THERE'S a lot to be said for the resilience of Kris Kristofferson. He began his professional career in his thirties, an age when the majority of people interested in making a living from music would have by necessity capitulated to approaching middle age and domesticity. He wasn't the type for settling, though, instead balancing his music and film careers precariously, never hugely successful (commercially, that is) in either, but investing both with no small degree of intelligence.

Kristofferson's lengthy Irish tour trundled into Dublin on Monday night, and it was intriguing, if not downright ironic, to see a packed venue of partisan fans sing in celebratory unison songs that were written during bouts of severe depression and mental pressure. It's almost as if the meaning of them had been drained out by the amount of drink taken. It's highly likely that the same people have listened to the very same songs in more sober moments, fully aware of the material's abject misery and their own, perhaps.

But then that's the ornery, quite contrary nature of Kristofferson. He's 60 next month, a grandfather, yet he still exudes the demeanour of a man half his age. That's part of his romantic rebel appeal, along with the desperate tone of his lyrics that people all too readily identify with. His group complement the fundamental catharses that inform his material a bar band playing as if there's no tomorrow, a couldn't care less attitude combined with a need to Kris Kristofferson continues his Irish tour throughout the week, culminating in a second appearance in the Mean Fiddler next Monday. For a genuine C&W experience, don't miss him.