Sean’s Bar in Athlone is the oldest pub in Ireland, dating back to a bewildering 900 AD. To emphasise this, there is a sparse scattering of wood shavings on the floor which seems to have a simultaneously apposite and opposite effect. Never mind, the place is replete with customers, from the blue rinse lady with the incongruous glass of white wine to the trendy beard folk with their compact pints of Guinness. The bar staff are totally on point and that’s what really counts. They’re got your order before you quite know what it is and are already cueing up the person behind you.
Behind the intimate huddle of the front bar, as is sometimes
the case, there lies a rather cavernous space which half feels inside and half
feels outside. There’s an upstairs bit that’s out of bounds and a stage and
lots of stools and timber surfaces on which to rest a drink.
Into this arena, as part of the Croílár Music and Arts Festival, comes Last Apollo and her band. Lucy Rice is Last Apollo in much the same way as Ciara Mary-Alice Thompson is CMAT. The stage name gives her breathing space to evolve from the lovely human she is, to the questing artist that takes the stage. Along with all the bagged-up musical gear the band bring, there is also a bagged up supply of hamburgers and chips from the local establishment. Some of these will be rapidly consumed before the impending show, some saved up for after when a drop in adrenaline will hopefully ease digestion.
The cavernous space is three-quarters full as the band set up. The two
longest tables are occupied by a) a bunch of old pals who haven’t seen each
other in a while and b) a hen party, thankfully devoid of fake nurse’s uniforms
but replete with home made cupcakes. These two tables contribute much to high
ambient pre match melee.
The band are ready and into the early Saturday evening
audience bustle steps Last Apollo, Lucy Rice left temporarily languishing out in the car park.
A single vocal note is released into the room, then another, then another. The
friends who haven’t seen each other in a while are fairly instantly conquered.
Vape dribbles ineffectually from the corners of their surprised mouths as these
notes from the stage fly out and explore the room. This was not the start one
might have expected from the lively looking foursome on the stage, all armed
with lead guitars, bass guitars, violin, synths, and drums.
The hen party are tougher to conquer. Clearly excited at the
prospect of fresh cupcakes and marital congress to come, they continue to
produce a noise that may explain why a hen party is so called. But isn’t this
part of the essence of a real live pub gig? It’s not a concert hall; it’s not a
convent. The band is owed nothing unless they can earn it.
By song three, the hen party is also won over. The cupcakes lie
ignored. Last Apollo songs tend to build and build and build. And you may be able to roar about vows and contraception for the first part of a song, if you so desire, but the conversation
will not survive when the dirty foursome on stage ultimately hit their stride.
Last Apollo’s voice weaves and spins in a most extraordinary
way, the music carrying a depth of emotion that is often far beyond the
performative. Naoise is a consummate guitarist and he unobtrusively maintains
complex and engaging structures on his side of the stage. On the other side, Kate
works her violin magic. Kate could hold her own in any concert orchestra in the world
but here she is not above occasionally dragging some nasty riff from her instrument,
reminding ourselves that this is no mere pub band, really. Serious work is being
done here. Sam plays the drums like they have owed him money for far too long.
One moment, cajoling subtle rhythms with one ear almost down on the skins, the
next pounding the living shit out the poor kit. Hair, hands, and sticks flying
every which way.
Instruments swap around like snuff at a wake. Kate takes up
Lucy’s bass, Lucy takes up Kate’s violin (actually, it’s probably her own).
Naoise has a violin too. Sam has some piece of technical gear on his tom that
he manipulates like a ham radio operator trying to bring in Hungary.
Half way through the gig and the place is full and fully appreciating
the set. The folk in the beer garden at the back and the 900AD pub at the front
have all percolated in, although the blue rinse lady with the wine does not
materialise. Nods of appreciation from the music heads circle the room as the
songs build and explode into the space. Lucy comes in from the car park and occupies Last Apollo
for a moment and it’s plain to see how touched she is by a room that has momentarily
put aside all their other concerns and given themselves over to her music.
The band, as a whole, smile broadly throughout and interact warmly
with each other. They have been friends for many years, through thick and thin,
and the evident love and camaraderie adds warmth and spice to the music. Last
Apollo’s online videos often feature shots of travelling the roads, countryside,
the wide green spaces between gigs. One feels that the getting there and
getting back is a crucial part of the story she tells. The bohemian life out on
the road, the hauling, and the setting up. It all feeds into the art. It all
means something.
The set ends with a heartfelt ‘thank you’ and promise of a
summer album to come. Last Apollo spent February completing a national tour in
support of Imelda May and, in those 22 gigs, she played many of the most
auspicious venues in Ireland. It seemed like a lovely upward rung on a ladder
of sorts. One hopes that the next rung is right there at her feet now. A rung
that allows an ever increasing number of people to see and appreciate the
quality of the music that is being made here. One hopes and expects.
Gig over and the band get their gear back into bed and make
way for the next act. The sack of burgers are re-found. Cold and a little congealed,
they have probably never tasted better.
As the next band set up, the sound system strikes up a
Fontaines DC song and a young man behind me nurses his drink and sings along with his friends in a warm
voice. I say to him jokingly that he should be up there on the stage. Two pints
in, he stares longingly at the microphone, considers the notion for a moment, then sadly
shakes his head.”
“On another day, maybe,” he says, “but that lot? They’re a
tough act to follow.
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