The Cranberries satisfied the sold out crowd’s sweet tooth Friday night at Club Nokia, with a candid performance, the sixteenth show of their reunion tour. Club Nokia, dark, intimate, and a bit chilly, was a space tickled with nostalgic energy from a very “non -L.A.” group of loyal listeners—listeners who grew up with songs and who never stopped the songs from growing all over them. Small signs advertised that the best seats in the house could be found on the balcony, a balcony that nearly hangs over the stage, and while there is a great perspective it felt more like a mellow peanut butter smeared rat race up there with all the early bird people saving entire rows with purses, coats and socks, no sitting or standing on the stairs, and even a handful of assholes taking the handicap area over (they did get asked to move). After five observatory minutes I found myself on the ground floor looking straight into the eyes of the band.

The lead, Dolores O’Riordan, mother of four, walked the stage back and forth.  She sat on a speaker and her crisp voice circled us, tapping shoulders-feet, pinching sides. She was North South East and West of us. She was prim, pale, properly small and strong. She was young and old. She was moving her hips like a possessed robotic yo-yo, her arms like a symphonic puppeter.  She was a sweaty dark pixie haired angel with jewel studded wings, sparkly Converse and bedazzled eyelids.  She talked to us, thanked us, explained that the four band members have twelve children altogether, and proceded to ask how many parents were in the crowd. 75% raised a hand. Many of the songs began with a brief origin, mainly, which of her children inspired her. She was pointing at us to sing and we sang. “Linger,” “Ode to My Family,” “Ridiculous Thoughts,” “Salvation,” “Free to Decide,” “ZOMBIE,” “Dreams.” All the classics transported the crowd back into our high school bedrooms, our empowered angst. I sang along my until my stomach was tense and my throat was raw, knowing way more lyrics than I remember knowing, and it seemed as if everybody else was in similar suit of sounding just like the Irish rockstar, of channeling her beauty, of being her fans, her sea, and, ultimately, her choir.

—Beth McNamara