A winter music festival hidden in the pubs of Dingle
At the beginning of the month, I found myself visiting friends in Ennistymon, county Clare. If you have never been to the west coast of Ireland, it feels as though you have been thrown back into the past; part Withnail and I, trapped in Penrith, part mythological land, where fairies still live in trees and superhuman Celtic warriors roam the hills.
I received word that the Other Voices festival was taking place just a few hours drive away in Dingle, county Kerry. Dingle is famous for its breathtaking scenery, excellent seafood (Out of the Blue is a personal favourite), lovely pubs and lovely people.
Other Voices has been around since 2001, boasting an impressive list of past performers, including Amy Winehouse, Little Simz, Florence + the Machine and Sinead O’Connor, to name but a few. Since its conception, it has brought artists from all over the world to celebrate a pantheon of musical genres in the otherwise quiet coastal town.
I could not in all consciousness as a serious music journalist allow this festival to take place without seeing what all the fuss was about. As such I hopped on a ferry to Tarbert and made my way down the meandering coastal roads to Kerry. A few administrative issues surrounded this plan. The first was Dingle was full of festival goers, and as such there was no room in the inn. Any inn. Deciding it was too cold for a stable, my friends and I stayed on the other side of the peninsula in Castlegregory. We found a fantastic local taxi driver who called herself ‘Auntie Ann’ who shepherded us to and from the festival. A hilarious woman who drove the tiny country cliff roads at 70mph, chatting away without a care in that iconic sing-song Kerry lilt.
The second was that the festival was sold out. As per usual, I had left it too late to ask my long-suffering editor for a Press Pass, and as such I found myself at somewhat of a loss. Fortunately, along with a wristband, paying punters were also given a lanyard with a program attached. The lanyard was made of the same material as the wristband, so with a pint of Guinness as an accomplice, I fashioned a makeshift ticket for myself and was ready to go.
Friday
The music was to start at 10pm on Friday, something I found bizarre until I arrived. The native Kerrymen and women were nowhere to be found. Dublin, particularly South Dublin, had descended en masse. The late start presumably was to allow for the four-and-a-half-hour commute from the Big Shmoke, once people finished work.
The concept of a festival in the middle of winter in Ireland (not famous for its warm weather), is an odd one. Rather than fields and tents and stages, the festival takes place in the town itself. So instead of standing in the rain freezing, you are sitting in a little cosy pub, rammed to capacity while the band takes the small stage.
It gives the event a lovely, intimate feel, as though you have accidentally stumbled upon Paolo Nutini in the west of Ireland, rather than paying €80 for a festival ticket.
Notable acts on the Friday were Irish trad legend John Francis Flynn, who took over the church (the main venue) and wowed audiences with his melodic ballads. Anyone who likes trad music knows of Flynn, and if you haven’t heard of him, he is absolutely worth a listen.
KhakiKid took over Geaney’s Yard at 23:00 and got everyone in the mood for a bop. He had teamed up with the fantastic Dublin neo-soul band Bricknasty, who provided excellent backing to his songs. KhakiKid himself is not my cup of Barry’s. Like Matt Kerr, Royal Blood’s frontman, KhakiKid struck me as a man who is more interested in staring at himself in the mirror than making good music. Regardless, the man puts on a great live performance. Bricknasty were phenomenal as a backing band, and they came on and performed alone afterwards, pumping jazzy soul music into the hearts of the festival goers.
The night ended in the Dingle Pub, where Dublin legends in the making Papa Romeo were closing, a band who never disappoint at a live performance. Auntie Ann picked us up after that and dropped us back to our bnb, for a quick power nap before we came back for Saturday.
Saturday
The outstanding performance on Saturday (aside from Paolo Nutini, obviously) was Ispíní Na Héireann. Literally, the name means Sausages of Ireland. The band came together during covid as a light-hearted trad band, satirising the sometimes over-serious nature of the genre. While writing and performing songs aimed at getting a laugh, the band are very talented and the small pub we had all crammed in (O’Sullivan’s Courthouse), had the best atmosphere of the entire festival. I’m covering them in London this Thursday, so will hold off any other praise of this fantastic band until then. But remember the name.
Nutini played in the church which was full to capacity. The festival set up cameras so we could live stream from the nearby pubs, which we did. Watching Nutini melt our hearts was a perfect end to the festival. He’s one of those performers who faded from my radar once the naughties passed us by, but is always a welcome surprise when he pops up again.
Sunday
A sad farewell to a surreal weekend unlike the usual tandem feelings of lethargy and regret that follow you when leaving a festival, when I finally convinced myself to head away from Dingle, I was met with warm elation at the thought of this latest adventure. As I hopped back onto my motorcycle and began my wandering journey towards Dublin, the faded sounds of Other Voices drummed a tattoo in my soul. Paolo, Flynn, Papa Romeo, Ispíní Na Héireann and the rest followed behind me in my wake. As my front tire ate up the twists and turns of the Connor Pass, I could feel the music of Kerry seeping into the hills, breathing out through the mountains and past cliffs, across the sea. The sun broke through the clouds and warmed the frosted ground. Other Voices is more than a festival. Its uniqueness puts it on a pedestal, is an event unlike any other, and absolutely worth a visit.
