Chasing myths – Chapter two: David Keenan’s Irish tour diary continues
As we speak, David Keenan is on a journey. He’s on a tour, but that doesn’t really seem to cut it as a word. It’s more than that, more than just concerts; this is a bigger outing as the Irish artist is reconnecting with the audience, the lands of Ireland, and its myths.
In chapter one of his road diary, Keenan spoke poetically and poignantly about how this experience feels. “I’ve missed this so much. I missed being on the road. The essence of everything is really just getting in front of people and playing and connecting and sharing,” he said, talking powerfully about “The singing, and the connection and the laughing and the storytelling and the welcome and the love.”
This was exactly what he was after as he designed a tour without any of the commercialised crap. “I didn’t want to wait for the proposed album campaign of 2026 to sing and play because, in doing the moving, I get inspired by new ideas and there also felt like an opportunity here to reclaim some autonomy while amplifying, if I could, local hubs, pubs and headers along the way,” he said, keen to return to what live music and what the life of a troubadour is.
But from what was the last chapter, we’ve since moved onwards. After travelling from Sligo to Belfast to Donegal and onto Derry, Keenan is roaming south to west, playing shows but also pausing along the way to connect with Ireland’s vast mythology and local lore, sending back his personal musings once again.
The story continues.
Chasing myth – David Keenan’s tour diary: Chapter two
Part three: the Deep South
Every minute not spent in Kerry is a minute wasted, as the saying goes. I feel like I’ve been so immersed in another way this week that this train bound back for Dublin today feels absurd and surreal.
“The tour is like the great grounding I’ve been calling in unconsciously for who knows how long”.
David Keenan
The non-Cymric Welsh minstrels who maintained an ancient literary tradition stretching as far back as the Stone Age summed up their poetic principles in the Red Book of Hergest: “Three things that enrich the poet: Myths, poetic power, a store of ancient verse”. All of which were close by this week.
My travel companion for the Southern adventure is Murphy, Stephen Murphy of Leitrim. Do not call him a spoken word artist, all Irish people are spoken word artists, to be a poet is something different altogether.
We meet in Limerick and drive to Shrone near the Paps of Anu and the lost city of the Red Claw, or ‘Cathair Crobh Dearg’ in Irish. The place is believed to be the site of the first settlers in Ireland. We spot a marker for a holy well on the ascent down and stop to drink from a cup floating on the water’s surface. Murphy mentions the warrior goddess, the Morrigan and suddenly crows appear overhead.
We reach Listowel, home of the writers’ centre and John B Keane. We play Mike the Pies, a favourite of Fontaines DC, themselves fellow alumni of this eccentric musical Mecca.
It is the first anniversary of my hero’s death, my grandfather, and I talk and sing of him in between laughs he would’ve shared in. The day also happens to be the fifth anniversary of bandmate Gar Kane’s passing, and we sing for him too, remembering our dead.
No singing on the street this time, but the venue rooftop will do. It’s ‘Imagine’ under the stars for John Lennon’s eighth. Much remembering today. It’s good to mark these rites of passage in song amidst the new album world.
West Cork and the forests of Kerry:
We drive then to West Cork and the hallowed halls of DeBarras folk club. Here, the walls breathe, a dream for any musician, songwriter, audience member. I collect local lore of Tojo the monkey who landed with American troops stranded in Clonakilty for a few weeks during WWII. They landed in need of fuel, having procured their new mascot somewhere en route.
Picture the scene, in 1943, a West Cork village, US troops in all their regalia, a pet monkey, utter amazement. Tojo succumbed to alcohol poisoning and was given a state funeral, and that was that.
I was joined for the gig in Debarras by Sal, who sang of hope after heartache and whose voice shimmered after Murphy recited reels and rhymes, followed by a song entitled ‘The Ballad of Mad Mick’, about a man who killed his beloved horse.
We end up on the Main Street of Clonakilty, all bawling out ‘The Auld Triangle’, loud enough for the residents of Skibbereen to hear, and then it’s ‘Passage West’ by the Cork bard John Spillane.
Stephen resides in a Cottage in the wilds of Kerry, and we become ensconced there on the day off. You would need a passport to reach it, energy wise it is another world. He calls it Tír na nÓg (The Land of Youth) and I can’t disagree. Time melts away out there in the absolute, the beauty and the wildness. We observe Draco and the plough in the stars and chat about the day, travelling to the blue pool outside Killarney, and the woman we spoke to there, who was volunteering to keep the rhododendrons at bay, weeding in the woods.
With a tea-bloated belly, I sink into sleep as turf burns and the spirits of my ancestors blaze. The next morning, I’m stung by a bee collecting wood, and after breakfast with Ned, keeper of the land, we head for Dingle.
“In the half light of the snug afterwards, I think about meeting a version of myself who I really admire, not in an arrogant, boastful or cringy sense but in a ‘fair play to you kid’ sense of purpose that comes from doing something with substance…”
David Keenan
Dingle, Other Voices and relit sparks:
I played at Other Voices a few times. I once took a candle for a walk during ‘Evidence of Living’ and the flame stayed lit. Modern Mythologies is cultivating that flame again, and I’m glad to be engaged in the calling I’ve had for as long as I can remember now.
Dick Macs is an iconic pub. The gig is free entry, there’s payment galore in other areas on offer on this adventure. We are welcomed and looked after, hosted upstairs even. The back room is full as Julian Boland sings hauntingly, and Stephen asks, “Was it for this?” Yes, it was.
People travelled from Paris for this one, from Kildare and New Jersey and in the half light of the snug afterwards, I think about meeting a version of myself who I really admire, not in an arrogant, boastful or cringy sense but in a ‘fair play to you kid’ sense of purpose that comes from doing something with substance that’s really worth doing and doing it with commitment.
‘We Live, We Learn, We Love’ came out this week, marking the fourth single from the new album, and although it may sound like a subverted motivational catchphrase, it does cover a lot.
Part four: Mayo and into the wilds
How do you acquire a cure for burns? You lick the belly of a lizard found near the Burren, that’s how.
I was educated on that and heard two variations of a tale where individuals, having strayed into a game of hurling between rival fairy factions, had the stray placed upon them, both bewildered the next day, one being gifted a gold flute in payment for a job well done.
I was assured these men were not drinkers, that the beings they encountered resembled people only smaller and that if you spend enough time on the land and with the land, you may well receive the ability to see them.
The balance between real time and reel time is so important to me; both can live in harmony, but if you spend too long in reel time and place too much importance on it versus real time, a different kind of stray prevails. That is what I am enriched by the lore and the mysteries of these folk tales and beliefs! There is vitality in them that pours out of the teller, something that enriches the listener.
I was invited to a home in Kinvarra, Connemara, a home built by the family Gill and once used as a store for weapons by revolutionary means. Katie Phelan sang beautifully of methods she uses to deal with overthinking, and Murphy recited poems described by an audience member as DMT…
My maternal side is all Gill, and it was a welcomed piece of synchronicity to be hosted there by Ben, Jenni and their dog Snoop who, at regular intervals during my set, patrolled the room, his nails tapping out a canine rhythm in sequence with my guitar playing.
At the Gill family grave the next morning, I was given an education in kinds of myth and the life lessons contained in stories by local storyteller and playwright, Gerry. He traversed the transition from community-centred culture to the birth of the individual and the loss/gain aspects of such a change.
We then drove to the wilds of Mayo, to the Village Inn of Bohola and a welcome that will live with me for a long time.
Matriarch Bernie fed us on homemade stew and extolled the wonders of castor oil. The village pub, as it stands on a crossroads, stirred nerves in me: how will this play out? Will it be a battle of regulars resenting the upset of routine and us, the travelling curiosities, on a musical mission to bring original music back to the pub?
The gig began as a dance. Both parties unsure of where we all stood but as the energy cooked up and the air of camaraderie enveloped the raucous flagstoned room, I felt the change happen. The words began to be sung back to me, arms waving, pints aloft, chairs mounted, sweat falling, something heroic being witnessed.
I felt the Grá (love) and the acceptance in the room, like people got what our intentions were and that was that.
Outside under the stars, a new tradition, only this time I was given a leg up onto the back of a donkey and cart and, having learned it that afternoon, began to sing the pseudo-national anthem round these parts: ‘The Green and Red of Mayo’.
“You chase myth and discover the magic in ordinary people.
You get out into real time and have your anxiety quelled and a hope in communities reaffirmed.
You become willing to step into the fire in a sense and discover a new strength of character.”
Ballina and notes to self:
I am dropped off in Ballina and its two nights in The NCF Co-op, a former hairdressers, which turns out to be a surreal place to play, but all part of the adventure and another advocate of grassroots community building in support of the arts.
Sean Joyce and Miranda Faul join me and Murphy on either night. We stand under an archway out of the pissings of rain with cups of tea and think of luxurious green rooms of old that may have been warmer but lacked any real charm.
This morning, a hotel owner told me that my phone can be safely left on the mantle piece while I’m seated at the back of the room, “Nothing to fear”, she says, “You’re in Mayo!”
I arrived home earlier, feeling a deep tiredness, observed my room and made these three notes:
- This tour can go on indefinitely as there is so much to see and feel here, the UK too maybe?
- Keep an eye out for any rogue lizards.
- The hoarding must cease.
Onwards to Wicklow, Wexford, Offaly, and Meath.
