From Fomo-ing radio presenters to plodding pals scouring southern skies for the heart of Saturday night, they all get in touch cajoling for a lift down to romp with King Philip in the mythical land of Othervoiceinia. “You can see Wyvern Lingo any time,” one beseeches as I mull over a last-minute expedition down the M8.
“We’ve got good news,” Karen Cowley, stage-right, beams from behind the keys a few numbers in to tonight’s Dublin victory lap of their recent Autumn-Winter jaunt. “We’re going into the studio in February to record our album! This is our last gig for AGES.”
This is the world that orbited Wyvern Lingo this night, but it is at the centre of the vortex that we fix our gaze because what these three girls are bringing to the landscape needs to start being talked in very serious terms indeed. The mastery of their instrumentation and vocal kinship is old news at this stage and only part of the alchemy. This is very much a trio of songwriters burnishing one another’s edges. Three elements are detectable – sugar, acid and granite made song. Just look at the way they fold Alt-J’s ‘Left Hand Free’, Prince’s ‘When Doves Cry’ or Joni Mitchell’s crushing carol ‘The River’ into their own oeuvre. Drummer Caoimhe Barry is all jazzy undulations on ‘Sweet Life Ruiner’ before sucking the room into the mystic on ‘Snow’. ‘Subside’’s bass-notes and high-hats ooze beneath dark, lustful invocations from Cowley’s lips. Guitarist Saoirse Duane brings a funky crunch to ‘Letter To Willow’ that is delicious. When the heavenly coven gather round a microphone stand for an acapella encore of ‘Used’, they have only pindrops to compete with.
So yes, eff you, Dingle. You may have offered botanical gin, propeller-scarred dolphins and Girl Band for sustenance this night but we’ve been served the most nourishing thing to come out of Bray since the Kilruddery Farm Market. There they are, all three glistening like R&B jewels, freshly polished and in the display case for worldwide adoration. Knockanstockan chieftain Graham Sharpe is cooing with pride. We’ve never seen Podge from Ham Sandwich sit as still. The full house surrounding them finally settled down as realisation dawned that the blacksmiths of pop greatness were forging away before their eyes, and that there would be countless other Saturday nights in which to chatter with friends and lovers.
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