Damien Dempsey
Shots
3.8/5


My boss gave me this album for two reasons: (1) because she couldn’t understand a word the Irish troubadour sings, and (2) because allegedly he’s massive in Ireland. I sort of knew his name, but it didn’t mean much.

For those not in the know, I’m a huge Red House Painters fan and even I find Damien Dempsey depressing. I realise now why I’ve never listened to him before; because I like my wrists in the shape they’re in, and I don’t have a deep hunger for sleeping pills.

Damien is a uniquely Irish specimen that I haven’t seen evidence of in Toronto. He’s that friend who isn’t a bad creature, but around about midnight, just as you’ve got the buzz that only a persistent imbibing of alcohol and low-grade cocaine can bring, he’ll launch into a sobering monologue on the evils of vice, of British imperialism, of the abject psychological and fiscal poverty of the Irish (which would be discombobulating, seeing as the place is coming down with European cash right now), and so on so forth, all in a broad (I mean BROAD) Irish accent. Your buzz dies, any chance you had with those girls at the bar is now extinguished, and you had better go home and go to bed before you do something unfortunate. And the next time you go out to the pub you forget what a party-wrecking sourpuss he is, so you invite him along. And he does it again!

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this is one of those very sophisticated Irish jokes that fools a lot of people. I hope it is. Opening an album with Mary loves the Grouse / Hides the bottles round the house sounds like it might be a sort of noir adventure through the perverse Irish mindset. The aching acoustic chords forever echoing behind Dempsey’s voice and the skilfully chosen trad-celtic accompaniments, it’s all there to lull you into a false sense of security. “This is really good!” you’ll say to yourself. Actually, you might add “I’ve no idea what this eejit is saying!” which is a bonus; trust me, because there are some deftly short-sighted invectives going on. Of course, Dempsey balances it out with I’ve no bread and I feel fecking braindead / In a room full of e-heads on “Party On,” a poem to, apparently, not being able to see pretty flowers when you’ve got a head full of coke.

It’s hard to say anything more blatantly offensive about this shiny little disk of unhappiness, although I’d like to, but I was so relieved that this wasn’t David Grey that I nearly gave Shots five stars straight off. Likewise when I heard him ripping off the riff from OMC’s “How Bizarre” on “Patience.” So technically Shots’ angry politicised modern Irish folk is getting 10 out of 5. But feck it, Dempsey would still find something to complain about. So he’s getting a 3.8 instead. Miserable bastard.


Track Listing:

1. Sing All Our Cares Away
2. Not On Your Own Tonight
3. St. Patrick’s Day
4. Cursed With A Brain
5. Party On
6. Colony
7. Patience
8. Hold Me
9. Choctaw Nation
10. Spraypaint Backalley
11. Negative Vibes (live)
12. Factories (live)
13. It’s All Good (live)

- Kid Lupin

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