Ceilidh Concrete by TartanGrime

Ceilidh Concrete isn't just an album, it’s a raw punch to the gut, straight from the concrete and peat. We brewed this record in the grim reality of tower-block Britain, weaving bagpipes through battered amps and 808s that hit like a kicked-in door. It's us, trying to make sense of scattered families and the restless pulse of ancestral blood in a city that often forgets where it came from. This whole thing is a saga, really, following Sàrmac, a selkie warrior dragged from wrecked isles into the canal estates. Each track, from the jarring blasts of "Ferryhorn Reckoning" to the defiant roar of "Council Flat Ceilidh," marks a turning of the tide, a battle fought in the beats and the verses.

We weren't just making tracks; we were trying to forge a new sound, a language for this uneasy pride. You’ll hear those pipes, twisted and phase-cancelled into something new, like the "tartan glitch" that rips a hole in the sound before the beat drops again. Keiran’s drums replicate grime’s fury on warped marching snares, mic’d inside whiskey barrels for that real growl, while Isla spits fire in Scots and keens in Gaelic, pulling centuries-old ceilidh refrains like “Tha an fhuil againn fhathast” into the chaos of modern life. We recorded some of those chants live, captured that raw, collective shout in places like the Barrowlands, because that’s the real heart of it – folklore being written in real time, sweat and noise and defiance.

This isn't just music for festival tents; it’s a chronicle, a protest rally, a ceilidh riot. We take the weight of post-colonial identity and the grind of urban struggle and ram it head-on into the mythic. From the quiet despair of "Gullknife Lament" to the explosive catharsis of "Barrowlands Baptism," and then softening into the fragile harmony of "Peat Pulse" and "Blood Still Ours," we're not just telling a story; we're pushing a boundary. It’s about finding belonging, about the blood still running hot, no matter where you end up. We think this sound, this narrative, it needs to be heard. It demands attention. Get in.

We forge pipe skirl with raw trap bass. Gaelic shouts meet grinding drums. Listen up, this is our riot from the glens to the tenements.