Joyride Division

There may be more romantic ways to meet, but when Orla Lynch was the only person who answered Owen McNulty’s ad on a band website, a definite fairytale narrative was set into motion.

On one side, an Omagh-born guitarist with a serious Neil Young fixation; on the other, a West Belfast singer, brought up on a diet of vintage Nashville chanteuses. And while their initial ambitions extended no further than the odd open-mic or weekend covers slot, it wasn’t long before some serious chemistry kicked in and the pair found themselves whisked off in a direction they’d never expected.
“I wanted to be in a covers band,” says Orla. “But it just didn’t feel right. I’m a freak writer – I can’t really stop myself – so eventually I plucked up the courage and asked Owen if he’d like to try some of them out.”
“And they were brilliant,” adds Owen. “It was a no-brainer. So, we pretty much forgot all about the covers and started working on Orla’s songs. It inspired me too. I’d messed around, as you do, with ideas, but I’d never really taken the next step, never really completed any of them. I was happy enough heading out at the weekend, plugging in, playing a few tunes. But she encouraged me to give it a go and we haven’t really looked back since.”
Last autumn, operating as Louisiana Joyride, the pair introduced themselves to local audiences, and the reception afforded their homegrown compositions was so encouraging, they haven’t looked back since.
“We were booked for a forty minute show last January,” Owen recalls. “ And we didn’t know if we had enough songs to fill it. So, we just took off and wrote more material. I wouldn’t say it forced us to write, but it certainly encouraged us and helped focus us and we got some great stuff as a result. The whole thing was a real confidence boost.”
The band’s debut EP The Journey Through, gathers together a few of these initial attempts, and, what it lacks in finesse (Orla freely admits her early efforts were restricted to “a couple of chords”) it more than compensates for in fierce personality and individual charm. If the greatest threat when strolling around Belfast these days is tripping over one of the city’s multitude of electro bands, as their name suggests, Louisiana Joyride march to a very different drum.
“My mum and dad were huge country fans and I grew up listening to Billie Jo Spears, Patsy Cline, Elvis and Loretta Lynn,” Orla resumes. “I went through the 90’s phase, but I never once lost my love for country, it was the music that spoke to me the deepest.”
And why was that?
“It’s that old quote about it being three chords and the truth. I believe that. At its best, it’s just people being brutally honest about their lives. It can be horrible to listen to at times – all that heartbreak and betrayal – but ultimately, for me anyway, it’s inspirational. When I’m walking around, it’s Kris Kristofferson in my head. It’s my music.”
Judging by the likes of ‘Bitch’ and ‘Whiskey’, Orla has decided to set up camp in country’s heartland: half-way between raucous high-living, and gutter-level repentance.
“All my writing is personal,” she asserts. “I can’t see the point in it being anything else. I’m always looking for new experiences to use in my writing. I want to make a connection. I want people to maybe recognise themselves in the song.”
The danger, of course, when bringing it all back home, is that home becomes some weird mid-Atlantic nowhere; a place where a Big Pink or Goldrush fixation is seen as being of more value than a unique world view. Rough around the edges as they are, any doubts that Louisiana Joyride bring nothing new to the table are dispelled as soon as Orla starts to sing. Rejecting a cod-Americana twang for an authentically BT11 delivery – if Coal Miner’s Daughter was set in Colin Glen, we could have be looking at the perfect Loretta Lynn.
“I actually started off using a ‘country’ accent,” she laughs. “But then my friends heard me and started slagging me off: ‘What are you playing at putting on that stupid accent?’ I didn’t really understand that you could do anything else. I listened back to myself after one gig and I was absolutely mortified. Since then, I’ve just sang the way I speak. And I’m going to go one singing that way. It’s natural.”
“What we’ve learned as we’ve gone on with this,” adds Owen, “is that there are no rules. We started as a covers band, then discovered we could write our own songs. Started off singing like a country act, then began using our own accents. We’ve had no big career plan. Each time we’ve played, it’s led on to something bigger. It feels like it’s building up. I’ve no idea what’s coming next, but I’m looking forward to finding out.”