Eviction Ballad from Graveyard Waltz by Draoi

# About "Eviction Ballad"

Silence falls across Mary O'Hare's back room when we play this one. Floorboards still beneath stomping feet, pint glasses freeze mid-air. The slow, deliberate burn of "Eviction Ballad" carries the weight of Cormac's actual eviction notice, crumpled in his pocket during recording. We caught the raw frustration in a single take—his voice cracking on the third verse wasn't planned, but felt too honest to fix.

Traditional sean-nós storytelling bleeds into punk vulnerability here, with the accordion breathing like an anxious chest while muted bodhrán taps mirror heartbeats through thin walls. The spoken-word sections weren't written down; we simply passed the mic around the circle, each sharing fragments of our own displacement stories. You'll hear Siobhan's grandmother's actual words about the '83 housing crisis woven into the backdrop.

Our harmonies swell not in triumph but stubborn refusal to disappear. The tin whistle threading through carries an old emigration tune my da taught me, bent into something that belongs in Dublin's modern housing crisis. When we perform it live, strangers often clutch each other's shoulders, recognizing their own stories in these suitcases packed with haste.

This is our gentlest track musically, our rawest lyrically. The kind of song that needs to be listened to twice—once for the heartsickness of keys left on windowsills, once for the fierce promise of finding home in each other instead of brick and mortar. Best played in quiet rooms after dark, when the weight of belonging feels heaviest.

We've been raising hell across Ireland since our first gig ended in a bar fight and three broken strings. Our songs? Pure gutters-to-glory stuff—rebellion, heartbreak, and whiskey-soaked nights that blur into dawn. Punk spirit meets ancient melodies, delivered with spit and fire. Pure madness live.