You've either got it or you haven't. Tom Jones has it, Mick Jagger had it in spades. Tony Bennett, when we heard him, still had it. Van Morrison never cultivated it and didn't care. We're talking about showmanship: the ability to hold an audience in the palm of your hand.

The Beatles honed their stage skills, as well as their musicianship, on Hamburg's Reeperbahn. I heard the Rolling Stones in Glasgow when they were at the height of their fame, or notoriety.

From the opening guitar riff of Brown Sugar they had the crowd in their pockets. All eyes followed Jagger as he pranced around the stage - hit followed hit at mind-numbing volume.

Then Jagger disrobed: first the jacket, later the scarf, then the T-shirt and finally his belt which he used as a whip.

The crowd went wild as he fanned the frenzy.

By contrast Van Morrison, whom I've seen in concert two or three times, seems invisible, a short, stocky man in a black suit and black hat with the voice of a macho, fallen angel.

He even turned his back on the audience. His band appeared nervous. He growled at the sax player. Van the man is a perfectionist. He seemed unhappy. He spoke only to introduce members of the band.

My wife and I heard Tony Bennett at an open-air concert in Glasgow's George Square. His star quality shone brightly, despite his advancing years and inability to hit high notes.

More recently, a showwoman played the Mastercard Center, formerly the Wukesong Arena, in Beijing. She was Dolores O'Riordan, 39, a singer-songwriter with the Cranberries, an Irish alternative rock band.

Now, I'm not a big fan of the Cranberries. I recognized some of their hits, but most of their material was new to me. What struck me was O'Riordan's stage presence. She wore a dark tailcoat and bell-bottom trousers, slashed below the knee.

Her jaunty moves reminded me of Charlie Chaplin's little tramp - except that O'Riordan wore a black bra, a complicated-looking suspender belt and sneakers. Her eyes were black with mascara, her dark hair short and spiky. Glitter sparkled on her cheeks. Her strong, clear voice soared. The girl can hold a tune. In short, she was mesmerizing.

Meanwhile her band mates, guitarist Noel Hogan, his brother Mike on bass, drummer Fergal Lawler, and a keyboard player, created a thrilling din and remained in the background.

O'Riordan had the audience of about 12,000 singing along with her and waving their colored lightsticks.

Her feisty performance faltered only once, I think, during Ode To My Family. O'Riordan was the youngest of seven kids. Her father, Terrance, was badly injured in a motorcycle accident when she was a little girl.

Suddenly O'Riordan was on her knees, head bowed. A wave of sympathy washed over her from the crowd. In an instant she rose and carried on. Were there tears on her cheeks or was it glitter? I couldn't tell.

She thanked the audience for requesting a number the band hadn't played for 15 years. She asked them if they were having a good time. She declared Beijing to be "really beautiful and gorgeous. We hope to see you next year."

The audience was on its feet, adoring her.

Fergal, the drummer, was featured on another hit. He punished his huge drum kit. No drum was left unthrashed, no cymbal undinged. After a rousing hour the band left the stage. The audience clapped and stamped and called for more. Eight minutes later the Cranberries re-emerged in triumph.

This time, O'Riordan wore a simple white dress with a gold belt around her hips. She sat at the Yamaha Motif X68 electric organ and sang a heart-rending song, Dying in the Sun. The encore ended with Promise.

Drummer Fergal, pulled off his sweat-soaked T-shirt, tossed his drumsticks to fans in the front row, and followed his band mates offstage. What did we think of the Cranberries? To borrow a Glasgow expression: they were "pure, dead brilliant". And they had showmanship.

Xu Weiwei contributed to this story. You may contact the writer at sundayed@chinadaily.com.cn.

China Daily