The Gig

This is going down in the "File Under: Too Old For This, But Shit It Was Good."

What can I say.

I love live music. 

I love small venues.

I enjoy Irish music, particularly in intimate settings. 

I know that standing in one spot in heeled shoes that don't have arch support will cause some issues the next day. 

Aine Tyrrell's Irish as Fuck gig at the Wesley Anne last night was phenomenal.

"Aine Tyrrell?", you ask. I'd never heard of her either. A friend from the writing retreats suggested going along saying that she really rated her, having found her on a podcast a few years ago. I value this friend's opinions, saw that the tickets were only $35 - and thought, why not? I'm trying to do some new things, because new is good. 

What do you need to know about Aine Tyrrell? 

Well, she's Irish, born in County Clare, but now lives on the North Coast of New South Wales with her three kids. She's loud and proud. She's got very strong opinions on all sorts of things, particularly Colonialism and a woman's role in the world. Some would describe her as woke. I found her refreshingly awesome. She's a Pirate in the best way possible. 

Musically, she's phenomenal. 

The last time I went on spec to a gig in a pub like this and enjoyed myself this much was when Alice and I went to see Jason Mraz. I put these two on a par. 

Her music is a mix of what I'd call Traditional Irish, mixed with some hip hop. She, and her guitars, banjo and tin whistle enveloped the stage for the hour and a half she was on. She broke the gig into three sections. The first part was dedicated to a more mainstream set. The second part was for "the healing", where she played more melodic, lyrical music, and the third set was when she set fire to the place. 

She leaves nothing behind. It's all out there. 

At the start of the second set she related the story of the song's inception. She lost her house to the NSW floods. As the waters were approaching, she sang a song to her eight-year-old son to try to calm him down. As they were evacuated to a rescue centre, they were waiting for the waters to abate. Her son asked if they could sing their song. Her response, in her head, "Shit, I have to write the fucker now." It was an incredible song. Brought tears to your eyes. 

The third set, she went off like a frog in a sock, finishing off with an Irish language version of Kris Kross' Jump, Jump. (Or Léim, Léim for the purists). 

Coming out of the gig, we were told to have a cup of tea on her. Blarney tells me this often - there is only one type of tea if you're Irish, and that's Barry's Tea. Australian tea is shite. She gave out teabags on the way out. 

 
The one downside. I'm in my fifties. We got into the auditorium a bit late, so we stood at the back. Standing in one spot on shoes without arch support means my body is really feeling it today. Thankfully, I've to a massage booked in an hour. My body is screaming that I'm too old for this stuff (unless I can get a chair). My mind says otherwise. 

Hunt out Aine Tyrrell. She's playing at Splendour in the Grass. She's back gigging around the place after the clusterfuck of COVID and natural disasters. 

Quite simply, she's phenomenal. 

Walking out of Wesley Anne, teabags in hand, we all had something to say. 

Her knowledge of Colonialism the similarities between the Irish and the Australian Aboriginals. The fact that she put everything out there on stage. 

For me, it was the knowledge that there is a woman out there who writes songs for her eight-year-old son as they are sitting in a rescue centre, everything taken from them, just to put the little fellow at ease, puts her in line for mother of the century. 

Hunt her out when she's next in town. It was a brilliant gig. 

Today's song: