I remember on one occasion being caught short and banging on the bathroom door to be greeted with a yell of "No, I don’t know what bleedin' shoe size Phil Lynott wore!” My brother was in the bath. I quickly became a pariah, a pest to be avoided unless you secretly wanted to be subjected to another tedious interrogation. What did they know about Phil Lynott? What did they know about Thin Lizzy? What did they know about the music?Įvery hour brought a fresh grilling. There they were, resplendent with long hair, in red jumpsuits, with shining guitars, pulling outrageous poses – and, at the centre of it all, was a black Irishman! Its inside sleeves with photos of the men who were responsible for the life-altering sound. I wanted to be part of THIS… whatever it was.Īs quickly as I could, I saved up enough pocket money to buy my own precious objet d’art. The excitement that listening to the album generated defied description: I was transported to another state of being.
Brian Downey’s thunderous but nuanced drums. What was happening to me? The music made me feel elated. I borrowed the 12-inch gatefold double-album vinyl artefact in all its weighty glory from my brother-in-law, recorded it onto BASF 90-min tape and, from then on, it was destined to be played continuously on the family stereo or on my older sister’s battered Sony walkman.Ī new world had opened up. My 13-year-old world changed utterly and inexorably on hearing Thin Lizzy’s Live and Dangerous for the first time.
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