Ye Vagabonds: All Tied Together – Five stars for this powerfully raw modern trad

By Ed Power | Irish Times

Among the new wave of critically acclaimed Irish folk artists, it has been all too easy to overlook the Ye Vagabonds siblings, Diarmuid and Brían Mac Gloinn. Although their music has long had a beautifully rapturous quality, they lack the in-your-face wow factor of the Mercury-nominated drone punks Lankum or the storytelling charm of John Francis Flynn.

Their moment of recognition may at last be at hand with this stunning album for Geoff Travis’s River Lea label, a wonderfully vulnerable collection rooted in angst and woe but carried aloft by a poetic defiance.

Recorded in a house in Galway, All Tied Together is a powerfully raw listen that comes off as a sort of craggy Irish Simon & Garfunkel, the effect heightened by luminous harmonies and keening instrumentation.

Tender yet never maudlin, with diaristic lyrics about tragic break-ups and unfulfilled futures, it knits together the ancient and the modern with haunting verve. One moment you’re soaking up the turf‑fire glow of On Sitric Road, the opening track; the next the LP knocks you backwards with the dam‑busting instrumental refrain of The Flood.

Above all, it arrives as a blessed relief amid trying times for Irish traditional music. In one sense the genre has never been more acclaimed: Lankum headline festivals around the world; and the vampire caper Sinners, which has been nominated for a record-breaking 16 Oscars, including for its score, soundtracks a pivotal scene with a modern take on Rocky Road to Dublin, complete with Riverdancing undead.

But, as often happens in the music industry, the renaissance in trad has now been commodified. This has been brought painfully home over the past year with the existential horror that is Kingfishr’s Killeagh, an ode to the east Cork hurling team that marks the coming of age of the new “boggercore” genre.

Boggercore has been with us a while – it stretches, via the 2 Johnnies, right back to D’Unbelievables. But with Kingfishr and their sonic and sartorial clones Amble it came into its kingdom as a cynical dumbing down of the great strides made by traditional over the previous decade.

This isn’t to question anybody’s taste – people like what they like – or to pit, say, Lankum against Kingfishr. It’s merely to acknowledge that in every genre there comes a moment when the mainstream wants a piece of the action. That, alas, was trad’s fate in 2025 – to which we can only say, “Killeagh, nah, nah-nah”.

Without ever intending to, Ye Vagabonds offer some much‑needed spiritual respite from that bleak trend with the sublime All Tied Together. It’s as stark as a shriek, as murkily mysterious as bogwater and lit by a constant sense of curiosity and wonder.

The album also marks a new chapter for the duo, who were raised as Irish speakers in Carlow and went on to become embedded in Dublin’s folk underground.

Among their fans is the Boygenius singer Phoebe Bridgers, who asked for Ye Vagabonds to open for the indie supergroup in Dublin in 2023.

They pour all of those experiences into tracks such as Danny, a starkly modern tale of a young man unravelling in contemporary Ireland (“His girlfriend hit the needle … You could see that she was fading / By the shadows round his eyes”).

As with the best modern trad, the project constantly takes risks – on Gravity they fuse the melancholy of Irish folk with the menacing bite of postrock. The mood then swerves back to a-cappella pop on Mayfly, a tune that lives up to its name with its beautifully flitting evanescence.

A record full of cries and whispers ends with the hush of Forget About the Rain, which frames the siblings’ voices with gentle piano and guitar. It is heartbreakingly sad – as many of the songs here are – yet ultimately this is an album sure to fill its listeners with joy.

Treasa Ní Mhiolláin sings “Lord Gregory”

The singer, Treasa Ní Mhiolláin (which could be Anglicised as ‘Theresa Mullin’), is a native Irish speaker from Inis Mór (‘Inishmore’), one of the Aran Islands off the western coast of Ireland.

A woman comes to Gregory’s castle, pleading to be let in; she is either pregnant or with a newborn son. His mother turns her away; sometimes she tells her that he went to sea, and she goes to follow him and dies in shipwreck. Gregory wakes and says he dreamed of her. He chases her, finds her body, and dies.

Alternate titles of “The Lass of Roch Royal” include “Lord Gregory”, “Fair Anny”, “Oh Open the Door Lord Gregory”, “The Lass of Loch Royal” “The Lass of Aughrim”, and “Mirk Mirk”.

Bruce Springsteen raises his voice

Bruce Springsteen released the protest song “Streets of Minneapolis,” directly criticizing the Trump administration’s immigration enforcement operations. The song, written in response to deadly shootings by federal agents, condemns the actions of “King Trump’s private army” and honors victims in Minneapolis. He has actively called to “rise against authoritarianism”

LYRICS

[Verse 1]

Through the winter’s ice and cold

Down Nicollet Avenue

A city aflame fought fire and ice

‘Neath an occupier’s boots

King Trump’s private army from the DHS

Guns belted to their coats

Came to Minneapolis to enforce the law

Or so their story goes

[Verse 2]

Against smoke and rubber bullets

In the dawn’s early light

Citizens stood for justice

Their voices ringing through the night

And there were bloody footprints

Where mercy should have stood

And two dead, left to die on snow-filled streets

Alex Pretti and Renee Good

[Chorus]

Oh, our Minneapolis, I hear your voice

Singing through the bloody mist

We’ll take our stand for this land

And the stranger in our midst

Here in our home, they killed and roamed

In the winter of ’26

We’ll remember the names of those who died

On the streets of Minneapolis

To That Man Robert Burns

Woody Guthrie

In this letter-poem, Woody Guthrie points out the similarities between himself and Robert Burns, and the deep connection he felt to the poet, as well as reminiscing about visiting Scotland as a torpedoed seaman during the Second World War.

Dear Robert Burns,

You skipped the big town streets just like I done, you ducked the crosstown cop just like I ducked, you dodged behind a beanpole to beat the bigtime dick and you very seldom stopped off in any big city where the rigged corn wasn’t drying nor the hot vine didn’t help you do your talking.

Your talking was factual figures of the biggest sort, though. Your talking had the graphboard and the chart and had something else most singers seem to miss, the very kiss of warm dew on the stalk.

Your words turned into songs and floated upstream and then turned into rains and drifted down and lodged and swung and clung to drifts of driftwood to warm and heat and fertilize new seeds. Your words were of the upheath and the down, your words were more from heather than from town. Your thoughts came more from weather than from schoolroom and more from shifting vines than from the book.

I go to the church halfway between the farm and halfway into the town and halfway back. I sing and dance at just one altar only and cry with the folks that would like to be more fertile. If there’s a bench I kneel down to laugh and cry on, I suppose it’s this bench with the kids waiting along it while us dads and us mamas stamp and stomp around looking for something to give our trip more sense. I worship in the limbroof arbors of pure fertility and very little else makes sense to me. Like Robert Burns and Jesus and some others I believe we ought to learn how to make a law or two to help us brothers love the sisters more.

I bought your little four-inch square book when I was a torpedoed seaman walking around over your clods and sods of Glasgow and the little book says on the outer cover, Fifty Songs of Burns, the price 4d, and I read from page to page and found you covered a woman on every page. I thought as I picked the book up here at home that maybe the book ought to have some kind of a new name. Like, Fifty Pages of Fifty Women, enlarged upon by Robert Burns.

Well, Rob, it’s awfully rainy here in Coney today. Been drizzling like this now for several days to make some folks happy and some folks sad, since this is a big resort town and folks pay good money to come here from all over. Some like the rain today and some folks hate it. I like it and love it for several reasons, like you’d love it, to see our new seeds grow in this old trashy back yard, and to see these green shoots, roots, limbs and leaves start dancing like Tirza and her Wine Bath. And because Marjorie just painted some flowers of a wild and jumpy color on the pink wall of the baby’s room so when he does squirm his way out here to see his light of the day he’ll see some twisting flowers like you seen all around your rock hearths and heatherhills there all over your Scotland. This rain is making the grass and flowers spud out, the roots to crawl like guerrillas, and the house to take a better shape, so’s our little shoot and shaver can have these growing limbs to give him such a good fast start that maybe he can grow up in four years with us giving him pushes to be as happy and dancy and glad and joking and pretty as our little Stackybones was on that Sunday’s afternoon when she got dressed up her very prettiest in her pinkest dress and greenest ribbon to look just as nice and sweet and glad and pretty as any of your fifty girls you raved about. And fifty times fifty. The only good part about living you really did miss, Bob, was not to get to stick around a house like Marjorie keeps and see a kid like Cathy dance and grow. You died at thirty-four which was a bit too young for you to get to see these things I’m seeing in the faces of my kids.

This is why I’ll keep you posted and brought up to date as the year leafs out and me and Marjorie have more kids of the kinds you missed out on.

Published in Woody Guthrie, Born To Win (Macmillan, 1965), pp. 213–15.