CD Reviews

Tir na nOg – 'Live at Sirius' CD

Life and Living Records

In 1971 Sonny Condell and Leo O’Kelly became Tir na nOg – an Irish folk duo singing songs that offered a lot more than the usual folk fayre. By their third album in 1974, some compositions had a definite rocky edge to them without losing the unique style established through the previous two albums. This recording of a gig in August, 2009 is an excellent portrayal of their current activities.
The quality of production, the intimacy of the venue and the technical balance of the vocals and guitars (with occasional violin and percussion) all contribute to a finished article that will sit proudly next to the original three. A majority of the seventeen songs are from the early days – ‘Two White Horses’, ‘Time is like a Promise’, ‘Dante’ and ‘Piccadilly’ all represent the slower flavour whilst ‘Looking Up’ and the cover of Nick Drake’s ‘Free Ride’ up the tempo. Compositions from their other musical careers intersperse the show – Leo’s ‘Venezuela’, a wonderfully weird song, and Sonny’s ‘Driving’ (accompanied by Leo on violin) both sit easily in the Tir na nOg repertoire. Their cover version of ‘Play with Fire’ (Jagger/Richards) is also a very welcome addition to the set.
This album is a ‘must’ for all Tir na nOg fans and an ideal first purchase for those who have not yet ventured into their world.

Pete Needham -Classic Rock Society magazine

Articles

This article appeared in 2008 in the American rock magazine, Paste.

The Other Summer of Love
By Andy Whitman

The best music stays with you for a lifetime. You carry it around with you, and it opens up in new ways as the years pass. The bare facts are these: In the spring of 1972, when I was 16 years old, I went with my friends to a Procol Harum concert in Chicago. I expected to see a stately prog rock show. I left a few hours later thinking only about the opening band, a couple of gentle Irish folkies, Sonny Condell and Leo O'Kelly, who called themselves Tir na nÓg.
Nobody's ever heard of Tir na nÓg. They sold a few thousand records in the '70s, and they're almost unknown today. For the completists, they made three melancholy, Celtic-tinged albums of folk rock. They actually covered Nick Drake when he was still alive, and they once played their lovely tunes on John Peel's BBC Radio 1 show. But that doesn't begin to tell the story. Because in the days following that concert, my friends and I independently ventured out and snapped up the Tir na nÓg back catalog. We sat around, individually and collectively, listening to a batch of forlorn love songs that seemed to have been lifted directly from the pages of the diaries that none of us kept. It was a confluence of raging hormones and pressed vinyl that thankfully only happens once or twice in a lifetime, and those songs ripped us apart, and, conversely, brought us closer together as comrades in misery.
"Oh, you are still a mystery to me" Leo sang, and we all sat around and nodded in swooning agreement. None of us had actually mustered up the courage to speak to our respective loves as yet, and mystery pretty much came with that territory. But it didn't matter. We huddled in our bedrooms, our guitars in our laps, playing those albums again and again. We tried to puzzle out the alternate tunings we heard. We struggled unsuccessfully to master the fingerpicking patterns and to memorize all the lyrics because, for us, those songs were coded messages from the brothers we never knew, and we were caught up in the inexplicable telepathy of a couple Dublin hippies commiserating with a few moping Midwestern kids in the suburbs of Chicago.
It couldn't and didn't last. Within a few months the fevered intensity passed. We moved on with our lives, and a couple years later my friends and I parted ways to head off to different colleges. But for a while there, in the summer of 1972, we were united by crushing despair, and by the love of a band that understood our deepest sorrows, wallowing in the ageless drama that was equal parts devastating beauty and delicious desolation. We were romantics who had just received our driver's permits. And if we were silly and ridiculously overwrought—and we were—then you can chalk it up to immaturity. Chet Baker, another overwrought romantic, once sang "Blame It On My Youth," and he had it right, too.
Everyone has encountered albums like these, and when they hit at 16, as they often do, they leave a mark. They arrive fortuitously at times of emotional upheaval or vulnerability, and they connect in ways that go deep down—as a healing balm, as a mirror reflecting our lives, as the soundtrack to our inarticulate longings. Periodically I ask myself if those three Tir na nÓg albums actually hold up to critical scrutiny. I think they do. They're lovely, unspeakably sad, full of deft fingerpicking, and the harmonies are characterized by a melancholy fragility, like two Nick Drakes for the price of one. But the music is so inextricably entwined with my life that it's impossible to be objective about it. All I know is that I take those three albums off the shelf a couple times per year now, those worn, familiar vinyl records, full of crackles and pops. I listen, and it all comes back. They sounded great at 16, during the other summer of love, the one that actually mattered to me. They sound great now.
There is, of course, also the wincing regret that accompanies those memories. I've been happily married for 25 years now to a woman who is most definitely not the object of The Undying Love of 1972. But music is powerful stuff, and it's amazing how quickly the emotions of those desperate days can be revived.
In Celtic mythology, Tír na nÓg is the land of eternal youth. It's off the edges of the map, not so much a geographic location as a hazy, nebulous region where memory and yearning meet and are perfectly at peace. I didn't think about it at 16, didn't know that the name would turn out to be a sort of prophecy, a foretelling of what I would experience 35 years down the line. It just worked out that way

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The following article was written by Joe Giltrap for the Irish Post in August, 2011, to help promote the September gigs. It never got published - The Irish Post ceased trading :(

Sonny Condell from County Wicklow and Leo O’Kelly from County Carlow, two young aspiring songwriters from totally different musical backgrounds, met by accident in 1969 and the rest is history. Sonny grew up on a farm in Wicklow and was influenced by a mixture of classical music and The Beatles while in Carlow Leo started playing with The Tropical Showband before joining a local psychedelic band (well it was the 60s after all). Leo went on to tour Europe and America with Emmet Spiceland - his first introduction to folk music.
He then started playing solo spots in the numerous folk clubs in
Dublin that were a great platform for emerging and established
acoustic musicians. With Dublin being so small it was possible to play several clubs on the same night so it was hardly surprising that Leo and Sonny should meet up. They were both thinking of trying their luck in London so they went into a studio and recorded some of their own material as well as covers and although they did not use the recording until years later it gave them the confidence to strike out. They picked up a resident
spot in London and were immediately signed by Chrysalis with whom they made three albums before the label lost interest. John Peel championed them and they recorded many sessions for him at the BBC.
Unquestionably they were ahead of their time but they split and went back to Dublin and although they followed separate careers there was always the nagging doubt that perhaps they had quit too soon. Sonny went on record solo albums and work with Scullion while Leo pursued a solo career. In 1991 they decided to have another crack at it and discovered that it all slotted into place quite naturally. Sonny Condell still gigs with Scullion and his own band Radar as well as performing solo and has recorded 15 albums to date. Leo also has solo albums on release and Tir na nOg have an album recorded in Cork called Live at Sirius on release. The live album shows just how tight this duo are with lovely harmonies and faultless playing and I have to confess that I found myself playing the last track Dante over and over again.

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