonderful moment. Somehow, it lifts the whole night.
The fans are embracing each other, hugging the Dutch
fans, hugging the waitresses, the policemen, hugging
the police horses for God’s sake and the guys
and girls selling beers and ice creams. And singing
"Dancing
in the Moonlight".
The laughing voice of Phil Lynott, reminding us in some
weird intangible way that being Irish always has its
consolations. So we lost. Big swinging deal. We lost.
It’s not the end of the world. Everyone is signing
together now. <Dancing In the Moonlight/It’s got me in
its spotlight/It’s alright>.
The Irish fan beside me is apoplectic with pleasure.
He is singing along with the guitar solos, at the top
of his voice. His right hand is strumming his trouser
zip and his left is held out parallel to the ground,
fingers wriggling spiderlike on invisible frets. His
head is shaking from side to side. He takes off his
Ireland baseball cap and throws it high into the air.
<It’s alright> he sings, the veins
in his neck throbbing, <Dancing in the moonlight,
on la long hot summer night>!
t’s
a wonderful moment. Somehow, it lifts the whole night.
The fans are embracing each other, hugging the Dutch
fans, hugging the waitresses, the policemen, hugging
the police horses for God’s sake and the guys
and girls selling beers and ice creams. And singing
