Music Editor Barry Fenton explores how a young Donegal native is leading the charge on a new Blues revolution.
There’s something in Blues that sticks. It’s fingers on steel, sweat on the brow and voice carrying stories like an old weathered suitcase with too many stickers. It is the mythology of those who fought and bled and wept and kept going. Those who have the blues will murder over love and sell their souls at the crossroads.
Today, many would say the genre has gotten away from itself. And in a world so far from its roots, along comes Muireann Bradley - Donegal’s own blues prodigy - picking away to that sacred lineage on her debut album I Kept These Old Blues.
Sprite, fresh, and delicate—this is how Bradley treats the old blues classics. From the opening track “Candyman,” we see this isn’t a museum exhibit or some shrewd attempt at impersonation. Bradley treats the past with reverence. She treats every song as a story, or a myth - reflecting the rich history with her musical talent while also adding her own brushstrokes to a great fresco.
It isn’t just her striking, sorrowful voice or tasteful acoustic renditions that makes this such a unique album. We also feel a genuine understanding of the past. The great blues musicians she covers can still be heard in her voice. However, Bradley breathes new life into them, giving colour to a sepia-toned world.
“Shake Sugaree” is an ode to Elizabeth Cotten, where we feel a mother singing to children dancing on a kitchen floor dusted with sugar. It’s playful and bouncy and tinged with nostalgia. Bradley’s rendition feels like a sunbeam through a dusty window, warm and wistful. Then there’s “Vestapol,” a fluid, rolling instrumental perfect for a morning coffee on a veranda somewhere. That’s the beauty of this record—it fits wherever you are.
“Delia,” a personal favourite, was originally written by Rev. Gary Davis, but originally recorded by his student Stefan Grussman, and brought to the fore by Bob Dylan who did his own rendition decades later. Dylan’s version is wandering, meandering—a reflection in a cracked mirror. Bradley tightens the structure, refines the lyrics, and adds licks so sharp they cut. What emerges is something haunting, something new yet old, like an ancient story being told for the first time again. You think, “I’ve heard this before, but tell me anyway.” There’s sorrow in her voice, but also liberation. The kind of song that makes you mourn for a “gambling girl” you never even knew.
Bradley doesn’t just play the blues—she understands them. And that’s rare. This isn’t some hollow nostalgia act, nor is it a cheap pastiche. It’s the real thing. Her fingers dance over the frets with the wisdom of someone who’s been doing this for decades, her voice a paradox—both youthful and ancient, both delicate and weighty. She carries the past with her, not as a burden but as a gift.
The blues don’t belong to any one place. They live where they’re played, in the hands of whoever has the guts to keep them alive. In I Kept These Old Blues, Muireann Bradley does exactly that. She keeps them alive. And, in doing so, she makes sure they’re not forgotten.