The Family That Plays Together

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``Marry me,'' shout the men waiting outside the Nottingham Arena for a glimpse of three gorgeous women and their less attractive brother. These are the Corrs' fans, and one of them, I notice, is so devoted that he has an image of the dark-haired Irish beauties tattooed on his leg.
Inside the arena, the band are preparing for their latest sell-out performance. They have sold 20 million albums and topped the charts in 18 countries with their blend of mellow American rock and traditional Irish music, but they are still moving, from city to city, continent to continent, sleeping in bunks in their tour bus and rarely seeing the outside world.
Cocooned by the tour entourage, all their needs are provided for - except privacy. They can't go outside (there are always fans), the dressing rooms are shared and there's nowhere to hide except the shower. With strangers, this life must be hard enough, but with siblings it could easily be, as Jim Corr puts it, ``hellish''.
My 11-year-old son regularly forms bands with his three younger sisters - just as Jim, the eldest Corr, did - but in my house, tensions surface after 10 minutes.
They fall into the roles of boss, prima donna, the one who doesn't want to be left out, and the one who doesn't want to be there. Within half an hour, the dream of fame has disintegrated into sulks. So how have the Corrs made it work for 11 years?
Before meeting them, I discreetly watch the sound rehearsal. Jim is standing on stage, dour in a black leather coat, clutching his guitar and asking, impatiently: ``Where are Caroline and Andrea?''
A waif-like figure, recognisable as Sharon by the violin in her hand, is seated on the other side of the stage, curled up over a cigarette. Several minutes later, Caroline appears, heading for the drum kit and wearing cricketer's gloves to protect her hands, while Andrea - her elfin face peeping out from her hair - grabs the microphone.
It all fits my preconceived notion of family dynamics. But then Andrea - whom I had suspected to be the prima donna - goes off stage and fetches a cup of tea for Sharon. When she returns, the sisters put their arms around one another. After that, the foursome spend half an hour checking sound levels without a hint of discord.
How do they maintain this harmony, I ask, when they troop, one at a time, into the windowless box that serves as their dressing room?
``We are not the norm,'' says Sharon, contemplating the family traumas of the Jacksons and the Carpenters. ``Even the Kinks don't speak,'' she ventures. The foursome have often discussed why they are different - and their conclusion? ``Those other families must have been dysfunctional to begin with. Our parents were wonderful, they treated us all equally but individually and taught us to go for what we wanted.''
Even so, they all admit to what Jim calls ``teething troubles''. They were normal children, asserts Andrea - the youngest at 26 - with their own friends and own interests. And, of course, they squabbled. ``There were tough times,'' says Caroline, ``but, after a while, you realise there's no point arguing about silly things; you have to think of the bigger picture, the shared goal. In other families, people put each other down without even knowing it. We had to learn to respect one another.''
It helps, they agree, that they are all good talkers. If anyone ever seems ratty or depressed, they are probably ``just tired''. ``We've really worked at allowing each other to be who they are,'' says Sharon, ``and not assuming that we all think alike. Over the years, we've come to this lovely scenario where we no longer think there must be something wrong if another member of the family doesn't think the same.''
On many issues, though, they seem to agree entirely. Their songs are jointly credited to the Corrs, with no mention of Andrea being the main lyricist or Sharon composing on her own. But they don't come across as clones. Jim, 36, is relatively taciturn compared with his sisters, but openly ambitious, readily admitting that he would have been ``wrecked'' if gambling on ``the talent of his sisters'' had not come off.
Sharon, 31, seems the most outward looking, and talks with passion about the Omagh bombing and her excitement at the prospect of playing for Nelson Mandela at a concert in Trafalgar Square this month.
Caroline, 28, appears cheery and practical (Andrea tells me that when she gets tearful during composing sessions, Caroline just keeps playing). While in other company she would dazzle, she has had to cope with seeing Sharon worshipped and Andrea voted ``Most beautiful woman in the world'' - but it doesn't appear to bother her. ``All my life I've had two beautiful sisters,'' she says. ``We've always been compared.''
As for Andrea: ``I sometimes wish I was not the farcical figure in the group,'' she says, tired of the endless gossip column stories pairing her up with Robbie Williams or Mick Jagger, although she is resigned to the idea that ``they may brighten up people's day''.
Despite her leading role on stage, she appears the least confident of the family, frequently sucking her thumb ``for comfort'' and talking wistfully of the simple certainties of her childhood.
Their years in the band, they say, have forced them to be more open with one another and the outside world. But to begin with, it was hard handling other people's perception of the girls as a composite of Celtic loveliness. ``In the beginning, we had no identities of our own,'' says Sharon, ``and when people found out we were a sweet little family, they gave us this cows-in-the-kitchen image of coming from a simple home where we played the fiddle and the tin whistle.''
Which is pretty much what they did, except they hail from Dundalk, a town near the border with Northern Ireland, and their parents - Jean and Gerry - had for years been recording pop songs from the radio, performing them in pubs and teaching their children to share their love of music.
When, in 1990, Jim formed the band in order to audition for the part of the group in Alan Parker's film The Commitments, their parents were nervous. ``They didn't want us to go into what they saw as a big bad world,'' says Sharon. Jean rather hoped that Andrea, the most academic of the family, would go to university, but Andrea felt she would be ``ruining the plot'' if she didn't join her siblings on the road.
The exhaustion and claustrophobia of constant touring could easily have left them victims of early stardom. They have all known a sense of emptiness and helplessness when the relentless tour timetable gives way to rest. ``Every tiny thing becomes a decision,'' says Caroline, who determinedly shops, cooks and washes for herself at home. ``If you let others do everything for you, you realise that you are losing control, not gaining it.''
Over the years, they've closely analysed their strange circus life. When they finally began to make money, in 1998 - with their second album Talk on Corners - they were clear-eyed about the risk of frittering it all away. ``We haven't been flamboyant,'' says Jim. ``You never know how long you're going to be around.''
United, they seem able to shrug off sneering remarks about their music lacking soul or being middle of the road. ``We have never worried about being uncool,'' says Andrea. They consider their collective identity to be not just their selling point but their strength, and none of them expresses any desire to go solo. Brought up as Catholics, they also seem to share a sense that it's their duty not to waste their God-given talents: ``Music helped me when I was lonely growing up,'' says Andrea. ``Part of our job is to make people feel they are not alone with their thoughts.''
Eighteen months ago, the Corrs were drawn still closer together by their mother's sudden death, aged 57, from a rare lung disease. She had been so proud of them and had so enjoyed the glamour of the concerts she attended, as well as being a musical influence, that they feel bereft on many levels.
``After Mammy passed away, we all went up in each other's estimation,'' says Jim. Suddenly aware of their own mortality, they appreciated each other much more - having overcome their old rivalries and grown up with each other in more than the usual sense. It's now hard for them to be apart, and they have all bought flats in the same area of Dublin. When they are not working, they gravitate to the same pubs.
I don't doubt them when they talk about being each other's ``best friends'' and ``soul mates'' or ``the only ones who know what each other has been through''. But that level of intimacy makes it hard to form liaisons with other people.
Of the four, only Sharon is attached; this summer, she will marry Gavin Bonner, a Belfast barrister. Their eight-year relationship has survived despite the rigours of touring. ``Whenever I had a break, I would always fly home, however tired I was,'' she says. And now, the magic circle of four is about to be broken.
``It always falls to me, as the eldest girl, to make the first move,'' says Sharon, aware that this is a difficult time for all of them. They are all wondering what will happen if she has a baby and wants to spend more time at home.
Neither Jim, Caroline nor Andrea can bear the idea that they are coming to the end of the line. But as Caroline says, understandingly: ``It's Sharon's choice - we can't force her to come out on the road.'' Jim, determined to push on, hopes that ``it may not make a difference; children can come along with tutors''. Andrea says, with the heightened sense of transitoriness that came from her mother's death: ``This can't go on. It's silly, but it's great.''
So, Sharon has a dilemma. She rejects the idea of touring with a family, but the alternative is unbearable. ``I can't be a conventional mother. It's a fine thing to be, but I'm used to this way of life and if I stayed at home all day, I'd end up in a mental institution.''
This might be one problem they can't work out together.