Live Report: Andy Irvine brings graceful gravitas to Electric Picnic’s Croí stage

On Sunday afternoon, beneath a mellow Irish sky and the soft hush of the Croí stage, Andy Irvine - folk balladeer, political chronicler and cornerstone of Irish musical heritage - headlines with the quiet power of someone who has long outlived the need to prove anything. The Planxty alum takes his seat without ceremony, bouzouki resting on his knee, harmonica at the ready. The applause is instant and sincere, the kind given not just to a performer, but to a living legend.

Andy Irvine at Electric Picnic's Croí stage. 31 August 2025. Copyright Erica Keogh

He charges into ‘Empty-Handed’ by George Papavgeris – a poignant, finely wrought tune that feels as timely as it does timeless. Irvine’s voice, weathered but unwavering, carries the song with a grace born of decades spent singing hard truths. His phrasing is deliberate, attentive, and every line feels lived in. There’s no embellishment, only honesty.

‘The Plains of Kildare’ follows, and its galloping rhythm pulses gently beneath his deft fingerpicking. Irvine still plays with astonishing clarity, coaxing out every nuance from his instrument like an old friend. The song, steeped in tradition, doesn’t feel dated – it feels anchored, as though holding the audience steady in a sea of festival chaos beyond the stage.

When he sings 'As I Roved Out', a Brigid Tunney classic, the Croí stage takes on the weight of memory. He gives space between verses, letting the air fill with something unsaid. This isn’t just performance; it’s remembrance. A subtle hush moves through the crowd, many of whom likely grew up with these songs echoing through kitchens and pub sitting rooms.

Andy Irvine at Electric Picnic's Croí stage. 31 August 2025. Copyright Erica Keogh

'O’Donoghue’s' brings the emotional crescendo: a wistful homage to the famed Dublin pub that incubated so much of the Irish folk revival. As he names the regulars and old musicians of that room, you can see the faces forming in the minds of listeners, the past conjured not as nostalgia, but as community. The final chord lingers, and so does the silence that follows it: reflective and deep.

There are no big builds. No forced crowd-pleasing. Irvine simply is, and that is enough. The only theatrics come from the quiet swell of appreciation after each song, from a standing crowd that stretches far past the stage’s edges.

The performance is spare but deliberate. Irvine doesn’t bend to time, he collaborates with it. While the years may have softened some of the vocal fire of his earlier days, they’ve gifted him something rarer: weight, patience, truth. And so the Croí stage becomes more than a venue. It becomes a vessel. For an hour, Andy Irvine is not just performing, he is passing something on. Songs not preserved, but alive. And in the hands of this elder statesman of Irish folk, they feel as urgent and necessary as ever.