by Ireland has a rich history scattered from county to county, each with its own folklore weaved into the land’s collective cultural identity. There is no separating Ireland and Irishness from the artists risen from it, and David Keenan is very aware and embraces it.
“Occupy the city with original Ideas,” Keenan chanted over and over on his debut album, captured in a stunning video where an entire gig crowd’s worth of people trace him through the streets of Dublin, chanting it in tow. Years on, and several releases down, Keenan has proved himself to be one of Ireland’s most enigmatic stars with a discography that seems to endlessly and limitlessly evolve. But at the centre of it all, this love for Ireland and the desire to improve it and know it through art rings true.
That’s where this tour comes in. Calling it the Chasing Myths tour, Keenan announced, “11 gigs, four provinces, one month. Independent venues, all vital to their communities”. The mission statement was simple as he wrote on social media, “I’m seeking out these rare spaces from pubs to clubs across Ireland with stories to collect as I go”.
It isn’t just that Keenan is hitting up smaller towns across Ireland, but that the time will be dedicated to listening and exploring, chatting to locals, learning their stories, and visiting landmarks or important places where these myths exist. We’re not so much talking old folkloric myths, but modern ones, social ones, cultural ones, even new ones that Keenan himself may well make along the way.
And he’ll be sending his dispatches to us. Sharing his personal tour diary, gathering up the stories from this particularly special outing, we’re handing the pen direct to him.
Chasing Myth – David Keenan’s tour diary
Part one: setting off
Today I set out on the road towards Sligo for the first date of the Chasing Myth Irish tour, it’s been a tempestuous morning internally and externally as the weather on both fronts looks gnarled and I’ve yet to have my immaturities pacified by a pot of coffee…
People say that Sligo is Yeats’ country, as the great esoteric wizard is buried nearby. Apt that it’s under Ben Bulben where I’ll bawl in front of the sold out Brees in Strandhill, and apt that I’ve been drawn out to the Wild West for the first of 14 gigs.
Why? Because part of my reasoning for doing this tour is to reconnect with the four provinces of Ireland and the bardic way, seeking reprieve from the spreadsheet-type tour plan. I threw it out on social media that I wanted to put a run together, and within a few days, the dates organically filled up. There’s one example for you of tradition and modernity working together in harmony; there may or may not be more as I go.
Serendipity chose Sligo, and I’m happy to choose Connaught over hell today and spill my guts out in song for bed and board. There is no better place to begin: local lore and landscape are everywhere here, Queen Medb watches over us all from her Knocknarea cairn, there’s talk of a man called Bernard looking for me to sing a song by a waterfall, which sounds beautiful if not for the pissings of rain before me.
I’ll reiterate: I’m happy when I’m travelling, feel alive and full of purpose, feel of use knowing people will get something from the songs and the ceremony of the gig, as well as myself. 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.
Remember when things were simple and tactile and involved you emptying the tank and filling it up again with a room full of people in real time not reel time? Well, for now they are again, and all roads lead to Sligo on this a hopeful Thursday morning for the coffee’s just kicked in and bejaysus I even feel a Westlife key change coming on as I get up from the chair.
Part two: ‘Yeats Country’ and dodged trees – Sligo to Belfast to Donegal
Sligo, Strandhill to be exact, was a night of wonder and an invocation of what was to come.
On the morning after the first gig, we set out for Belfast, we being myself and road buddy for this leg, Liam O’Sullivan. I was due to be in Belfast at lunchtime for a BBC radio session with the band, and afterwards we were due to hit the road and drive a further two hours or so to Donegal, as the bilingual documentary about me, Words on Canvas [Focla ar Chanbhás], was being screened in Ballyliffen.
Family messaged with weather warnings, the news said it was a red wind one. A Donegal friend said when asked whether the screening would go ahead: “Aye, there’s great drying out”.
After four songs captured for the BBC and I ran out to the car; a bass drum was rolling across the car park. I’d never felt that wind before, if not by a cliff edge. Storm Amy raged, and trees fell on the road. Liam did a great rally driver impression, and I, the hapless co-pilot, shouted out directions from Google Maps.
We missed the screening by a few minutes, but thankfully, the trees as well, and I think the film festival organisers appreciated the effort. We ate some last orders from the kitchen and reflected on the day as the nine o’clock news reported on the passing of an Irish laoch.
Part three: a fateful reunion – Donegal to Derry
Slept, drove through the Inishowen peninsula and up to the O’Doherty Castle, passed a hermit’s house and on to Derry [Doire], the walled city.
The first thing I saw when I stepped out of the car was a majestic Celtic cross with my family name inscribed: Ó Cianáin. I was meant to see it. There it was, that local lore, history and heroism I was looking for just waiting for me by the ‘Free Derry’ wall.
It’s hard to describe the gig itself. I feel like by showing up for these gigs, we are all not just chasing myths but creating them too.
During my soundcheck the house lights blurred my line of sight but all of a sudden I could see the outline of a harp resting by someone’s leg. Who owns the harp I said. “Mise [me],” came a low, mellifluous voice.
The person approached, and I remembered meeting them briefly as I waited outside Kilkenny train station, four and a half hours from Derry, back in August. The man’s name was also Liam; he jumped out of a taxi that day to tell me he had dreamt we’d play together someday. We said our goodbyes and that was that. Here he was again, appearing out of nowhere with the wish to play three tunes in memory of the recently deceased Irish writer and folklorist Manchán Magan.
“If this all feels strange, weird or unbelievable to you, dear reader, don’t be so surprised. There is something mad and miraculous about being on the road around Ireland, something extraordinary that feels organic and almost expected when there’s a gig planned with no great pageantry—just the open door”.
If this all feels strange, weird or unbelievable to you, dear reader, don’t be so surprised. There is something mad and miraculous about being on the road around Ireland, something extraordinary that feels organic and almost expected when there’s a gig planned with no great pageantry—just the open door.
Liam played his three tunes as doors opened and people filled the room. It was beautiful and then off he went again, into the night with the same intensity and humility as when he landed.
I was supported by local artist Rúa and a Dundalk native and old friend Finnian; both played powerfully, and the room buzzed and hummed.
My own set began with technical issues, wires were walked or leaned on, and feedback stung with a vengeance; it was relentless. I decided to not let the songs down or the audience either, so decided to jump into the crowd and busk it. This changed things, and the Derry choir kicked into action, and we all sang as one, elevating proceedings.
I jumped back onstage, the sound engineer, Terry, was up and down from desk to stage like a man trying to get his steps in! We were all on his side though, and chants of “Terry! Terry! Terry!” boomed out!
The set weaved from the new album to the older songs, and I was amazed at all the voices singing the words back through it all. Harmonies even!
One man became gradually more and more impassioned, and next thing he’s up on stage with the shirt off saying, “We can do this human beings!” I had to agree, the bedlam and the laughter and the connection in the room spoke for itself.
A tour tradition I’ve committed to now is singing to the stars outside the venue so they’ll guide us all into our next stop, and so out we went onto the street and sung ‘God is a Magpie’ and ‘The Auld Triangle’ as the security guards looked on in soundness as some passers by stopped for a gawk.
I have missed this way of life so much, I didn’t even know it. There are no barriers between me and the audience, no setlist, nothing is over-rehearsed or scripted. I’m seeing faces I haven’t seen for a while, and word of mouth is spreading; a former self-confessed “hater” is now even on board!
I’m getting to connect with the land again too, and the welcome as we go from place to place. This tour is improvised and free and I’m full up now thinking of what Listowel, Clonakilty and Dingle may have in store from the 9th onwards.
