FRANK Patterson, singer and obsessive golfer, is a happy man so happy he can lure his listener into his almost oppressively contented world while remaining likeable. The interview is taking place on a day in which he has three concerts, a daunting prospect for most performers. He has just breakfasted and is as content as apparently only Patterson, Papal Knight, can be. There is no point in even asking him if he is nervous as he is plainly not. The voice, he assures me, is as good as ever - "better than ever, it's strong". Three concerts in one day is probably his idea of heaven, a heaven made even better by being accompanied by pianist Eily O'Grady, his wife, and their son Eanan on violin.

"I love singing, just love it. There is nothing I like better than to perform to an audience," he says. "Singing is really about telling stories: I suppose I'm a story teller." He has travelled the world, sung in six languages and recorded 32 albums, but the accent remains unmistakably Tipperary.

In a world of sophisticated, petulant, pampered stars, Patterson is so normal, so ordinary, it is difficult to match the man to the CV. But then, who could have predicted the success of Faith Of Our Fathers, a compilation of songs described as the classic religious anthems of Ireland? Even Patterson, who sings five of the 20 tracks - including Hail Glorious Saint Patrick and Queen of the May - appears surprised by it. Mindboggling stuff. Just when you thought you knew it all.

I was delighted to do it. While I wasn't expecting sales quite like that, I knew there were people who would be interested. These songs mean a lot to many people."

In ways, the album is specialist social history of general interest, nostalgic no doubt but also redolent of an unsettling, almost militaristic fervor. It certainly provides the listener with an insight into the traditional Catholic childhood generations of Irish people experienced.

At the mention of social history, Patterson pauses and considers: "Maybe." Not fully convinced, but too polite to contradict. "You could be right ... I remember thinking when I was approached to do it, these are the songs I sang in the May Procession'. I knew them, I still knew the words off by heart."

He pauses: "How am I doing?" he asks. Patterson seems to like being interviewed. "I love being recognised. I love filling halls. I can fill Radio City Centre and I love it." There is no concealing his ego, but it is a practical ego - "self belief is part of being a performer" he says.

Sure enough, no one could dislike Patterson's directness, his practical, commonsensical approach which owes a lot to his early life. He was the eldest of four children born to a Clonmel carpenter. "We were always singing. On my first day at school at the Sisters of Charity, we were all asked what we wanted to be. I said I wanted to be a singer. She told me, to stand up on the desk and sing a song.

Up he hopped. "I sang Killarney" - and he sings a few bars.

The Clonmel of his childhood was a busy town with a strong choral tradition, thanks to the presence of St Mary's Choral Society, founded and led by Professor James A White, Patterson's first music mentor. "Both of my parents were amateur singers. It was in the blood for us when I was a kid; my two brothers and my sister and myself we could all sing." But Patterson was the singer.

As a boy soprano, he helped enhance the image - and the collections - enjoyed by the local Wren Boys. He seems to have liked school, but he left after the Inter Cert to join a printing business run by his mother's family. "I had spent so much time around the business. But my parents weren't pleased when I left school, I knew that."

While other boy singers experience the anxiety of having their voice break and the wait for its return, Patterson was spared. "I won the Feis in Clonmel when I was about 15, singing boy soprano. And do you know?" he says with the surprise he expects of his listener, "in the same week I sang as a tenor in Dungarvan." As easy as that?

Easier. With no regard for mystery, he gives the impression that his throat merely tightened, a boy soprano walked through one door and a tenor emerged on the other side. But before the public realised he was Frank Patterson, tenor, came years of preparation and a life outside show business. It took a seven year apprenticeship to become a printer. "I think I was seen as a candidate for taking over from the uncles." The firm printed the Nationalist newspaper and still does. Although it is no longer run by the Slaters - "people called Powells took over" - bit continues to operate under the name Slater, in Clonmel.

Have the changes in the increasingly computerised printing industry saddened him? "Oh very much. It's very sad, it was a great skill, a craft. I loved the business, I was good at it. It was a huge part of my life. Do you know I could read a page upside down and sideways? No kidding.

"We often worked in print as small as 6 point [this article is printed in 8 point] - you know, for legal documents." When he was qualified he moved to Dublin, working for Fodhla printers before moving on to Irish Printers.

It was 1961. Arriving in Dublin at I was, he says, "mindboggling" but Patterson appears to have had his life carefully planned. Printing was to pay for his singing lessons. Dr Hans Waldemar Rosen trained him in oratorio for a couple of years. He was then entered in several classes in the Feis Ceoil of 1964 and achieved the singing equivalent of the Grand Slam - first in four competitions including oratorio, lieder and the German Gold Cup.

The Feis proved a useful launch pad and Patterson was quickly being offered engagements: he appeared in various productions of Messiah and St John Passion - Bach remains his favourite composer. RTE broadcast his Purcell recital, which was in turn broadcast on the BBC. This led to a recording contract with Phillips.

Chance also had a say. Having taken up a Dutch government summer school scholarship offer, Patterson arrived in the Netherlands only to discover an utter lack of rapport with his teacher. He was upset but he continued to practise, and luckily for him, the late Janine Micheau - formerly a prima donna with the Paris Opera - was looking for a tenor to sing in Pelleas And Melisande. Patterson learnt two pages of the role in 30 minutes and sang for her in what proved a vital audition. Madame Micheau took him under her charge for the remainder of the summer. At the end of the course, she invited him to come to Paris.

Several tours followed. In 1967, Frank and Eily Patterson were married. In 1987, when their son was 10, they moved to the United States. They now live in the village like atmosphere of Bronxsville, New York, where they live with a dog called Mrs Einstein, in a fine Dutch colonial house about 30 minutes from the city.

Being away from Ireland has intensified his love for his country. "I love Ireland. But I think that's very common - the more you are away, the more you want to talk about it. I sing songs about Ireland to American audiences and I like telling them about it." He is a talkative, friendly character, still confident that he can do anything with a hurley. "Tipperary lads are born with the skill, the only difference between the rest of us and the county team is that they'd be fitter. It's all in the fitness."

His Irish home remains the small hunting lodge in Brittas, Co Dublin purchased in the early 1970s when he had no money. It has grown with the years and still houses his impressive record collection begun when he bought a recording of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony at 15 and quickly followed that first purchase with Schubert's Unfinished Symphony and Beethoven's Fifth. "I have very few records in the States," he says. "In fact, I mainly have CDs I play in the car - the car is the only place I seem to have time to listen to music."

But as with any Irish tenor, there is always the question of why exchange a classical career for popular music? Although the Irish tenor as a recognised genre dates back to Michael Kelly in the 18th century and on to John McCormack, arguably its most legendary manifestation, there is a tradition of appearing to sell out to commercialism. McCormack, despite having sung opera early in his career, was often castigated for singing trivia. Patterson started out intent on impressing as an interpreter of the role of the Evangelist in Bach's St John Passion, and performed Missa Solemnis throughout Europe yet most would associate him with popular Irish ballads. Wouldn't he be more fulfilled singing Schubert Masses?

Pointing out that 12 of his 32 albums are classical, Patterson admits he likes all kinds of music: ever practical, he stresses "singing Bach and Schutz is great, but you have to make a living and there is a huge demand for my other repertoire". He makes no apologies, "I like songs like Danny Bay or The Fields of Athenry - they tell stories". He is also extremely canny: "I don't like opera. I like standing in front of the orchestra. I want to sing to the audience."

Among all the tips Madame Micheau gave him, he has never forgotten being advised to stay with oratorio. "In opera," she said, "you're behind the orchestra and you can't hear yourself."

But what of the McCormack legacy? "I think it's irrelevant. McCormack's health had begun to go some years before he died. I think the great thing he did was to create this thing called the great Irish tenor but don't think he ever really sand in Ireland in his prime." In an interview about 10 years ago, Patterson suggested a singer's prime spanned the ages 35-55: is he now as convinced? "Did I say that?" he asks, having reached 55 himself two months ago today. I think it is easy to say something at a particular time and then to later change your mind. I think my voice is at its best now and I'd hope to go on for another 10 to 15 years. As long as I can sing - and sing well - I'm happy."

Of his famous light tenor, Patterson says: "It is light, but it's also strong. It has a great edge to it."

It is as well he is happy. It is unlikely he will ever escape the "Irish tenor" label but then, he does not wish to.

Patterson enjoyed the experience of appearing as Bartell D'Arcy in John Huston's film version of James Joyce's story The Dead. At first it had been intended to use only his voice - Patterson was to sing The Lass of Aughrim on the soundtrack - "but then I met John. It was wonderful. We got on very well. And before I knew it he was offering me the part.

I THINK what happened was he was watching and noted my gestures and movements. I have a singer's mannerisms, I'm always holding my throat or pulling at my tie. Making that movie was one of the great things in my life. We all became very close."

He also performed a song in the film Miller's Crossing. More recently he was cast in Jordan's Michael Collins, again a non acting role. "Have you seen it?" When I admit to being put off by Liam Neeson, he says: "Oh, give the movie another chance. I only went to it to see how I looked, I don't come on until about an hour into it and do you know, I was so caught up in the film itself I forgot I was in it. It's great stuff."

Commercialism appears to have infiltrated everything. Patterson says he would, love to sing a Baroque programme in Dublin, "but I know I'll fill a hall quicker singing The Last Rose Of Summer". Certainly, he is not the only fine singer to be singing popular rather than exclusively classical repertoire - The Big Three, Pavarotti, Domingo and Carreras have also performed their share of popular ditties. If selling out is singing songs many of us might not admit to even singing in the bath, many classical singers have done precisely that. Does he think world class sopranos such as Bartoli may now be challenging tenors for superstar status?

"The tenor remains the top dog. Pavarotti's is the most natural voice, the most expressive and so unforced. It's a beautiful voice. Domingo's is huge, much bigger than Pavarotti's but it doesn't have his `nyaa'." His what? "His nyaa," Patterson repeats with emphasis. Nyaa apparently is a Tipperary expression for an undefinable quality, an extra something.

He still refers to his father, who died just as Patterson was becoming famous, as "Daddy" and speaks about how they both joined the Clonmel golf club. "I'm also a member of Milltown. I play off nine in Ireland and off seven in the States." His contrasting golf handicap could be a metaphor for his greater fame in the United States: than at home - that ever familiar, by now almost traditional, fate of so many Irish artists.