DUBLIN BELLYBUSTERS

Under the dimly-lit archway, Jade played us a song while people sporadically stepped over her, people who had tickets in their hands for her gig. We thanked her and began to make our way into the venue when we realised something rather obvious. If she is sitting here, there's no way she's on stage in there. We politely asked whether she would mind us staying a little longer and she rewarded our interest with a rendition of a song not yet released. It was surreal, a truly memorable few moments shared with an artist of enormous caliber and modesty, a moment that was so authentic... or so it appeared.

The street performance that followed the gig was pretty cool. Alex Ebert wrangled the masses into a 'round the camp-fire' sort of formation. He sang 'Om Nashi Me' and 'Brother' and welcomed a sing-along for every verse. Another magical moment... or so it appeared.

Immediately after the set, people scrambled around, asking for autographs and instigating chats with various members of the band. It was pretty cool of them to be so generous with their time but it was at this moment that the sceptic in me reared its ugly head as I became particularly aware of the camera-crew who were capturing every moment. Come to think of it, Alex's reason for not playing an encore inside the venue seemed a little flimsy. And what's this? As we make our way out of the tunnels, who is sitting in the archway, playing the same song from earlier? Jade. This time for cameras. Replacing us were 5 women, sitting on the steps beside her, steps which were papered, something I noticed but of which I took no notice earlier. Our moment, it now seemed clear, was a rehearsal.

For me, our special memory had been robbed of its authenticity, an opinion that divided Michelle, Toni and Ray. Michelle couldn't have disagreed with me more while the others conceded something small was lost but that I was entirely overstating the stagedness of it all. The problem was I couldn't help it. I saw what I saw and I was responding to what I saw. Something in me necessarily felt betrayed. I felt like a pawn, like my 'magic' moment was merely a component of an artist's greater poetic conceit, the artifice of which was cruelly exposed to me.