This is the story of a Limerick band who set out for Mexico City to make good. When The Cranberries play in D.F. in early fall, it’s a comeback concert for the group in general, but it’s also something of a homecoming for them in this vast city. They’ve always enjoyed a pretty wide reputation in the world, and some cities have kept them as secret favorites more than others. Although the Mexico City hotels will have hosts of their fans for the show, the locals have the most open hearts for the Irish group’s return here.

It has been a pretty successful run so far, and they’ve gotten better with age, as well as a little time off. Some reviews of their shows have been better than others, but the criticisms seem to come from a place that doesn’t enter into the correct vocabulary with which to fully understand the Cranberries. Part of it has to do with the reasons why they are popular in Mexico. While they do play a kind of lovely and melodic alt-rock, and sing to a kind of longing that accompanies the smell of Boone’s Farm Tickled Pink and Cloves, there’s something under the surface.

This something is also deeply rooted in the ground here on the North American continent, and Mexico has a particular geography that holds ancestors who remember. In D.F., this is never beneath the surface, but very visible if one takes the time to see it. It has to do with a particular kind of longing that accompanies history, where the ghosts continue to speak in poetry and metaphor. It’s a peculiarly local thing, but it can also rightfully be described as particularly Irish, and the two nations have a shared sensibility as much as they do a wildly varied culture.

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