*One year on from Grá Mór at the National Concert Hall*
This day last year, I played the biggest concert of my life, little old me in the National Concert Hall. A sold out gig. Even now, that sentence feels as though it could almost belong to somebody else… like somebody with a ‘proper team’, someone with a manager who has a clipboard, a promoter who is running ads on radio, a little army of people organising interviews on tv, having me playing on the radio, someone in charge of everyone and everything, and a boss person telling everyone what to do when.
I definitely didn’t have that management team.
But what I did have was Grá Mór.. I had an exceptionally talented band, gifted friends who had travelled from Rwanda, ballet dancers, more than 450 singers, 10 choirs and a sold-out National Concert Hall. I had family, friends, colleagues, collaborators and a great many of the people who had said yes to me over the years. I had people come from as far as Australia (special shout out to my bro Kev!), dear friends from Spain, Amsterdam, the UK and people from all over Ireland. I had so many cousins, friends and relatives. I had so many special guests in the audience, people I have written songs about, people I am so inspired by, people who have touched my life in so many ways – too many to mention, you know who you are. I had people from all parts of my life, and I had randomers who just took a chance on an unknown singer they liked the sound of.
And, somehow, we did it.
The Empty Hall
There is something so special about a soundcheck in a great concert hall. The seats are empty, but it doesn’t feel quiet. It’s kinda like the seats are waiting for the bums that will fill them. This picture was taken the previous Nov when I I was honoured to do support for the incredible Paul Brady and couldn’t have imagined what was to come less than a year later. The National Concert Hall carries such wealth and wisdom and to stand on that stage and hear my music move through that room was extraordinary. And the difference for me was that for most of my soundcheck I had 450 choir members singing along from upstairs – it was like our own private concert for each other, before make up and before choir uniforms and before division – I was them, they were me, we were all each other just sharing joy, creativity and music together. And in those minutes before the audience arrived, before the first note was sung by anyone, there was a quieter humble truth sitting underneath the whole thing: A belief in community, in music, in connection and in dreaming big is what had got us there.
There had been no management company steering the ship and no promoter taking the financial risk. There was no industry machine deciding that this was the appropriate next step in my career. I had decided to do it, and then I had spent months trying to make that decision real, bringing my best and closest people to help me, the ones who always say “yes, do it, how can I help”… Selling out the National Concert Hall independently is an enormous feat. I can say that now, a year later, without immediately qualifying it or making myself smaller. At the time, I was too busy making lists and building a team of my own people. The music industry is fond of making artists feel as though legitimacy is something bestowed from above. You wait to be selected, signed, booked, reviewed, playlisted or played. You hope that somebody important will notice you and open the gate. Grá Mór happened almost in defiance of that idea. Nobody opened the gate – we built our own bridge and hopped over it ourselves.
Of course, saying I did it independently does not mean I did it alone. Quite the opposite. The night was only possible because of years of connection, relationship-building and trust. With a team of exceptional volunteers from the choirs who managed everything backstage, an incredible team in the NCH, a fab videographer and photographer, my own team of incredible people and friends and bandmates – it really does take a village. You know who you are.
The support from the choirs was immense: Voices of Gorey, Big Belfast Choir, Indie Voiceworks, SUSO Gospel Choir, SUSO HarMammies, SUSO Community Choir, Trim Women’s Shed Choir, Enfield Community Choir, SUSO Refired Choir and Cavan Community Voices. Not to mention the choir directors; Emma, Aoife, Alison, Claire, Ailish and Susan.
Some were our own SUSO choirs and others were choirs I had worked with, but all had something in common – we had worked together during the Grá Mór tour in 2024 and the music had gotten under their skin. They came not only to support the concert but to become part of it. After our experience together the year before, it made sense to do it again on a bigger scale and all together. And what a thing that was. As stand alones, each choir performed so well as the support acts – such class, grace, beauty, musicality and incredible singing. There was so much growth on the stage that night – I heard trust, history, rehearsals, friendships, long drives, cups of tea, wrong notes, bravery, courage, laughter and all the small acts of commitment that happen long before anybody gets to do a concert. It really was a night where the concept of community became audible. And they moved like a well-practiced army around the concert hall, guided by a team of helpers who made it all seem so easy, effortless – it was like magic. The Susan effect (if you know you know) was in full swing and it worked like a dream.
And as for their performance with me.. it’s almost beyond language. You know, a song begins as something private, often just me, my piano and whatever idea has refused to leave me alone. Then, somehow, it travels into other bodies and is carried by other voices. What began in solitude returns to you as community. There is a particular kind of emotion in hearing hundreds of people sing your music back to you, its indescribable. Its intimate and simultaneously so public and so private. Such an experience – for you, for them, and for the audience listening – what a sound we created. It was more than a sound, it was a movement. And thank you – every single singer, every single voice, you were amazing and I will never forget that we shared this.
Rwanda, Ireland and a dream made visible
Among the most emotional parts of the night was watching my Rwandan friends; Eunice, Alain and Bienvenue shine on that stage. For the six months beforehand, bringing them to Ireland (thank you also to their lovely chaperone Manzi) had existed as a mission: fundraising, organising, asking, planning, believing, solving the next problem and then the next one after that. Big dreams are often spoken about as though they arrive in a flash of inspiration when in reality, they arrive through so much hard work, administration and red tape. Organisation for accommodation (thanks Bernie).. Visas approved just days before they arrived, it was a rollercoaster. And then, suddenly, all that effort became 3 gifted talented people standing under the lights of the National Concert Hall.
To see their talent, presence and joy recognised by that audience was overwhelming. It was their dream coming true, and it was mine too. And there I was standing in my dress made by my beautiful dress maker Ronica from Zimbabwe (and yes, my dress had pockets). In that moment, the apparently separate parts of my life met each other: my original music, my choirs, my community work and my work with Beyond Stigma across Africa. They did not merely sit beside one another on a programme. They belonged together, they blended as one and they made sense as just different limbs of the same person.
That collision of worlds remains the hardest part of the night to take in. I am not sure I ever fully will. We spend so much of life dividing ourselves into roles – musician, choir director, community worker, organiser, fundraiser, friend, as though one must be put away before another can begin. Grá Mór showed me that the deepest work may happen when we stop dividing ourselves. The concert was powerful because I brought my whole life onto the stage.
I could talk about so many things from that night but just to share a few, a highlight for me was when Chloe and Emer danced – their representation of younger versions of me as I sang “To Be Loved” healed something in me. I’ll never forget their grace, depth, emotion and talent as they interpreted my music in that way, it moved something in me forever. May you both stay dancing forever ladies, I’ll never forget.
Another highlight was my sister Claire took off her shoes as they were killing her but she left them on display on the stage as they were too pretty not to. My mum, sitting in the front row, followed suit and did the same. I thought to myself if they are getting comfy, I will too. And then our Rwandan friends did the same and as the audience laughed and I saw their hearts swell with joy at the humanity being represented by this row of shoes, I just thought this is what it’s all about – family, comfort, dropping the pretences doing what works for you, putting yourself forward, unity, solidarity, laughter, and reaching for connection.
A massive part of the dream was getting to share the stage with the same band and musicians that I have worked with all my music career. My band members are family – some literally – and I feel so lucky to have worked with these people all my life. Thank you to each and every one of you for that night – Claire, Phil, Dave, Johno, Jamie, Susan, Nadine, Aonghus, Imogen, Declan, Ailish – I am forever in your debt and I am so grateful for you all. Only a week before I totally fell apart in rehearsals, literally fell to the floor (it was pretty dramatic) so overwhelmed with what we were trying to do and doubting myself in every way. And one by one my band members gave me the exact words I needed, reminding me of who I am and what I stand for and what we are creating. Without them it couldn’t have happened. On the night, watching my sister Claire play the grand piano in the NCH was just so beautiful. One of my best friends Clare once said that watching Claire play a keyboard is like watching an Olympic swimmer in a paddling pool. I agree – she should have a grand piano with her everywhere she goes.
So that was it, the band played. The choirs sang. My friends from Rwanda shone. My family, friends, musicians, colleagues and collaborators surrounded me. So many of my “yes people” were gathered in one room that it felt less like an audience and more like a physical map of every relationship that had carried me there. And in the middle of it all, I sang my songs. And people laughed and cried and sang along.
And it was magical.
And then, surely, the phone would ring.
Afterwards came something I hadn’t experienced quite before. It was slow, took a while, but slowly it became more difficult. Crash isn’t the right word cause it was a long slow kinda burn, it wasn’t immediate. First there was exhilaration, relief and the strange physical emptiness that follows something you have been moving towards for months. But then came the questions. What next? Who next? Who is going to organise the tour? When are they going to call?
And surely – *surely* – they would finally play me on the radio now?
Well, my friends, let me tell you, they did not.
I realise now in reflection that some part of me believed that a sold-out National Concert Hall show would function like a great golden key. I had done something undeniable, so the industry would surely have to acknowledge it. Somebody would come knocking with a plan, an opportunity, a tour, a budget or, at the very least, an encouragingly official-looking email.
Nobody came knocking.
Nothing magically changed. The industry did not suddenly become less crowded, less gatekept or less exhausting. To my surprise, there was no secret passageway revealed behind the National Concert Hall stage. The slog remained the slog, and I was still responsible for deciding what to make, how to share it and whether I had the heart to continue. I have been lucky to meet some great people in the last year (shout out to Lisa and Una) and its lovely to have more people on my team but it’s clear that there is no magic answer and the industry is becoming increasingly difficult & unknown and forever changing. We are in a state of flux and artists everywhere are lost within that.
There is a bit of sadness in admitting all this. I think that artists are encouraged to believe that the next achievement will deliver us somewhere: the next show, release, review, radio play or sold-out room will finally move us from *trying* to *arrived*. When it does not, even a magnificent success can begin to feel strangely like a failure.
But over the past while, a lot of reflection and a feeling of that sadness and wondering has slowly made room for acceptance and acceptance has brought relief. Nobody is coming to grant me a ‘music career’. This is my music career, I am already doing it. There is nowhere final to get to. There is only the work, the people, the next song and the choice to keep going. At first that truth felt kinda brutal and like it was too much for me. But now it’s starting to feel liberating.
It was not a stepping stone
The most important thing I have learned is that Grá Mór did not need to lead anywhere else in order to matter. It turns out that show was not an audition for the rest of my life. It was not a particularly elaborate application for radio play. It was not a stepping stone whose value depended on the destination it delivered me to. It was actually the thing itself.
For one night, all those singers filled the National Concert Hall with really beautiful music. A sold-out audience gathered and people from different countries, communities and parts of my life stood together. We made something spectacular, something I once could only have imagined. It happened. Nobody can make it unhappen. If I never do anything of that magnitude again, then I did it once. Once is not a consolation prize. Once is extraordinary.
This has changed how I understand ambition within myself. I still have dreams. I still want my music to travel, and I am not pretending to have risen serenely above the desire for my music to be recognised. I would still be delighted if radio decided we were friends. But I no longer want to use what is coming or not coming in the future to take any meaning from the past. The lesson, if there is one, for other artists and creatives is not to stop reaching for things, it is to notice when you have arrived inside something that you once prayed for. Let the work be complete before turning it into evidence for the next thing. Celebrate what it is, not only what you hope it might unlock. I have to keep re-reading this paragraph to really take it in.
And understand that independence is not the same as isolation. Self-belief mattered enormously, but self-belief alone didn’t put everyone in that room. Relationships did. Trust did. Years of showing up for people did. Community did. Dreams may begin inside one person, but the biggest ones are built collectively, and my community – between SUSO and all the other streams of my life – is one big collective. I have developed a great phrase when people ask – its not a cult, it’s a culture. You are so welcome to join us.
Here’s a pic of me wrapped up in bed when I got home after the concert. Just an ordinary woman in an ordinary room, the body that had carried all the adrenaline finally coming down. I love that this pic exists, because it’s reality. Snuggly beds after big experiences. The stage can make a life appear to peak in a single massive moment. But a creative life is mostly lived before and after those moments. It is lived at the piano, in rehearsals, in doubt, in admin, in the car, in small rooms, in silence and in the decision to begin again when nobody is watching. My friend, and great hairdresser, Susan always says about the music industry that its “ready, steady… wait!” and that’s so true. So much of my time is ready steady wait and its in both the ready-steady and the waiting that so much is happening.
A year on, I understand that whether I am singing in the National Concert Hall, at a retreat, at a funeral, at a family event or alone at my piano, the essential thing remains the same. What matters is my connection to myself, to the music, to my creativity and to my own voice. The size may change…the venue may change…the number of people listening may change.. but the connection has to be there. After the gig that night I heard so many stories from people – from attendees, from choir members, from audience – it seemed some sort of healing was going on, on a level I don’t understand. This very well-dressed man who was a patron of the NCH and attends everything came up to me after and I’ll never forget his words. He opened with “myself and my partner were here last night at the celebrations for Michael D Higgins and it was truly incredible. We prepared ourselves to be disappointed with tonight’s concert, we hadn’t heard of you before” – this was a strong opening, then he continued – “but I have to tell you, some artists make people feel good, some make people feel great and some make you feel… you, my dear make people feel”. That feels like the highest of praise.
This time last year, I did something great. I can say that now. It was made possible by trust, courage, stubbornness, an unreasonable quantity of organisation and a community of people willing to dream with me. Especially Susan, my band, my family, my mum, my son Jamie, my Nadine, my partner Conor, my best friends, the choir directors… I couldn’t know where to stop with this list, but you know who you are and the fact that we share this experience for the rest of our lives is something only we have. How lucky are we.
To be honest, for a while, I thought the night had failed to change my life because it did not make the industry “come running”. But now I think it changed something more important. It taught me that I do not have to wait for somebody else to tell me that the music matters – something I have always thought I knew but it took this experience to be able to say that I really know it. It taught me that no achievement will remove the uncertainty from an artist’s life. It taught me the gold is in continuing to build community and to work with other artists who inspire you and who are doing this in the same way. And finally it taught me to stop treating the beautiful things I have made as corridors leading somewhere more important – they aren’t corridors, they are rooms. And this one was a very big one, and we filled it x
