LAYERS OF LIGHT AT ‘ONION CHAPEL’: DECLAN O’ROUKE’S 21-YEAR CELEBRATION OF ‘SINCE KYABRAM’

LIVE REVIEW | DECLAN O’ROURKE | UNION CHAPEL, LONDON | 29th November 2025 by Kevin O’Sullivan and Elaine Galvin

Union Chapel has a habit of turning ordinary gigs into something close to a spiritual event, and on 29 November, Declan O’Rourke used every inch of its warm echo and chapel hush to build a night that felt more like a gathering of old friends than a standard album celebration. The place already carries its own atmosphere—soft lighting, wooden pews, the kind of acoustic bloom you’d normally reserve for choirs, and O’Rourke leaned into it completely. At one point, he briefly mispronounced it as “Onion Chapel,” and the joke stuck because it fit: the beauty of the building brings tears to the eyes, and the performance he gave peeled back decades of music, memory and humanity in slow, tender layers.

A songwriter’s songwriter

For anyone who doesn’t know his history, O’Rourke is one of those artists whose reputation inside the music world runs far deeper than mainstream headline slots might suggest. Born in Dublin, moved as a child to Australia, then eventually settled in an Irish village so small it sounds like a place that would struggle to fit on a map, he has spent his career building songs with the kind of emotional precision other musicians rave about. Paul Weller, Eddi Reader, Snow Patrol, the list of admirers is long, and the respect is genuine. His 2004 debut record, Since Kyabram, has quietly lived its life as one of Ireland’s most treasured modern folk releases, and tonight’s show served as a tribute to its 21st year.

“We figured we’d celebrate it now,” he said with a grin, “while we can still remember the words.”

A living room in a cathedral

O’Rourke’s stage layout was the opposite of theatrical: just a few lights, warm amber tones, and a floor lamp that looked like it had been carried straight out of someone’s sitting room. It shrank the Chapel’s height, softened its edges, and made the whole evening feel like a private session held in the glow of a house lamp while the rain tapped on the windows outside.

Before Declan walked out, though, the night opened with Steph Fraser, who arrived onstage carrying the kind of voice that makes a venue lean in before it realises it’s doing it. Celebrating her birthday, Fraser launched into “Magpie” and then slipped through “Cold Hard Facts,” “American Ass,” “I Know You,” and “Sweet Bird.” She joked that her boyfriend had adopted a pigeon for her birthday and used that odd little story as a bridge into the last track. Declan had advised her to say her own name three times so people would remember it, but she only needed to say it once, her voice did the rest. After several nights trying and failing, she finally managed to step onto Declan’s infamously large stage rug, kicking off her shoes in triumph. “I Know You,” dedicated to her 102-year-old aunt, was a standout moment. She met O’Rourke last year and played with him in Dublin; she introduced him tonight as “a wonderful soul, you can hear it in his words.”

The main set begins

When O’Rourke stepped into the light, the room grew noticeably more focused. He opened with “No Place”, letting the notes settle before asking the room, “Are you in singing form tonight?” The crowd, already warmed by Fraser’s set, answered without any hesitation.

He followed with “Birds of a Feather,” coaxing harmonies from the audience, then teased the room when requests started arriving in album track numbers. “Number three for all you shufflers,” he laughed, before easing into “Galileo”. He spoke about writing it at 25, calling it “the Big G,” and confessed that he still feels like he’s growing into it, a coat he wasn’t big enough to wear at the time but has spent his life growing into. In Union Chapel’s vaulted roof, it sounded almost weightless.

Enter Steve Wickham

What elevated the night even further was violin virtuoso Steve Wickham, who O’Rourke introduced with a description so colourful:

“Turner, Hendrix and Paganini all rolled into one.”
Wickham’s résumé, U2’s “Sunday Bloody Sunday,” The Waterboys’ Fisherman’s Blues, collaborations with Sinead O’Connor, Hothouse Flowers and Elvis Costello, only confirms the point. His violin didn’t just accompany O’Rourke; it wound through the songs like a slow-burning fuse, adding brightness, tension, and texture in ways that felt almost telepathic.

Stories, places, people

O’Rourke’s strength has always been as much in storytelling as in melody, and tonight he let both run freely. Across “Your World,” “One Way Minds,” and “Everything Is Different,” he moved between reflections on his own past and small pieces of philosophy, each introduced with anecdotes or tiny vignettes from his life and his subsequent return to his family home of Kinvara in County Galway.

“The Harbour” arrived with a dedication to the person he called his “music teacher”, Joni Mitchell, prompting a murmur of appreciation from the audience. The song floated outward with a gentleness that felt completely at home in the Chapel.

A particularly tender moment unfolded before “The Stars Over Kinvara,” which he introduced by talking about his son, the first male family member born in the village in 102 years, and about the family of Theresa Hayes, whom he dedicated the song to. He extended the sentiment to the room, saying the song’s affection was a gift from his family to the Union Chapel audience.

Somewhere in that mid-set stretch, he paused for a moment of quiet reflection. He mentioned a plain white mug he had found in the dressing room, its simple phrase printed on the side: “there is no wealth – but life.” He repeated it softly, almost tasting the words, then lifted an imaginary toast toward the pews and said “sláinte.” It was a fleeting gesture, but it captured the intimacy of the night, like being invited into the living room of his world, a reminder that small truths often carry the most weight.

Explorers, warnings, and wide horizons

One of the most arresting waves of the night came with “Marrying the Sea.” O’Rourke introduced it with a sprawling, vivid story about the Antarctic adventurers he’s long been fascinated with, Shackleton, Scott, Amundsen, and how once, when he went to light a cigarette from a candle, a girl from Leipzig warned him that doing so would make “a sailor die at sea.” He spoke of Tom Crean, the legendary Irish explorer who left home at 14 after falling out with his father, going on to accompany Scott and Shackleton in some of the harshest conditions ever endured. Then came the song itself: just O’Rourke’s voice, deep and warm, perfectly filling the Chapel and drawing the audience into his maritime narrative.

The ebb and flow continued with “We Didn’t Mean to Go to Sea,” a song he said he loves singing, O’Rourke’s range and falsetto adding yet another dimension to his already expansive repertoire. He continued to give himself over entirely to the audience, and they rewarded him with their undivided attention, feeling part of this long-awaited tribute to an album woven into their own lives.

A complete change of pace came via “Indian Meal,” a deliberately upbeat tune highlighting the tragic failings of the Great Famine. The pace and emotion then shifted once again with the much-loved “Sarah,” showcasing O’Rourke’s masterful guitar playing, moving from powerful strumming to gentle, intricate picking, a call-and-response in tandem with Wickham. The gentle strings rounded out the main set with an almost lullaby-like softness.

Encore: fire, truth, and Paul Weller

The encore didn’t come in with noise; it arrived with weight. Declan stepped back out, took a moment, then introduced two old friends, Paul Weller and Steve Cradock, before the first note even rang out. Their appearance wasn’t a surprise cameo; it was a gathering of people who’ve carried each other’s songs for years. Weller, when asked in an interview which song he wished he’d written, had said O’Rourke’s “Galileo (Someone Like You),” hence the friendship that led to Weller producing O’Rourke’s 2021 album Arrivals.

The three launched into a rendition of “Handouts in the Rain,” dedicated to Palestine. O’Rourke spoke in his low, steady voice:

“Don’t let the bullying intimidate you. We all know what’s right and what’s wrong, there’s nothing complicated about it.”
“Stand up for the downtrodden. If you don’t, what happens when they come for you?”

With Weller and Cradock beside him, the song gained a sharper edge, raw, unfiltered, the kind of performance that makes a room lean forward without realising it. It felt less like a rendition and more like a shared statement.

After that intensity, “Love Is the Way” closed the night with an upbeat pulse, giving everyone in the Chapel a chance to join in and sing. O’Rourke stood, joking that he sings better that way, and the audience, without hesitation, belted out the chorus in return. The night ended joyfully, with the audience taking their time to leave the sacred space, carrying the warmth of music and stories out into the cold London night.

 Peeling back the years

What could have been a straightforward 21st anniversary show became something much richer: a kind of musical autobiography performed with humility, humour, and the kind of depth that only two decades of reflection can supply. O’Rourke joked about “Onion Chapel,” but the metaphor lingered; tonight revealed the layers of his craft, his life, and his relationships with the people who helped shape both.

In the soft glow of that old floor lamp, surrounded by stories and songs, Declan O’Rourke didn’t just revisit an album. He opened a door, invited everyone inside, and let them sit for a while in the living room of his world.