Kicking it with Kila: ThePost.ie


TCH Archives > Sunday Business Post > 2006/08/13 > Kicking it with Kila

Kicking it with Kila
Sunday, August 13, 2006 - By Nadine O'Regan
What do George Best, Bruce Lee, Che Guevara, Bobby Sands, Muhammad Ali and Animal from The Muppet Show have in common, aside from the fact that each of them would look excellent behind a drum kit? The answer is that all of them are listed by Ronan O Snodaigh as a major influence on his life.

It is a diverse ensemble, no question, but in its own way, an entirely logical one. After all, if this particular posse could form a band, chances are it would sound a lot like Kila, the thrash trad group, fronted by vocalist and bodhran player O Snodaigh, who have spent 20 years blurring musical boundaries, skipping past the categorisations routinely assigned to artists, and conjuring up a unique, multi-faceted musical vision.

When people ask O Snodaigh, one of the founder members of Kila, to describe the seven-strong band, he’ll tell them they play Irish music. If they continue to be curious, he’ll explain further: ‘‘Irish music, then hang a right and a left, go round the roundabout, move around a bit.’’ And then you’re somewhere close.

Today, O Snodaigh and Ainu musician Oki are upstairs in Bewley’s, Grafton Street, attempting to expand upon Kila’s latest sonic adventure - their new Karl Odlum-produced album, created with Oki, that blends Irish and Ainu traditional music.

The warm and atmospheric record, simply titled Kila & Oki, has received strong reviews, one publication calling it ‘‘altogether a sumptuous, lilting and uplifting experience’’.

The way O Snodaigh and Oki tell it, making the album together was an obvious path.

‘‘We met at a gig in Tokyo and enjoyed each other’s company and music,” says O Snodaigh.

‘‘Because we know each other so well in the band, to have Oki come in has helped us come together and work hard. You can take each other for granted. It happens in any relationship and the work slows down. An artist has to change.”

Musical evolution was guaranteed, given Oki’s instrument - he plays the tonkori, a skinny four or six-stringed affair that looks like a cricket bat with strings, an enlarged handle and wooden whiskers.

The tonkori is a traditional instrument of the Ainu people, an ethnic group indigenous to Hokkaido in northern Japan.

For a long time, ‘‘the tonkori was disappearing’’, says Oki.

‘‘Only a few elder knew how to play it. It’s the voice of our ancestors.”

While O Snodaigh, the son of sculptor Clionadh Cousins and Cosceim publishing house founder Padraig O Snodaigh, began playing bodhran at the age of 12, Oki did not take up the tonkori until his late 30s.

Previous to that, he had lived through many different careers, including sculptor, art director and special effects creator.

When I ask Oki his age, O Snodaigh is shocked to discover he is 49.

‘‘Are you really? You look great, man. I’m only 36 and I’m fucked,” he says in awe.

Sitting there with his packed lunch, a sandwich inside a plastic bag, with a banana for afters, and clad in bright yellow, there is something gloriously cartoonish about the extremely hippyish O Snodaigh.

He is a little Wayne Coyne from the Flaming Lips, a lot Animal from The Muppets.

You can see his raw passion for his craft easily and you catch glimpses of a fiery nature.

Go round a few more roundabouts and you might come close to his personality.

His band, meanwhile, are about as far from a haircut band as it is possible to be.

You’ll find no egos here. This interview is punctuated not by the sound of stopwatch-wielding publicists, but by a frolicking toddler belonging to Kila member Eoin Dillon, a sound engineer blasting Prince’s Diamonds and Pearls in our ears, and the murmur of conversation between roaming band members and Pete Shortt, the tall, bearded Dublin character, usually seen selling magazines outside Bewley’s.

The band’s relaxed attitude to image makes for a refreshing change, but from a career perspective, it has proved hazardous for them. Unlike Enya, sitting pretty in her Killiney castle, Kila have never played the marketing game and, perhaps as a result, have never achieved the success they deserve, particularly in the United States.

‘‘I haven’t found it in America,” O Snodaigh says. ‘‘I don’t know what to think about America. Maybe the venues that were arranged for us were not suitable, but the gigs don’t give you anything in return, other than a bit of money. I’d rather go somewhere where I’m interested and I’m meeting inspiring people, like Japan and Spain.”

Their publicist sighs as she relates the arduous process of trying to win them media attention, even in Ireland. An artist like Liam O Maonlai, she says, who plays similar music, attracts interview after interview, but Kila too often find themselves left with the scraps from the table.

The problem possibly lies in Kila’s refusal to hype themselves up. On their website is a biography of their career so gloomy, you are left wondering if the band have trouble getting up in the morning. While most bands would amplify their achievements and pour Tipp-Ex over their embarrassments, Kila seem to relish documenting their disasters.

‘‘1987,” the story begins.

‘‘Band formed in Colaiste Eoin, Dublin. Boys play their first gig upstairs in Baggot Inn where three people attend.”

The potted history continues in this downbeat fashion, skipping over the plaudits and awards Kila have won (such as their Meteor Award for Best Traditional Music Act in 2002) to focus lovingly on the tendonitis, the computer crashes resulting in cover art losses, and the exodus of band members (‘‘1994: Eoin O’Brien and Ed Kelly quit the band. Eoin Dillon wants out too and moves to Donegal’’).

You suspect that if their pet rabbit were accidentally squashed while they were accepting a Grammy award, they would be on the internet immediately to talk about the bunny.

‘‘I’m just into the music, not the other [PR] stuff,” says O Snodaigh. He’s not joking.

Happily, when they are playing live, Kila don’t have time for self-flagellation. They are far too busy thrilling their audience with their blisteringly kinetic, heart-poundingly rhythmic, rulebook-ignoring sonic whirlwind.

On stage, the seven people in Kila - Ronan, Rossa and Colm O Snodaigh, Dee Armstrong, Eoin Dillon, Brian and Lance Hogan - present punters with that most enjoyable of dilemmas: should you dance or just gawp? Kila spend most of their time touring - ‘‘it’s like we’re on a constant tour. It doesn’t feel any different if we make an album. It’s constant’’ - and you can feel the weight of their expertise in every beat, pluck and strum.

‘‘When you’re playing live, nothing matters except you and that person who’s dancing,” O Snodaigh says.

‘‘You’re having an experience with the audience. You’re not thinking. There’s no thinking until afterwards.”

Since that first gig, where they managed to attract just three punters, it has been almost 20 years.

Kila have grown up and had children themselves (O Snodaigh is ‘‘on red alert’’ today - he and his partner are expecting their second child at any moment).

It has been a long trip, with side projects aplenty - both Ronan and Eoin Dillon have released solo albums - but Kila are still very much a living entity, still creating, still striving to impress themselves.

Through all the hardships and the tough times, what has kept them strong?

‘‘Different things kept us going at different times,” O Snodaigh says.

‘‘More or less, it’s the music and everyone’s love for the music.

“There’s a creation thing: when you’re making music, you feel like there’s always something to be attained. It’s been a struggle. But it’s been a ball. I’ve loved it. And I still love it.”