Worlds Apart
ABOUT 10 years ago, you could have stumbled across Brigid Mae Power performing in the most unorthodox places. Along with other members of Galway’s bohemian set, she could often be found in a vast, subterranean car park, singing traditional folk songs and cheered on by her ragtag gang of artist friends.
“It was so spooky, pitch-black with just bits of light,” she recalls now.“There was a really good scene of a few weirdos with nowhere else to go, who made interesting things down there. Other weirdos who lived in the country came in from Leitrim or Longford. People painted on the walls. It was freezing, seawater seeped in. There was a lot of droney stuff played – harmoniums, banjo, accordion, and electronics. I remember once, a Japanese band with trumpets visited – they were amazing.”
Power recorded her first EP, 2011’s “Ode To An Embryo”, in the car park – a product of expediency, recording on a nonexistent budget, in pursuit of Spector-ish architectural reverb. It was one of several low-key recordings she made at this early point in her career – at a time when Power, only in her early twenties, had already experienced plenty. Born in London and raised in Galway, she spent time in New York – where she became trapped in an abusive relationship. She wound up back in rural Ireland, where she gave birth to a son – the “embryo” hymned on her first recording.
Things have changed since then for Power, of course. Her ineffably graceful, sometimes wordless voice and mesmerising songs have gradually found focus over the years, combining Irish folk music with defiant, confessional songwriting and haunting musical drones. She is about to release , her fourth album and first to feature a full band. It’s a notable step forward for Power –; in doing so she folds the damage into something better and more expansive. Though sometimes rooted in pain, Power’s songs can be transcendent.
