1987 was a year to be eagle-eyed in distinguishing between headlined hype and reality. The Irish newspaper industry, particularly the Herald and the Sunday Press finally discovered rock as a circulation-builder while everybody but the Pink Elephant bar staff got signed. But beware. In ’88, the bubble could burst, since only Mary Coughlan and Sinead O’Connor made significant career progress.

The Lazarus must go to the Dubliners. Even Bono might admit that the moment of the year was Ronnie Drew growling out ‘The Auld Triangle’ on the Late Late Show while the sight of him, Shane McGowan, the Dubliners and the Pogues standing their ground on Top Of The Pops was closer to the original daredevil spirit of rock’n’roll than 99% of the pampered music packaged in ’87.

But strangely, nobody here followed the Pogues’ examples and hip-hop hardly registered while two of the most significant trends of ’87 – green politics and world music – largely went unrecognised by a media still hung up on consumerism and post-punk, anti-hippie scorn. Meantime Bob Geldof returned to Ethiopia and fewer listened to his pleas.

Most reliable live experiences came from the Real Wild West and the Fleadh Cowboys while Microdisney’s ‘Crooked Mile’ was brilliant if a slow-burner, the justification of the most clever, witty and insightful songwriters to emerge from Ireland in the past decade. Like I said it was so easy to get blinded by the hype of their inferiors.

As for U2, they were and are elsewhere, on another page, another galaxy.