Mum had wheeled me out at every wake and wedding to sing her traditional Irish favourites since I was 8 years old. I was the Finnegan singing sensation. The audience was usually old Irish women sitting down, tapping their knees. Not bloody Kensington brokers and lawyers whose idea of a pissup was a weekend in Monaco with bottomless champagne on board a chartered yacht. This was a more difficult crowd to please.
I clear my throat as the crowd becomes unsettled with the lack of jazz.
“Sorry, folks,” I say into the microphone in my huskiest stage voice.
“My mother is forcing me to do this. And my brother is paying for all your free drinks, so you pretty much have to be nice to me.”
“I promise I’ll only make you listen to one song. But please don’t cheer because then my mother will keep making me do this.”
A few laughs and cheers go through the crowd.
“Also, I’m used to doing funerals, so my main audience is mourners and the dead.”
There’s more laughing. That’s it, funny girl. Now they feel sorry for you and won’t boo you off the stage. Or the ‘brother paying for drinks’ line nailed it.
I start strumming. I’m trying to pull off the Celtic rock vibe. I’ve chosen an upbeat Irish gig that I altered for the electric guitar. It sounds pretty funky, like old traditional meets new rock.
It’s got a fast tempo, and the crowd starts swaying in response.
The first line is a belter. The success of my stage show depends on this first line. If I don’t do a Sinead O’ Connor, it’s a flop.
I breathe in then blast the opening. There are whoops and whistles from the crowd.
I’ve nailed it.
The pretentious Kensington club subtly slides downhill into a raucous Irish pub. Who am I kidding? They always do eventually, no matter how uptight the stiff suits are.
A few Chelsea types attempt to river-dance at the front of the dance floor.
Loud cheers go up from the crowd, and I sing louder, strumming on the guitar furiously. Playing Irish music is like a workout. I’m sweating all down my back and chest.
When I’m singing, I just lose myself in it. Once I’ve got that first good reaction from the crowd, I can ride the wave of adrenaline and own the stage.
The song’s a long one, about 6 minutes or so; the traditional Irish ones always are. I’m exhausted by the end, and my black jeans are sticking to me with sweat.
“Thanks, folks.” I give a little wave to show I’m done.
Claps and whoops erupt through the floor.
“One more,” a voice booms from the back of the crowd. I smile and shake my head.
“More.” The shouting keeps going and gets louder as it propagates through the room.
I look over at the lead singer on the side of the stage, and he raises his eyebrows encouragingly. One more he mouths?
I look down at the crowd. Danny Walker is fixed on me, not smiling. His typical unfathomable stare with that rigid body.
What is this asshole’s problem?
“Ok, just one more,” I say into the microphone.
The next one I do isn’t a cover. It’s one of my own. I would never admit that to the crowd; it would be too much pressure. They can just think it’s another cover. It’s still Irish trad but a little more sultry. I was obsessed with Amy Winehouse when I wrote it.
It’s a hobby, mucking around with writing songs. I think some of my creations are pretty cool, but of course, I’m biased, and so are all my friends and family. Even Julie goes easy on me when it comes to my own creations.
I’ve never had proper constructive feedback, so the reality is that I likely sound like a banshee and am getting a sympathy vote. I’ve even secured a few shags from doing gigs. Again, maybe sympathy shags, but I’ll take them. It’s nice to pretend you have groupies.
Mum thinks they are too sexy for the funerals, so I never get to sing them.
I start strumming and sing this one with my eyes closed. It would be too off-putting if people walked out in the middle of one of my own.
I’m blessed with a pretty decent vocal range which I can show off in this song.
I sing the last verse, deep and husky, then open my eyes and look down.
The first pair of eyes I lock onto is Danny Walker’s. He’s standing rigid, not moving with the rest of the crowd. His hands are plunged into his pockets as if this is the most uncomfortable setting he’s ever been in. His dark gaze makes me waiver on the last line, and I silently curse him for having control over my vocal cords.
The crowd cheers in appreciation, and I hear someone shouting my name. Likely Mum.
Cat has her mouth hanging open and her hands across her heart. She’s my biggest fan.
Tristan beams up at me, and Mum looks chuffed despite the lack of an appropriate bra.
I give a little wave and trot off stage in my sweaty jeans, handing the guitar back.
“Sensational.” Mr. Lead Singer winks at me.
I wink back at him, talking the language of flirt. At least someone appreciates my singing.
Danny Walker and his rigid square jawline can go to hell.
I walk through the crowd, being patted on the back like a D-list celebrity.
“Amazing Charlie!” Cat rushes forward to hug me. “It’s like Riverdance meets soul.”
“Woah!” I’m lifted off my feet by strong arms around my waist and turn to see Jack Mathews grinning up at me, “Christ Charlie, what are you doing to us? You broke everyone’s heart up there.”
I roll my eyes but bask in the compliment. Cat was right; he’s easy on the eye. He can leave his arms there.