Denise Chaila is making a habit of writing razor sharp, multi-cultural witticisms in her music.

A voice of increasing importance in the Irish hip-hop scene, Chaila first burst into the musical conscious of many with her live streamed performance with fellow MC God Knows at the National Gallery of Ireland, for Other Voices’s Courage series. (If you've not saw the performance, click here. ) 

Whether bigging up the importance of self belief on 'Copper Bullets', or spitting watertight Gaelic on 'Down', Chaila is an artist that prides herself on authenticity and that all encompassing desire to never compromise her artistic vision. It helps of course, being so tightly knit with Rusagano Family's Murli, a group she has collaborated with before; even featuring on their track 'Isn't Dinner Nice'. That said, this is a project entirely of her own creation, her flow high in the mix, almost like a spoken word record.

On 'C H A I L A', the Zimbabwean born, Limerick based MC takes aim at those too lazy to correctly pronounce her name. Over glacial beats and production bordering on the poppier side of UK garage, she lays out her mission statement from verse one.

"You already know it’s gonna go down
My name’s not THAT hard to pronounce
Pre-K, it’s not profound
C H A I L A
Sound the words out"

To possess such conviction will carry Denise Chaila far; with much of her conversationalist flow and control on the mic evoking a young Mike Skinner. Whilst 2020 Limerick and early 2000's Birmingham feel lifetimes apart, the vitality of the MC's describing their hometowns feel closer than you may expect.

This is the first released track from her upcoming debut LP, potentially a future landmark Irish release. Let's push things forward.

Are you wondering what was happening in Dundalk the other day? So were we.

This was a story featuring a rogue hip-hop group, an Irish trad band, and a former staff writer for the Irish Independent. Ready? Allow us to explain...

UCD masters graduate and award winning journalist Gemma O'Doherty is a controversial figure in Ireland. Alongside her journalistic credentials, she is the leader of the citizens movement 'Anti-Corruption Ireland', a banner fellow Irish columnist John Waters ran under during the 2020 general elections. He was unsuccessful.

In May the pair mounted a legal challenge against Covid-19 public health restrictions, with O'Doherty making a speech to the gathered crowd before entering the High Court. In this speech, while holding a copy of the Constitution, Ms O’Doherty criticised the Government, the media, the World Health Organisation, and even the need for vaccines. 

While in court, Waters claimed that the consequences of the lockdown would result in the “destruction of our society”. They drew comparisons with Nazi Germany, which the judge found to be 'absurd and offensive'. The case was thrown out. Ouch.

 Awk well, at least there was still good old fashioned public protesting to get the message across, right?



Enter TPM, a Dundalk based hip-hop act writing tongue in cheek tunes about life on the dole, drugs and the evils of RTE television. They've been building a fan base in Ireland for over 5 years now, selling out shows with their electro-rap.

In July last year, the band took a total de-tour, swapping Rubberbandits inspired comedic videos, for genuinely moving Irish folk ballads. They named their new group 'The Mary Wallopers' and though TPM still retains a larger online following for now, the gap is closing by the day. Last year The Mary Wallopers went on a European tour, announced a huge headline show in Whelans, and even played Glastonbury.

Don't believe us? Check out their debut EP 'A Mouthful of The Mary Wallopers' below.



Back to yesterday.

Gemma O'Doherty had planned a protest march against the government on Blackrock beach, Dundalk. This was a small scale gathering, with 'End Corruption' banners and tricolour's on display.

Then came our heroes. Armed with homemade signs ('Bring Back the Punt!') and tin foil hats to 'protect against 5G internet', TPM had formed their own counter protest under the name 'Dundalk Against Change'.

Some highlights from the two man rebellion include;

"The internet is too fast! Bring back dial up!"

"We used to have two Tescos in our town! We had one Tesco for clothes and another for food, now we just have one!"

and a personal favourite, "We want our old ways because that's the way that we had it...and the new ways are wrong!"

If you've not checked out the viral video yet, click here. 

The small crowd that had gathered to support O'Doherty was soon dwarfed by the bemused onlookers caught up in TPM's surprise visit. The video has already amassed nearly half a million views on Twitter alone.

If you'd like to check out more from The Mary Wallopers, you can catch their next live stream on Friday night.

Now, lets bring back the old shopping centre!

I would rather live in a world with Notes On A Conditional Form, The 1975's new juggernaut LP, than without it.

The world is a better place for bold visions, and those brave enough to follow through with them. On their fourth album Matty Healy and co have delivered a record of remarkable juxtaposition, perhaps the first true musical representation of the 21st century. There’s trip-hop, anarchic-punk, modulated vocal takes, boy band ballads and 80’s/90’s pop. There’s confessions that will fascinate their already dedicated fan base (Healy didn’t really fuck in a car) and revelations that will bore the rest of us (we’ve only a thousand Monday mornings left).

Made on the road, in 16 different studios amidst a worldwide tour for the ‘Brief Inquiry...’ hit-parade, the diverse nature of ‘Notes On A Conditional Form’ should come as little surprise. The 1975 are a band indebted to their surroundings, this album arriving like a Spotify playlist randomly accumulating tracks based off previous listening history, rather than a concise, fully planned vision. They are worldwide; born in England, raised by the internet. To see a band so openly subvert genre on a record is thrilling, and fully reflective of a planet connected at our fingertips.

The 1975 swing wildly from the climate activist Greta Thunberg narrated opener, to ‘People’, a riotous, Fugazi inspired thrash which sees drummer George Daniel impressively avoid touching his cymbals. It's an intoxicating one-two, which you feel Healy couldn't possibly believe in any more, for fear he'll combust behind the microphone. The audacious, ‘The End (Music For Cars)’ then sits bizarrely out of place, having strayed too far from its real home on the Jurassic Park soundtrack. For an album of loose semblance and outlandish contrasts, the blue-print for 'Notes...' is laid out pretty much from the start here. 'Frail State Of Mind' takes the shuffling, claustrophobic DNA of hit 'TOOTIMETOOTIMETOOTIME' and takes it back to his bedroom. 'I'm sorry for my frail state of mind', he sings over minimalist beats. Unlike it's predecessor, 'Frail State Of Mind' is quiet enough to be believable, leaving the bombast and horns behind. Healy has time and again expressed his admiration for Mike Skinner and The Streets, and at The 1975's best they capture some of their intimacy.

'Streaming' is the sound of leftover synth lines, recycled by an orchestra given no time signatures or firm direction to take things. Though impressive on it's own or as an introduction to the band's live set (although that role will undoubtedly fall to Thunberg's climate crisis address), here it acts as an exaggerated intro to 'The Birthday Party', a song that once more aims for more Skinner-styled patter, but feels awkward and uninviting. A conversation you'd rather not be overhearing.'Yeah I Know' sees Healy repeating himself over anxious, electronic beats. "Time feels like it's changed, I don't feel the same', he sings, before looping it backwards for no real reason. It adds little to the record, and would probably still add little to an extended deluxe edition of 'Notes...', which is what this record feels like anyway.

They follow this with 'Then Because She Goes', a wondrous exploration of the moment two loves part, even for a little while. It's a short blast of emotion, "I wake up, love you, love you, love you". He can't emphasize his point enough, like teenagers texting before bed, reassuring eachother that when they wake up, they'll still feel the same.


Phoebe Bridgers can do no wrong at present. Whether conquering the world with her own devastatingly sad solo music, releasing groundbreaking folk with Conor Oberst in Better Oblivion Community Center or playing the role of indie Dixie Chick as 1/3 of boygenius, hers is a voice of multi-generational appeal. Her inclusion on 'Jesus Christ 2005 God Bless America' is a gorgeous move, helping to tell the story of a young, oppressed, gay person in 2020 USA. Healy and Bridgers vocals meld well, as you suspect they would, but where 'Jesus Christ...' and 'The Birthday Party' feel forced, 'Roadkill' sounds effortless and brilliantly sad. A song about being on the road, inadvertently searching for love and the stress of pop-stardom; but with none of the 'woe is me' pomposity that a young, handsome pop-star in his early 30's may write about. Healy sounds real here, not hiding behind vocal effects or a third person perspective. He wants to find peace, but he'll settle for a condom first.

'Me & You Together Song' is Notes On A Conditional Form's triumph. A 3 minute pop-song of such unabashed sincerity that you can't help but feel you're living it with him. He's been mugged off all across America, but it's okay; 'I've been in love with her for ages', he sings over coruscating guitars and 90's style riffs. You can't imagine the cathartic release this song must have gifted Healy. Devastatingly direct and simple, as if he's in the room with his love. 11 songs in, you could close the door here, but not so. For those brave enough to venture on, strap yourselves in for side 2.



The record's golden child, the Michael Jackson pinching, already streamed in the millions, 'If You're Too Shy (Let Me Know) is a hollow misstep. Fun to a point, but haven't The 1975 done this already? Like, a few times? Perhaps that's harsh, as we're holding them to a chameleonic standard that's probably impossible for even them to live up to; but 'If You're Too Shy...' feels like a SNL parody song, a caricature of a long forgotten band on a Top Of The Pop's 80's special. Healy claims it's an exploration of online voyeurism and sexual expression, but that message is completely lost here.

Elsewhere, 'Tonight (I Wish I Was Your Boy)' sets it's sight on Kanye's 'College Dropout', while 'Nothing Revealed / Everything Denied' takes it's cue from 'The Life Of Pablo', particularly 'Ultralight Beam'. Neither hit home with anything much to say. 'There's more instrumentals, the George Daniel deep cut 'Having No Head' resting towards 'Notes...' finish line. It might sound cool in an educational video about space; but this is a record throwing far too much of itself away. It's a lazy addition, completely unnecessary.

Discussing the festival dance-tent evoking 'What Should I Say', Healy admits 'it's a result of us never figuring it out'. I'd argue that's the case for most of  'Notes On A Conditional Form'. When they do solve the puzzle, like on the truly heartfelt 'Guys', where Healy sings of how starting a band 'was the best thing that ever happened' to the tune of John Waite's 'Missing You', it cements their place as one of the 21st century's most important acts so far.

Unfortunately  'Notes...' too often collapses under it's own gargantuan ambition. Still, few bands will ever be brave or talented enough to make anything like it.

As co-founder of Burner Records, producer-MC Sick Nanley is rarely far from Ireland's newest cultural movement. Hip-hop in the South is a fast growing enterprise, with new artists emerging every week adding fuel to it's growing fire. In the North, Mabfield collective has blew up, shining a light on alternative culture and new sounds, while artists like Jordan Adetunji, Tebirex and more are paving the way for Irish hip-hop on a national scale.

'Lampin' is the choice cut from Sick Nanley's new 'Muttonhead' mixtape, a project born from necessity after Covid-19 postponed plans for a collab with fellow Burner Records artist Local Boy, who ended up on mixing duties. It was made in his bedroom, but sounds studio ready. It's refined and well produced, but refuses to take itself too seriously.

Spitting lackadaisical verses on a chill-hop beat, 'Lampin' is a tongue in cheek celebration of chilling out and doing absolutely nothing. "There's fuck all else to be doing" he laughs at the end.

Well, he's not wrong is he?

Sometimes years of hard work, ruthless dedication and perfect timing conspire to create something outstanding. Occasionally, the sheer fact that it's brilliant is enough. In Joel Harkin's case, the pendulum of graft and ability sits at peace in the middle, with 'Never Happy', his debut record, the fruits of a life addicted to music.

On first listen, 'Never Happy' already feels essential. Unlike it's introverted younger brother, (2018's 'Rose Water' EP) the hooks here are so sharp you almost don't want to touch them, for fear of it piercing your heart. The instrumentation shimmers; backwards banjos, plucked strings and thunderous drums all take their turn at the front of the mix at different times, never overshadowing Harkin's cries. It's been a fascinating journey for the Donegal native, which we detailed somewhat in our previous review of the single 'Vada'.

In a brave move, Harkin places his trust in the four songs that made up 'Rose Water' to form the backbone of Never Happy. These songs are given a facelift in the process and each is exponentially improved as a result. Producer George Sloan gifts an alt-country twang to proceedings, and pedal steel guitarists are drafted in from America. This is all perfectly befitting of Harkin's maudlin life lessons. On opener 'Old Churches', the introduction of Deirdre Kelly's harmonies play in tandem with Arcade Fire inspired synthesizers, and guitars that crash like waves off the coast. 'A Letter To Mark Loughrey' is similarly revitalised, but it's the primal howls at the end of 'Charlie & Deirdre' that hit home just how special this record is, and how much of himself he's poured into these songs.

The brilliance hinted at in Harkin's live shows has found its home on this LP. We hear it most clearly on 'Lake Irene''s bottleneck guitar solos and Damien Rice swell. On 'No Recycling''s bouncing chorus and stark anti-capitalist sentiments. It's a record bereft of opportunities for the skip button, designed for vinyl listening on autumnal evenings.  'Beautiful Clouded Sky' is underpinned by Belfast rain, as Harkin talks of his soul slipping from beneath him. When he sings, 'This house is cold, but Deirdre's been writing and we've a blanket on' in 'Silver Lines', you're in the room with him, taking shelter from the dark. 'We Ate Sorbet In La Rochelle' drifts in and out of focus like a fast fading dream, but there's just enough detail to keep it real.

You see, this is where Harkin truly blooms. In the aforementioned 'Lake Irene', he arrives in Kyoto to 'get off the grid' from his fictitious Tokyo home. He admires the cherry blossoms, the simpler way of living and how this may change him. He then returns us to Belfast, Dunluce Avenue, and the friends he'll never really leave behind. The trust that we've built with Joel Harkin 6 songs in to 'Never Happy' is rock solid, metaphorical or otherwise. This is a friend talking.

By the time we reach 'Thought I'd Go Home', everything has gone full circle, a song that sounds like he recorded it on his kitchen floor at 4 in the morning. The party is well and truly over, the last of the guests have left, and we're alone with an acoustic guitar. There's one last story to tell, of a beloved friend and their big brown eyes. He wonders if he was enough, and how to celebrate the simple stuff.

Despite this records title, somewhere in the debris Joel Harkin finds the contentment he's longing for. There's echoes of Oberst, Bridgers and Burnside, but the voice emerging from the gatefold vinyl is sincerely his own. A very important record.

In the indie-movie I'm perpetually starring in in my own head, 'Oh No, Give Up' is the song playing as I return to my childhood home.

After years away, you'd expect it to have changed. Not so. The trees stand as tall as I remember, the garden shed still the perfect hiding spot for hide and seek. The only discernible difference, is the slip 'n' slide my siblings and I spent hours on is gone. Maybe the new owners got rid of it by accident, or maybe they don't like slip 'n' slides. I walk into where I sat with my Grandad and stare at the TV that we looked at together. I sit on the patio, the way we did.

I made peace with pleasantries,
with minding my own mind
Sitting still and sleeping late,
just hemorrhaging the time
Small comforts gleaned,
from blinking screens,
stretched out on the floor

Oh No, Give Up
You wrote this song before

Dublin based songwriter/producer Participant (aka Stephen Tiernan) melds gentle waves of electronica with a song so simplistic and real, it nearly knocks you over. Tiernan's voice is just as haunted as the ones he is trying to befriend. It makes for something really beautiful.

If you're looking for divine inspiration during lockdown season, or at least a reason to turn off the news and go outside, Swimmers Jackson provide it all in 'Summer's Here'; the meandering, Fleet Foxes under-water sounding second track on their new album 'Murmuration'. A Dublin summer is encased in amber, preserved forever amidst Irish multi-instrumentalist (and former Bouts bassist) Niall Jackson's layered harmonies and twinkling acoustic guitar. You can feel the last rays of the evening summer sun as it's swallowed up beneath the city.

This isn't the only touching moment on Swimmer Jackson's long awaited debut record. 'Pain in the Heart' is an acoustic ode to a distant love, how he'd love to drive to her and take her home. The problem is, she's already there. Jackson's left fighting with himself to do the right thing, as he laments, 'I think I need help, to help myself'. 'Birthday Girl' channels similar longing through pissed off eyes, somehow maintaining a Beach Boys breeze amidst the fuzz. As his voice stretches to match his emotions, we hear a vulnerability that maintains the human touch behind these stories.

It's a refreshingly uncynical release, with little room for pretense and maximum for sentiment. Jackson continues to bare his soul on 'Believe', when he sings "I know, we've come unstuck. It all went wrong, we both fucked up." Whilst you expect a hidden chorus that doesn't come, you've already forgiven him by the time 'Pain in the Heart' and 'Bliss' hit back to back. 'Bliss' returns us to the safe haven of the record's artwork, warm 60's synths combining with finger picked acoustics to transport you back into Jackson's untainted world; but for all the pop-melodies, he still manages to throw a question mark shaped curve ball into the calm. "Bliss...how did it come to this?"  Like asking yourself if your dream is real, just before waking up.

'Murmuration' still leaves space for Jackson to grow as an artist. 'Lose Myself' wanders a little lost, not quite finding it's way by the end. 'Life's Short (Embrace It)' hints at big ideas, but doesn't quite pull it off the way 'Birthday Girl' or gorgeous fever-dream closer 'So Tired' does.

There's endless landscape for Swimmers Jackson to explore on his future releases, and he has the voice to take him wherever he chooses. As a starting point, 'Murmuration' leaves you looking to the sky for more.