If you came to Celtic music in the early ’90s, as I did, chances are you encountered Capercaillie. Their reach expanded even further after Karen Matheson’s memorable cameo in Rob Roy. Among their earlier releases, Delirium made a notable crossover impact on the mainstream charts, driven by the single “Coisich a Rùin,” often described as pop-folk. For a time, it dominated my personal rotation of Scottish tracks.

Fast forward to 2026, and the title resurfaces in a new form: “Coisich” by Valtos. The track features vocals by Lana Pheutan. So who is she? According to her bio, she is an actor, writer, and director working across film, television, theatre, and radio. Originally from the Isle of Skye, she now works throughout Scotland, performing fluently in both Gaelic and English.

“Coisich” is a club-ready anthem that fuses electronica with traditional Gaelic song. Pheutan’s voice moves like a Highland current—clear, atmospheric, and quietly commanding. At moments, layered overdubs bloom around her lead vocal, swirling like fog circling a distant light. I first heard the track a couple of weeks ago while writing about Valtos on this site, but this time it truly commanded my attention.

Video courtesy of RTE News

The relationship we share with musical artists is unlike any other. We may never meet them in person, yet they stand beside us in our darkest hours, offering quiet comfort. They become a harbor in a storm, a place we drift toward until the skies clear and we find the strength to continue.

I picked up my first album by Clannad in the early ’90s, convinced I was the only teenager in the Philippines who knew them. That illusion dissolved pleasantly when Bong, a local DJ and musician, revealed he had long been familiar with their music. He was years ahead of me, and during one phone conversation filled with Clannad trivia, he said, “Never ever argue about these (Clannad) things with me.” In time, I discovered other local fans who shared the same quiet devotion to the band’s ethereal sound and to the luminous voice of Moya Brennan.

Years passed, and I never imagined that such devotion would one day meet sorrow. The news of Moya Brennan’s passing arrived while I was at work. Reading it felt like an unseen blast had struck the city of my thoughts, where some moments rushed forward in sharp clarity while others slowed into a heavy, lingering stillness.

In that instant, memories of loss surfaced, family, friends, and artists who had once filled the world with presence, now gone. It felt as though the world had grown a little more inhospitable, its edges sharper, its silences deeper.

I remember a long-ago discussion on Unity, a now-defunct forum dedicated to Enya, where someone described Moya’s voice as akin to a warm embrace. It was a perfect description. She carried a kind of maternal grace in her music, a gentle strength that held listeners close. Reading tributes now, it is clear that many felt the same quiet solace in her voice.

“Gone Are The Days” from her album Signature has been my companion in recent months, and it will remain so as I honor her life and legacy. The bond between artist and listener is indeed something rare and enduring. Though paths may never cross, and now never will, the connection remains. She touched lives she never saw, hearts she never knew.

Moya, you will be deeply missed. May your voice continue to echo beyond this world, finding new ears and new hearts, wherever music is still needed.

I shared this conversation with my friend Paula who lives in England and was lucky to see her in concert. She encouraged me to write this piece.

My thoughts go to her family in this time of sadness.

“In the wake of the wildfires affecting Newfoundland and Labrador, I wrote a song and posted a simple video of it on my social media.” — Kathy Stock

From the embers of devastation rises a moving ballad, one that feels both timely and timeless. In moments of tragedy, the human spirit instinctively reaches outward, searching for expression through music, poetry, or art. It is in these fragile yet powerful gestures that we begin to process loss and summon hope.

Kathy Stock’s composition shimmers with a gossamer, ethereal quality, reminiscent of the evocative works of Shawn Colvin, Sarah McLachlan, and Paula Cole. There is a quiet strength in its delivery, a delicate thread of emotion woven through every note.

The song has already begun to resonate with listeners, steadily gathering heartfelt responses across YouTube. Even from the other side of the world, I find myself connecting deeply to its message. When nature unleashes its fury, the longing for rain, relief, and renewal becomes universal.

Beyond its beauty, this song serves as a gentle call to awareness, drawing attention to the ongoing plight of Newfoundland and Labrador. Having followed and written about artists from that region for years, this piece strikes a particularly personal chord. It is more than just a song, it is a voice carried across distances, echoing both sorrow and resilience.

I recently brought my CD collection into my living room to listen to them on a boombox. Call it old school, but streaming has created a kind of fatigue, and sometimes you just want to disconnect and enjoy music without using data. And let’s face it, streaming music has been curated and streamlined to create an effect that seldom strays from the formula.

That’s why, once in a while, I feel fortunate to discover bands creating music that isn’t geared toward streaming consumption, but rather toward expressing culture, style, and attitude. The Bilge Pumps are one example. Simply put, they are a pirate music band based in North Texas. They “specialize in performances that combine nautical songs, sea shanties, and Celtic music with a huge dose of silly comedy,” as frontman Craig Lutke describes the band. If you’re into theatrical performances, this will strike your fancy.

I tell you, The Bilge Pumps are like a breath of fresh air if you feel that music has become generative and formulaic in its appeal to TikTok audiences. 2026 is the year we need good old Celtic rock with an American flair. We need comedy, we need stories from yore, and most of all, we need flesh and blood in music.

Their new album, Greatest Hits Vols. I–VII (a sequel to their Greatest Hits Vol. VIII album released 25 years ago), delivers just that. Expect beautiful instrumental arrangements alongside intriguing ballads like Old Salt. The Wellerman captures the spirit of Rocky Road to Dublin, but with a more adventurous edge. Every song feels like a vivid chapter from a pirate’s tale, transporting you to distant shores.

I’m so glad to have discovered The Bilge Pumps at a time when I needed something fresh, something that reminds me why I love original music.