They weren’t quite packed in to the Liberty Hall Theatre like sardines, a sprinkling of the 400 seats left empty, but those who swooped on the tickets the moment they went on sale, much like a seagull might descend on a trawler, were well up for an evening entitled “Cantona Sings Eric”. If a little curious.
It’s 26 years since he bid adieu to football, filling his time since with acting, art, promoting gambling and such like. And here he was on stage in Dublin on Halloween night, showcasing the latest leg of his creative journey at the end of a mini-tour that had already taken in Manchester and London.
The reviews from those concerts had been mixed, the Daily Mail describing his performance at Manchester’s Stoller Hall as “mysterious and bonkers”, noting that the audience was almost exclusively made up of United fans, including a man called Billy. “He’s Cantona, isn’t he? I’d pay to watch him knit.”
You suspect the crowd inside Liberty Hall would have happily done the same, it being of a certain vintage, old enough to remember when United won football games, the mere sight of Eric Cantona taking them back to happier times.
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The stage was sparse, with just a piano and a cello placed either side of the microphone, leaving you fearing the front man would have as much support as Rasmus Højlund has had this season.
The musicians arrived, but we heard Cantona before we saw him, the collars stiffening on the number seven shirts in the audience as we heard him croon, grunt and groan from backstage.
And then he appeared, greeted with a Stretford End-like rapturous roar, wearing a long black coat, white shirt, red tracksuit bottoms and humongous red snow boots, his arms outstretched to embrace his flock, much like he was Dublin’s Christ the Redeemer. Appropriate considering most of the audience had spent 1992-97 singing “what a friend we have in Jesus … his name is Eric Cantona”.
Since releasing his debut EP during the summer, he has been likened to everyone from Leonard Cohen, Nick Cave and Lou Reed, with a splash of Serge Gainsbourg and Jacques Brel thrown in. Not to Andy Cole, though.
Because Cantona isn’t the first former United striker to chance his arm at a musical career. Cole gave it a go back in 1999 with a tune that included the immortal line “United forever, whatever the weather, less than 100 per cent – never!”. And: “Got my kicks from hitting the net, not from drugs, you bet.”
It was always likely that Cantona would be more lyrically adventurous, him being Cantona, certainly more than, say, Paul Gascoigne - eg “Sittin’ in a sleazy snack-bar suckin’ sickly sausage rolls.” If only there was a Grammy for alliteration.
But Cantona has the distinct advantage of being French, thereby speaking a language that can make even sausage rolls sound seductive. Rouleaux de saucisses? You’d need to be hosed down.
Three or four songs in to his set, though, and you realised that if his footballing skill-set was as limited as his vocal range, he’d have been lucky to get a contract with Dagenham and Redbridge.
“The musicians are brilliant,” you say to the Liverpool fan beside you.
“They’d want to be,” he replies.
The United fan the other side of him was more positive. “Messi might have won his eighth Ballon d’Or but can he croon French poetry like Leonard Cohen in a Siptu-owned Dublin theatre? Non.” A fair point.
But there was limited movement from Cantona, too. As a player he used to drop deep, pop up on the left and right, before surging in to the box to stab home a David Beckham cross. In Liberty Hall, his snow boots largely remained fixed to the same spot, the sole motion some swaying and jabbing of the air with his left hand.
One moment of potential tension arose after he’d just poured his heart in to a tune about witnessing his own demise, seeing his body floating down a river, the polite applause at its conclusion interrupted by cries of “We’ll drink a drink a drink to Eric the king, the king, the king, he’s the leader of our football team….”.We know how Cantona can react to annoying crowd members, so breaths were held. But he beamed, took a little bow, and said “merci”.
And after he crooned the story of his life – “I’ve been heroic, I’ve been criminal, I’ve been angelic, I’ve been infernal” – we were off again. “Ooh aah Eric Cantona, ooh aah Eric Cantona, oooh aaaah, oooh aaaah, ooh aah Cantona!” Another smile, confirming, mercifully, that he doesn’t take himself half as seriously as you might have feared.
Now, it’s not that you’d have expected a cover of, say, Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polkadot Bikini, or even Kung Fu Fighting, but the opening hour of his 80-ish minute set was a touch dark, the lyrics booklet left in everyone’s seat confirming as much. Loss, death, regret, death, loss, loss, death, regret. A little repetitive too, like he was playing the same song on a loop.
Half way in, Liverpool man left to powder his nose and reported that a pint-wielding man in the toilets was giving the concert quite a harsh review: “A load of bollocks.” It was as if he’d have preferred to watch Cantona knit than sing.
But if he stuck with it, he’d have been kinder with his assessment, the closing part of the set offering a touch more variety, a perky Latin tune lightening the mood, Cantona gyrating like a mad thing. And then the climax: the encore. Or “Fergie time,” as Liverpool man called it.
I Love You So Much, was his fedora-doffing thanks to his flock, the roof almost lifting from the building when he hit verse five: “You called me Eric, the king, even God...”. And then they joined in to bellow out verse 10: “When the seagulls follow the trawler, it’s because they think sardines will be thrown in to the sea.” And with a grin, he concluded with “the press called me the greatest philosopher … and I think they were completely right.” Roof gone.
Full-time. The crowd rushed the stage, one of them, wearing a Cantona mask and shirt, presenting him with a crown which he placed upon his head before inviting the devotee on stage for a hug.
“What did we just see?”
“I have absolutely no clue.”
But if he returns to the Liberty Hall Theatre for a knitting demonstration, the flock will return. Apart from the fella in the loo, maybe.
