Brigid Mae Power has carved out a singular place in Irish music, working at a tangent to folk rather than within its boundaries. Her songs feel both anchored and adrift — pared back yet ocean-wide — their edges softened by atmospherics that can hang or billow into quietly psychedelic swells. Rhythms often move at their own pace, circling rather than pushing forward.
Covers are central to her practice, approached not as exercises in mimicry but as acts of re-imagining. On Songs For You, she slows a Ray Charles ballad until each note feels hand-placed, pares Television down to its bones, and threads both through her own sonic weather — the shimmer of reverb, a spare, lonely voice.
Her voice remains one of the most distinctive in contemporary Irish music — unforced yet firm, capable of rising cleanly through a dense arrangement or holding a room with a single unaccompanied phrase. She doesn’t chase trends, nor does she retreat into insularity; her work turns on its own specific axis.
Your latest release, Silver Strand Tapes, begins with soft, instrumental pieces before gradually moving into language. It’s only with ‘I Can’t Stop Loving You’ that a full vocal line comes in, and even then, the first “I” feels more like a note than a word. Was that gradual move into voice intentional, or something that happened naturally?
No, I didn’t think of that at all, really. It was more intuitive, and that’s kind of how I operate always—and it just gets more and more like that as time goes on. I just sort of felt it out. My idea was… I had a lot of melodies on the guitar, and then vocal melodies, which is usually how I write. And then I would put lyrics to the melodies that I would hum. But I just had quite a lot that didn’t have words.
I think I’ve had such an intense couple of years that the words haven’t come yet. Things are still in an in-between stage. So I wasn’t really in a verbal phase. That song, ‘I Can’t Stop Loving You’, is a cover, and it was an outtake from the covers album I did that I found—and I just ran it through the tape machine. It kind of landed well in that order.
I really didn’t put much thought into it. It was something I did a couple of days before Bandcamp Friday. I set myself a challenge to just improvise on the spot a couple of the tracks. Two of them were songs I’d been humming around my head for a while. And then two—or three of them—were completely improvised on the spot. Most of them were done that way. Some of them were melodies I already had in my mind. So I just gave it a go. I don’t really think about things in the way other people might; I just move quite fast. I think: does it sound good together, in a row? That kind of thing. If I think too much, then I’d be there for days, so I try not to give myself too much of an option.
Even when language comes in, it often feels held lightly — almost like a mantra or incantation — and the vocals are often airy, blurred with reverb, part of the atmosphere rather than driving the song.
That’s an interesting insight. I think I’m particular about how my vocals sound, and I almost prefer what people might think is technically bad over good, because I like a bit of space in there. I like to hear how the voice would sound in a room—or in whatever space it’s in.
I think the way vocals are recorded now, with super digital setups, kind of takes away that space. I don’t know why, but I find that happens a lot. And I guess I like to capture a vibe—or the sound of a space.
Even though I added some reverb, the sound of the kitchen I was in was very prominent on that record. All of it was done in my kitchen. So yeah—it’s not really a conscious thing I think about, but I am drawn to vocals that have space and a nice sound around them.
I like space, but it’s about finding that line where it’s not too spacious. I don’t like it when things are hidden—and it stops feeling too intimate. I don’t like to hide behind reverb. I mean, I like that for other people, but I don’t think I’m naturally vague. I like the sound of atmosphere and space, but not when it becomes too distant. If that makes sense, I think it’s finding the balance.
‘Watch Out for Fleas’ from Mandatory Book Club Vol. 1 feels like a voice memo: just piano, then someone walks in and says the title line. Do you find yourself drawn to those spontaneous, unpolished moments?
That’s funny, because I have no idea what ‘Watch Out for Fleas’ sounds like—I can’t remember it at all. My friend David was asking if I had any phone recordings, and I think that project was just people’s voice notes or phone recordings. So I went through what I had, and I just thought, yeah, I’ll use this one—because it was maybe during COVID and we got two kittens—and we had this huge flea infestation that I got obsessed with tackling.
I was constantly telling people, “Watch out for the fleas, check yourself after,” and all that. So yeah, I think I kind of just kept it in for humour’s sake. And David—it kind of matched his sense of humour, so I thought he’d like it.
But yeah, I do like leaving in little bits of real life. I always liked it when I’d be listening to something and there’s laughter, or just something genuine in it. I don’t leave them in all the time—just the right pinch of them. It does shift the energy. But also, it’s a natural reflection of how my life’s been: lots of DIY recording, being a parent, interruptions, and limited time. So it just ends up in there naturally, I guess.
I guess, with all the real-life stuff—I really love Neil Young recordings, especially those older albums. Some people don’t like that scrappy style, but I really do. It’s like he’s capturing the room, you know? Capturing what’s actually happening between the musicians.
But when you try and emulate that, you can sometimes hear the trying. And I think that’s what I like—when something just is. And the presence comes through, and I think you have to actually be present, but also then give up a little bit of perfectionism, etc. Whatever moment you’re in, it’s going to come out in the music.
But then, to contradict what I just said—sometimes you feel like something went wrong or sounded weird, and when you hear it back, it doesn’t sound or feel like that. That’s interesting to me. Your perspective, in the moment, isn’t always the same as how it’s actually received. Like, how it felt to be singing might be totally different to how it felt for the bass player listening.
That idea of not being able to fake presence — and how “scrappy” takes can sometimes hold the most feeling — reminds me of Songs For You, which feels raw and live, especially ‘Rose Marie’, ‘You Don’t Know Me’, and your version of ‘The True Lover’s Farewell’.
Yeah, I guess I don’t start out with a conscious point, but unconsciously, that is my direction—I usually take that route. It’s just what I seem to like. I like a lot of different types of music, but I do love emotional stuff. And I’m a huge fan of singing. I love singers like Aretha Franklin, Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, Bill Withers, Otis Redding, Everly Brothers, Patsy Cline, Dolores Keane. There’s so much emotion in all of their performances. But at the same time, it’s grounded and centred. Emotionally centred, I’d say. It’s not taking from you, it’s giving.
That’s the point for me personally.
I think singing is natural. It’s a response—you feel the urge to sing. So it’s never an intention to be emotionally direct, but it is an intention to be authentic, to be true to myself. And that’s not always trending, I find. Haha
What I like and what I listen for in music—and what I’m trying to get out of music—I’ve realised sometimes isn’t what a lot of people seem to want. I used to think everyone wanted what I did. I think a lot of people do want some kind of emotional connection or healing, or comfort, or to be moved—either emotionally or physically, like you want to dance or scream or feel hope. But a lot of it is contained, or curated. It’s not always about being genuinely moved—it’s about being entertained or reassured in a way that feels safe.
But I don’t mean that negatively. It’s just a different approach. I think some people like to hear safety, something really controlled. But I’m more interested in a kind of living pulse.
With some of the songs you mentioned, someone once said to me, “Oh, you’re so brave to do that—to sing with all the flaws, and keep it all in.” And I just couldn’t relate to that. I mean, I understand what they meant, but it didn’t feel brave to me. I always want to be as good in the studio—or in my home recordings—as I am live on stage. There’s no real difference in the process for me.
Whereas for some people, it’s totally different. They’ll do lots of takes, or edit heavily—and that’s really creative too. There are loads of amazing things you can do with a voice. But for me, it’s not what I’m drawn to. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say—it’s not my strength.
My strength is in connecting to something while I’m singing. I don’t really think about it consciously, but that’s always the aim: to feel something. To feel some kind of release and just enjoy it.
You’ve spoken about how much music today can feel “safe” — polished and controlled rather than emotionally unsettling or unresolved. Do you think listeners shy away from work that’s more complex or emotionally raw?
Yeah, I do. Or maybe it’s more like wanting to distract from those feelings, or in terms of songwriting, just being conscious about how they come across. I think this is the age of distraction.. But it doesn’t have to be even this intense emotional thing all the time or something, I can see how that would be exhausting- I just mean I guess being real and I think there’s a lot of distraction from that at the moment..
A lot of the music I grew up with—most of it not even from my own time—just felt more open and real. People were putting themselves on the line and being real.
It feels a little sometimes like we’ve normalised avoiding that. You really notice it when you compare today’s music with something from twenty or thirty years and longer ago. I remember a shift—maybe in the early 2010s—where the look and aesthetic started to matter just as much as the music. People began settling for that. I’d hear something and think, “Really?” but people loved the image. But that never really did it for me; I needed to like the music.
I think there’s a lot of self-consciousness too.. Maybe from social media, etc, I don’t know, there’s this focus on the artist’s personality as well as the work. I still think the music comes first; that’s what it’s about to me.
It can feel a bit risky to be real in your songwriting. People latch onto the person, not the song. So then one might feel they have to answer to all this stuff, have their character assessed, whereas the song could just be absolutely about anything, a complete story, but written in first-person, and have honesty working through the song in an abstract way. But I think sometimes I’ve had a bit of a fear about that because of people taking things quite literally and then questioning me at the merch table, etc, and all of a sudden it can make you self-conscious when writing your next thing. But I guess these are always the challenges that come up with creating.
There’s also the question of access. I guess it’s never been an easy time to be a musician. But now it’s harder to afford to tour and record for anyone. Now add being a single Mother musician, and you’re even more so down the ladder. Jeez, it’s been a struggle, but you keep going because you have something to say and pictures to communicate.
I don’t want to generalise, but the range of stories and experiences narrows- It’s not a level playing field. And when that happens, the art can suffer from the lack of diversity and basic access. Being an artist is full of doubt—“Can I do this? I can’t. Maybe I can.” The love of the work is what gets you through. But it’s hard, especially when you can’t afford to record or tour, or don’t have the option to go into thousands of debt as some choose to do. So I guess what I’m trying to say through this ramble is, of course, there are people who are really going deep with their music and art, but often they’re not getting too much attention- especially not in the current industry machine anyway.
A lot of what rises to the top feels safe. Not all of it, of course—but enough to notice. It’s polished, cushioned. And I find myself wondering: where are the stories? I don’t wanna know how much your clothes cost and who designed them. Sorry, that’s me being really cynical now, haha.
Maybe there’s an appetite for music that’s emotionally guarded. Not consciously—but in a way that makes it unreadable. Like background music. And I don’t mean ambient music—I love that. I mean songs where someone’s singing and I just think: “What are they actually saying?” Not in the lyrics, but in the energy.
That’s what confuses me sometimes. I hear something and don’t know what it’s really saying, and then I’m not sure where I stand. And I’m not hating on contemporary stuff—there’s loads I admire. I’m just speaking from how I feel and how I can listen to stuff and walk away confused because I don’t know what it was saying. And this mediocre feeling creeps up on me like I’ve been listening to the idea the person has of their music rather than their actual music. I love that thing Allen Ginsburg said when someone used to come to play in the Village, they would all say, ‘oh, so and so played. Oh yea, well what do they have to say?’ It’s kind of like, what are you arriving with and saying? I like it.
Something you said made me think about how you can’t erase the art itself. I saw a jazz pianist on Instagram recently — probably in debt, almost unknown — but clearly one of the best of her generation. It reminded me that no matter how skewed things get, something real still finds a way through.
Yeah, I mean, it’s a really good reminder, and such a positive outlook. You know, like they say, the cream always rises to the top. I do believe that good work—work that’s meant to be seen or heard—will find its way. It might not be on the timeline you want, or that your ego wants, but being an artist, or making anything really, is about accepting that. You don’t do it for the outcome—you just keep going.
And I think we all go through these mini crises of, “Why am I doing this?” And then suddenly something happens, and it makes sense again. But when you get too stuck in that mindset of disappointment or frustration with the way things are—which I definitely felt yesterday—it’s almost like you’re getting in the way of nature. Like you’re blocking the natural course of things by focusing too much on what’s wrong or what isn’t working.
That said, it is hard. It’s hard to stay grounded all the time and to keep your head up. In this musical climate of streaming, etc, everyone wants to feel like what they’re doing means something. And when you face rejection, or income instability, or practical barriers to making your art—or even just touring because of money—it’s really easy to lose heart. So it’s important to be reminded of why you’re doing it. It’s humbling. And who knows where things are going and what will change.
Explore more of Brigid Mae Power’s music here: https://brigidmaepower.bandcamp.com/
Don’t Miss: Natural Information Society with Brigid Mae Power on Wednesday, 29 October 2025, 8.00pm at The Studio National Concert Hall – Tickets