2022 - the year of the dan: chapters 1-30 + bonus (compendium)

For those of you who prefer the long read format, here are all 30 chapters plus bonus in one piece...enjoy x

I'm going to post out some thoughts on live shows I was at this year. I'll put them out between now and the end of the year.

It's a bit of an experiment because, unlike whenever I've written live reviews^ before, this time (for the most part) I was writing at a remove of many months. These were not thoughts I put down at the time of the gig. So these are thoughts dependent on memory - I suppose all thoughts are but with these ones longer term memory - in that whatever I've written consists of impressions that have stayed with me over time. I like the idea of forcing myself to depend on memory this way. It might create a different kind of review. Less detail probably, but heavier on general currents, patterns, trends. Shorter (good says you). Plus it would presumably incorporate more of an overview of all the shows together. Because, whether these artists were aware of it or not, each one was being listened to and judged in comparison to each of the others.

^Reading this back I don’t like the word review. I wouldn’t call these reviews. Better to say they are vignettes or memoirs to make sense of a year of live music. Sense for me.

In 2022 I've been at 30 gigs. One every 11.86 days. Comfortably more than I would see in a normal year. But 2022 wasn't really a normal year. I made a decision this year to go to see bands and artists I wouldn't have usually. I went on a punt. Took a chance. Or on a recommendation. As you'll see, in some cases I ended up at gigs I hadn't even planned on going to. Something about 2022 made going with the flow make sense in a way it never did before. And the flow this year turned out to be pretty fucking good. So this is chapter 1 of 30.

*The title, well you'll have to stick around to find out the meaning, unless you're Kev who came up with it. Thanks Kev!

Chapter 1

The year started in February. A Lazarus Soul in Coughlans. A gig I hadn’t even noticed but someone in work had two tickets they weren’t using. What a gift. Me and K were there, up the front rammed in with fifty other warm breathing bodies fresh out of lockdown.

It was loud. It was jangly. It was stirring. It was moving.

Brian Brannigan would remind you of a more focused Shane MacGowan. (With better teeth.) Joe Chester on guitar like a possessed Johnny Marr.

Memorable songs with a distinct sense of place. Long balconies. Black and amber. Mercury hit a high. Magic. We sang along. It felt like life starting again.

Quick mention also for Arrivalists in support. Pat Barrett is a wonderful singer and the sound here brings to mind The Blue Nile. I like the fact that one man and an acoustic guitar can bring to mind The Blue Nile.





Chapter 2

CMAT. A sold out Cyprus Avenue in March. What a singer. A heartfelt joyous evening where grown men melted.

No more Virgos. I wanna be a cowboy baby. Glorious soulful songs. Like First Aid Kit with a better sense of humour.

Plus Miss Thompson came out for the encore with a banjo. On her own. With a banjo. On a stool. What a star.

Also, crack band.





Chapter 3

Dan Walsh featured prominently in my 2022. (that title...)

I saw him first this year in Plugd at the end of March. Covid played ball and gave me one blue line the day before.

Dan had just released an album of drums. The gig consisted of Dan at the drums. For about 35 minutes. It was fucking gripping. One of the greatest musicians ever to come out of Cork taking us on a rollercoaster journey through the beat. We had BYO beer from Bradleys.

What a night.



Chapter 4

April started well. Silverbacks in Cyprus Avenue. They’re a Dublin band with a lovely deadpan demeanour. Dublin and deadpan were not words that used to feature in the same sentence when I were a lad. Their demeanour is also decidedly post punk, in a Television and Pavement kind of way. Fantastic spiralling dual guitar lines and matter of fact vocals. A crowd of their cousins came from North Cork and occupied the centre midfield. So said the singer. Wonderful indie guitar songs. Including the peerless Dunkirk. Small crowd apart from the cousins but the band still looked like they were having a ball. Dublin but in no way entitled. Very endearing and worth your time any time.

A word for Skinner on support. Also Dublin. Very young. Possibly underage. 25 minutes of grunge and 5 minutes of punk funk. If they can amplify the funk they’re on to something.





Chapter 5

Next was Protomartyr. Also Cyprus Avenue. On Kev’s recommendation. A man with good taste.

No sign of any North Cork cousins this time. A band from Detroit. Home of MC5 and The Stooges. Protomartyr are a fine and honourable addition to this legacy. Plenty of mature gents in the house nodding vigorously. But don’t let that put you off.

They are literate. Compelling. And superb musicians.

My favourite part of the night was learning – from Kev – that the singer met the rest of the band when they all worked as doormen at a club in Detroit. He's about 50. They’re all much younger. The opposite of a pick up band. The antidote to Mark E Smith Recruitment 101. Kelley Deal was also there on keys and guitar. She seemed delighted with life.



Chapter 6

Late April. The first road trip of the year. Low in Vicar Street. I hadn’t seen them since 2012 at a steaming Cyprus Avenue. One of my favourite all time shows. (Before that Primavera 2009 at midnight by the Mediterranean. And Nancy Spain’s in 2000, fragile, weblike.) But this was another order of thing altogether.

They arrived on stage backlit and played the first half of the new album Hey what.

The exultant I can wait. The spitting Days like these. The surging All night. Mimi’s nonchalant devastating la la las. I was emotional.

In the summer Mimi’s cancer diagnosis was announced. In the autumn her death. And then this gig took on even more epic proportions. To think she chose to spend some of her last days with us.

Nothing short of life changing this band.



Chapter 7

May was relatively quiet. Public Service Broadcasting in Cyprus Avenue. Another unused ticket from a friend. I have such good friends.

This was an awesome show. A couple of points of note. I had no idea they were so popular. The gig was stuffed. Second. My early listens to the first PSB album had not revealed the wonderfully stoic motorik pulse at the heart of the music.

The band wore white. Suits for all. Later they unleashed a brass section.

Again. Awesome.



Chapter 8

Tombstome (check Twitter) was back in the game in May. That was good for the soul in itself.

Percolator were back and sounding fine in Cyprus Avenue. I think they’re strongest in their motorik grooves but that’s a taste thing. There was immense good feeling around the merch stand. It felt like we were all learning how to be out together again.



Chapter 9

June was not quiet.

On the bank holiday A and myself ended up at an REM tribute band. They were called Stipe. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It still seems like a good idea.

The singer sounded the bulb off the bould Michael. The set was drawn from Act 2 of the back catalogue. Man on the moon was outrageously good. I shed a tear for Vic Chesnutt. Poor Vic. Orange Crush. Yes boi.

We drank. We sang along. We laughed at the sheer craic of it all.

We are agents of the free.





Chapter 10

Leagues hooked up with Pretty Happy to stage a lovely day out in the park behind Shandon. Food stalls. Coffee. Kids games. Cork Queer History. More on those talented Pretty Happy people later. On this day bands played in a cross sectioned caravan. It was midsummer. The wind blew. I took my 11 year old.

We saw I Dreamed I Dream. Four young women looking shit cool and spitting fire and melody. The outstanding I played the bass was the highlight. My 11 year old is not easily impressed and she did not once ask if we could leave. We agreed they had something alright. Even cooler, we passed the bass player on our way to school the following week.

https://www.foggynotions.ie/festivals/festival/quare-cork-midsummer-2022

Chapter 11

Later that night Leagues had HTRK in Cyprus Avenue. That’s Hate Rock. An Australian duo who come on like a half asleep Cocteau Twins. In case you’re wondering that’s a beautiful thing. Fuzzy. Narcotic. Full of soul and heart. Wonderful show.

Beforehand Elaine Malone played as Mantua. I liked her EP from a few years ago. Jazz inflected indie guitar songs. Tonight she performed a volte face that would make Dylan going electric seem like a minor tweak. She emerged onto a dark stage. Sat down cross legged. Played harmonium. Chanted ancient melodies. I say chanted but don’t get the wrong idea. Elaine’s a fine singer. Just she wasn’t so much singing here as channelling. To fantastic effect. With neverending drones. It was very impressive, the music and the new (to me at least) direction.





Chapter 12

I had baulked at paying 70 quid to see Pet Shop Boys in The Marquee. But karma dictated that I would attend nevertheless. A friend of a friend had a ticket they weren’t…you know the rest.

It was a joyous sauna of uplifting electro pop. A wonderful occasion of sound and light and Neil Tennant’s costume changes.

I loved it even if I didn’t pay for it.



Chapter 13

The following Monday I was back in the oversized tent on the Marina for a very different show. The Crowded House ticket was a gift in 2020, finally happening in 2022. I was a fan of the band in the 90s but I’d forgotten how much I loved them then.

They came straight out with Distant sun, one of a string of perfect pop songs. Perfect in a Paul McCartney way.

Verse Chorus Verse Chorus Bridge Incandescent Keychange

Bliss really. I was overcome at times as 30 year old stored emotions rose up and demanded to be recognised.

Weather with you. Four seasons in one day. It’s only natural.

Songs so perfectly structured it would be easy to stand back and admire. Except that the genius melodies keep dragging you into the water.

This show meant an awful lot to me.



Chapter 14

The day after, Roadtrip Number Two. Airtrip in fact. LCD Soundsystem in Brixton Academy.

Iconic venue. Iconic band. Iconic neighbourhood.

Me & P meet on the high street and repair to the Ritzy Cinema bar as the hellish sun breaks through. Several hours beers and most excellent catch ups later the gig felt strangely like an afterthought. The heat in the venue was also nothing short of dangerous. (And I’ve lost half a stone at a Pet Shop Boys gig.) I genuinely wasn’t sure if I would walk out of there or have to be carried. The band was a distant soundtrack to a wonderful day and credit to James and the gang for that.

My favourite moment of the gig was the random stranger arriving from behind but discovering we were not actually the friends he had bought the pints for. So he handed them over to us. Then he heard my accent and said he was from Cork too and did he know me from The Pav or maybe Henry’s. We all agreed the world needs more of that kind of thing and the band played the punk funk.







Chapter 15

A couple of weeks break to recharge and back in the saddle mid July for Arab Strap.

I wore a good shirt. The band wore shorts.

They sounded great and were decidedly not phoning it in. Or dining out on former glories. Plus Aidan Moffat is still a wonderful lyricist and singer. Yes I’m going to say singer. Deliverer of songs.



Chapter 16

I finished July with Peter Broderick in Plugd. This was a highly entertaining evening featuring – as well as the expected heartfelt alt folk songs – an overhead projector presentation of Peter’s book Bob and stuff. A book of his drawings. Rudimentary would be a word. But it’s a children’s book so it works. I bought a copy along with a few other nuggets from the well stocked merch stand. I was glad to contribute to Peter’s burgeoning cottage industry. My 11 year old enjoyed the book but thought it was more a downstairs book than an upstairs book.

Musically Peter seems to be in a happy place although I wonder if his material was stronger when he seemed to be on more of an adventure – searching, restless – as opposed to having arrived at journey’s end. Just my impression. Having said that his cassette of Arthur Russell covers is very beautiful. And he is a wonderful piano player.

A word on Peter’s tour companion McCloud Zicmuse, apparently an ex-pat American long based in Belgium. He wore a green cape covered in badges. He played homemade instruments and improvised songs about searching Cork for a badge with the city crest to add to his collection. Peter stood down the back and laughed along heartily with the rest of us. He was obviously an extremely talented musician putting his talents to the service of what we might call naive folk music. In its own way, I found this strangely inspiring.

Afterwards he mentioned that he is the grand wizard of a local festival in Belgium, hence the cape and badges. Can I suggest to the powers that be that McCloud Zicmuse would be an excellent addition to the Cork St Patrick’s Day Parade. Just get him a Cork badge and ideally have him following close behind the Legion of Mary grouping.





Chapter 17

Early August. Coughlans. The Shaker Hymn launching their third album The Last Concorde.

Fine songs and accomplished arrangements. It all goes up a level though when Caoilian Sherlock pulls out his wonderful garage rock growl. Like on Hunter & the Headman for example from their first album.

Given the pandemic and documented health struggles, they seemed over the moon to just be playing and the room gave it back to them in kind.



Chapter 18

Roadtrip Number Three. This might be my favourite live show of the year. Even if it is the year of the dan.

Mid August. Heatwave ongoing. It started on a big green bus. Mercifully air conditioned. Wearing as little as possible. Arrive Kilkenny sultry evening time. Locate B&B on Castlecomer Road. Feels like halfway to Castlecomer.

One cold shower later I meet P in Cleeres Bar. He is ensconced in conversation with a local who is in possession of a box of books. Specifically local GAA books bought off a man in Meath. The story of Cavan’s 1947 All Ireland triumph for example. We learn he writes about sport for The Examiner. Could this be an installation performance, perhaps as part of the Kilkenny Arts Festival.

Cleeres Bar. Audience of two.

He departs with his box and we go to find The Set Theatre where Keeley Forsyth will play.

She is compelling from the first note. Her accomplice Matthew Bourne arrives onstage first setting brooding drones in motion. She walks out onto the floor and lies face down on the stage.

Back lighting. Smoke machine. Black dress. Black boots. Black hair.

She rises from the stage after a few minutes and begins to sing and move. That haunting voice. Her body interpreting the words. The hair hanging over her face like the girl from The Ring. Hands only visible. Unconnected at the end of black sleeves. Microphone in one hand. Hunched over it.

Primal. Dramatic. Dark. A kind of blues with organ backing.

A theatrical performance. No breaks for applause between songs. No banter. In character. No encores.

Whispering under her breath at times. Tilting her head. Following her words with her hands. Up here down there.

A voice from the north of England channelled through Billie Holiday or Beth Gibbons or take your pick. A stretched fragile instrument. Avant garde without being up itself. You would say effortless except for the obvious effort involved.

At the end she walks off to the side. Then comes back on. Pushes the hair away from her face for the first time and smiles. Light has broken through the dark.

What an experience this was.





Chapter 19

Back to Coughlans for Fixity two nights later. Yes. Dan Walsh again. This time with friends. Two guitars. Bass. Drums. Sax.

Storming twisting shapes.

Rock and roll jazz.

The closest we have to Tortoise.

Exhilarating.

Support band His Father’s Voice from Limerick are worth a mention. Shoegazey electro pop with songs that stick.

Two things. The frontwoman announces from the stage that Dan Walsh is just as much a legend in Limerick as in Cork. Cue solemn nodding of heads.

Second thing. That Dan invites a pop band of young guns to Cork to play. A touch of class.





Chapter 20

August closes with Pretty Happy. One of Cork’s current finest. In Triskel Christchurch of all places. And showing a film they made also of all things. About Cork’s Arcadia legacy. For that alone huge credit. Acknowledging their post punk ancestry.

After the film the band played. Arann begins with a sermon from the actual 18th century pulpit (this dedicated later to the recently deceased Cathal Coughlan). Then Abbey enters from the back of the room. Up the aisle spraying holy water. Yes the ghost of Cathal Coughlan is alive and well.

The gig is a riot of fuzz in celebration of the everyday. Vignettes of hangovers and pseudocream and nights in A&E. Absurdist maybe but full of profound insights. And while Cathal Coughlan is there alright, it’s the spirit of Finbarr Donnelly which is particularly thick in the air – after all Finbarr was a huge influence on Cathal – challenging, provoking, disturbing. Also Arann on bass seems to be mining a Kev Hopper (Stump) strain of playing. More of that. Putting the wonky into post punk. Post wonk.

At the end of the day a great band. Keep on swimming in the sea sea sea. Please.





Chapter 21

September is The Magnetic Fields. About 300 people in Cyprus Avenue. Singing the actual songs. It was news to me that Cork contained this many ardent Stephin Merritt fans. Pleasant surprise for sure.

A series of perfect pop songs. None more perfect or beautiful than The book of love. Most songwriters might happily retire having written that masterpiece.

Something particularly moving about the mixture of dripping sarcasm and heartfelt yearning in the songs. Ageless melodies. Showtunes in a way.

I loved this gig.



Chapter 22

Now. The Tan Jackets. Ostensibly a garage rock covers band. Made up of the aforementioned Messrs Walsh and Sherlock. Along with Cathal from The Altered Hours and Solamh Kelly on drums.

But really Garage Rock Covers Band does not come close to conveying how awesome they are.

I mean the set choices. Small Faces. MC5. Two fantastic Kinks tracks. Monks. Wipeout. Ghost Riders in the Sky. 13th Floor Elevators for fuck sake. All played with an intensity that evokes nothing but the first psychedelic wave which was itself an attempt to resurrect 50s rock n roll’s primal force.

Dan Walsh on bass – including playing the jug part in You’re gonna miss me. He even brought out the sax for a couple.

Highlight. Stepping Stone. Coughlans was fucking shaking.

AWEsome rock n roll band.







Chapter 23

On to October. Junior Brother. Cyprus Avenue. He was born in the Bons apparently.

Joined onstage by the dream team. Dan Walsh on drums and other things. Phil Christie of The Bonk on keys. To add to JB and regular accomplice Tony on mandolin.

Furious rock and roll folk music. Spadgie folk. Free jazz folk. Odd and proud of it. Also deeply heartfelt and dare I say emotional music.

They played songs from the just released second album The Great Irish Famine. Which is wonderful.

No country for young men with the glorious singalong line, can’t tell the goons from the guards. Daly’s Well a kind of math rock Tortoise trad beast. The laugh out loud but somehow also poignant Life’s new haircut.

With this band they elevate already very good songs to the Richard Dawson stratosphere. A theatre of music and character with nothing but compelling storylines.

Accept no knock offs. Only the fuckin brilliant real thing.

Incidentally Fixity were on support. Dan and friends. This time with Phil Christie in place of second guitar. Yada yada. More amazing awesomeness.



Chapter 24

Sprints are a band from Dublin. Shouty punk female vocal. For want of a better handle. I enjoyed some of their singles so I got a ticket for Winthrop Avenue. The smaller sibling venue downstairs from Cyprus Avenue. And they are a most enjoyable band.

A word on the audience. Often an interesting point of note for any gig. There was the mature/ageing punk demographic – they haven’t gone away you know. Predominantly male and hanging back, yet still appreciative of a well delivered power chord and pummelling backbeat. There was the young gay contingent, no doubt helped by the fact that Pillow Queens had played upstairs earlier the same night. This crowd is a boon for any band cos they’ll dance for you, get right up the front for you, engage fully with the gig. Their energy and vibrancy is also infectious, something that goes for the band too. Then there was a kind of wild card element. At the end of the bar where I stood was a woman in a smart dress and heels, aged perhaps 50, drinking G&Ts, accompanied by a couple of men of similar age. Stragglers from The Old Oak? Well they were singing along to the songs. Initially I was curious as to who these people were. However, in the end who gives a fuck. If Sprints are about anything, it’s that everyone is welcome. So come on in with your heels and your gin and tonic and join the party.

Singer Karla caught the whole mood with one introduction – this is a big gay song about being gay – to uproars of applause. My own favourite was Literary mind, an excellent narky piece of post punk.

And maybe post punk best sums up the anything goes audience mix.



Chapter 25

The last time I saw Richard Hawley was in The Opera House. Him and band. All seated. Now I love Richard Hawley but I said then I’ll never go and see him there again. Somehow the seated audience did not fit with his noisier oeuvre – Standing at the sky’s edge et al. The quieter material and ballads worked a dream there. That’s why I didn’t buy a ticket to see Richard Hawley this time. But again the universe dictated that I would attend…you know the way…friend of a friend…

(Incidentally the best venue I’ve seen him in was The Savoy. All standing. All his material worked great there including all 10 minutes of the majestic Remorse code.)

Turned out it wasn’t him and band at all. Just him and Shez Sheridan. I said I would have bought a ticket if I could be guaranteed a set of ballads. That’s what I got, just not with the band arrangements. What are we left with? His velvety croon which is a fantastic instrument in itself. And some wonderful songs. Including what felt like a special treat for me. The sublime For your lover give some time from Truelove’s gutter, my favourite Hawley album. Even then I found myself humming the absent cello line. The forlorn inner voice of the song.

And the nagging reminder. Richard. Bring the full band. Bring the string section. Play just the ballads. You know you want to.



Chapter 26

Trick Mist was my next October appointment and Tombstome’s second outing of the year. This being Gavin Murray of these parts.

Time was when a singer songwriter would appear with a guitar, voice and some carefully calculated backstories. Trick Mist had guitar (electric) but also a control pad, drum pads, keys and a banjo, making a particularly intriguing sound field. The new album The hedge maze and the spade showcases plenty of these.

Standout from the gig might be the beautiful Boring bread which features what could be a sample of a bread slicer with assorted other looped ornamentation and Murray’s handsome heartfelt croon topping it off.

The album (according to bandcamp) focuses on Murray’s close relationship to his recently deceased grandmother and lyrics have the intimate feel of diary snapshots. Well worth checking.

Support in Coughlans was by Howlbux. The duo of Elaine Howley and Irene Buckley. The two women sat at a table, somewhat like lab technicians (Radiophonic Workshop?), and set loose an array of ethereal samples and sublime ambient drift. I don’t want to give the wrong impression though. This was not dry and scientific. It was warm and soulful kosmische music finished with Elaine’s haunting vocal. A soundtrack to an imaginary film I would also pay money to see.





Chapter 27

Sinéad O’Brien in Cyprus Avenue was a proper event. As in a sense of occasion. Anticipation. All indications were that the Limerick woman is a true performer. All indications would be right.

Her fascinating debut album Time bend and break the bower sounds great in the flesh. Insistent vocal poetry backed with sharp guitar work and thrilling post punk beats.

Some might say she’s not a singer. More of an intoner. I might not disagree but really the point for me is when lyrics are of this quality and intrigue, and matched with sounds this sympathetic, it’s all good. In fairness it took me a little while to connect with her sound and it won’t be to everyone’s taste.

What we can all agree on is that she is a compelling presence onstage, prowling around her own private catwalk, sounding a bit like PJ Harvey possessed by Gertrude Stein (that can only be a good thing).

The songs all sound fantastic. Holy country. Like culture. There are good things coming. All sounding like iconic cultural landmarks already. Although coming across at times as unreachable onstage, she was nothing but approachable at the merch stand afterwards. A star for sure.

I Dreamed I Dream opened the show and displayed their own hints of star quality. Again that song. I played the bass. Brilliant.



Chapter 28

The Tan Jackets Mark 2. Coughlans. It has to be done.

Some familiar sounds. Kinks. Small Faces. Monks. Ivor Cutler.

Some new. The Seeds. And an almighty throbbing eviscerating beast take on White light white heat. All it was short was the Exploding Plastic Inevitable.

Holy fuck. These guys.



chapter 29

the bonk seems to be a band in coughlans for the quiet lights festival and i had to go to this one cos they were supposed to play in july but it got cancelled last minute probably covid you know yourself gutted like

they didn’t bring the bass drum but it turned out they had all the other drums – stuck at the back was hard to see it was stuffed naturally and there was a drum machine for sure which is a departure from the last time i saw them and these were filthy beats now as if it was techno slowed down right down while the jazz stew cooked up around them – dirty beats alright yes

they were five with phil of course and the brother on drums then dan walsh not surprisingly involved on sax and clarinet and piccolo flute i think it might have been sure he even pulled out a harmonica at one point and the two other lads on guitar and trumpet ripping it up i don’t know their names but fuckit they’re good

african jazz influences and of course american jazz somebody thought they heard david axelrod in there somewhere but i’m not sure about that they had no bass guitar like even if phil was covering the bass end alright quite nicely thank you

less of a bang of beefheart than previous shows and no sign of that absolute banger ancestor from the debut album which has possibly the most genius backing vocals ever recorded but there was in praise of vril and by christ that’s a great slow groove

no the overriding sense is of dance music simple as that in one way though of course very difficult to make it seem that simple and the improv sections are a treat for all as phil calls the tune and fades down the drum machine by hand here and there

so in short the bonk seems to be a band still doing awesome things and it was such a joy to be in the room along with 50 other bodies whooping and hollering and congratulations on the new direction well new to me anyway and i cannot fucking WAIT for the new record





Chapter 30

Part 2 of my Quiet Lights appointments. Back to Coughlans for Aoife Nessa Frances. She played here in February 2020 with a band headed by Cian Nugent. Tonight Aoife is very much in charge on guitar – mostly fingerpicked – and keys.

The band is drums, second keys with a side of clarinet and a giant pedal harp centre stage. And it is actually the woman on harp who steals the show. Méabh McKenna is the name I learn later. Sitting underneath this towering slab of wood and steel, she lets loose waves of string glissandi, pulling at the instrument, imploring it nearly, and living every second of the music through her face, frowning, grimacing, raising her leg for extra traction. The effort. And the joy. She is a sight to behold.

The songs sound wonderful. Crescendos of mellotron clarinet and big body Epiphone. The sublime Emptiness follows. The yearning Way to say goodbye with that perfect hazy vocal on top. The outstanding stalking groove of Only child. A kind of baroque swinging folk music shot through with psychedelic surges. Memorable.

Also this woman brings a fucking harp on tour. She clearly doesn’t give a fuck and at the same time really does give a fuck.

Elaine Howley on support also very much gives a fuck to great effect. Her excellent debut solo album The distance between heart and mouth gets a tremendous airing. Warm soulful treatment of samples. Inspired backbeats. The almost dub of See saw seen. The intoxicating slow groove of To the test. And that voice. Singing to herself while singing to us.

I loved the bands. I loved the sounds. I loved the fact that they were on the same bill. I loved every fuckin thing about it.





Bonus Chapter

And one more bonus chapter. One more dan for the road. Back to Plugd where the year almost started. Dan Walsh with friends. Specifically. Elaine Howley on keys and vocals. Cathal MacGabhann on organ. Elaine Malone on guitar. Chris Quigley on guitar. Micheál Fitzgerald on bass.

Krautrock Christmas 7.

Improv. Krautrock. Jams. But not aimless.

Dan on the tiller. Deciding when each beat, each sequence has run its course. Seamlessly chiselling a new beat out of the old one. A new direction.

Right hand man on bass. Laying down ferocious markers. High tone. High fret. Plectrum. Battering the fucking thing. Proper to the horizon bass playing. Proper autobahn grooves.

Stabs of organ fed through wahwah. Snaking guitar fuzz. Reverb vocals circling and repeating. The whole thing probing the meaning of repetition.

Like Can going off on one. In all.

Let’s call it a year there so. Thanks Dan and friends. See you again in 2023.

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