Dermot Kennedy Finds Grace in A Promised Return at Boston’s Orpheum Theatre

Somewhere in the middle of the set — just after singing “You got that power over me” and before his voice drifted into a haunting, wordless “my, my” — Dermot Kennedy paused. “I’m not trying to tell you what these songs are about,” he said, almost shyly. “There’s a theme though... a message to myself about time passing. Nothing lasts forever. It’s scary and precious.”

In a world that trades stories in seconds, Dermot Kennedy still tells them the old way. He is a modern-day seanachie, the Irish storyteller of old, keeper of emotion and myth.  But instead of firesides and folklore, his tales unfold through melody and verse. Kennedy’s songs carry the ache of love, loss, and time’s slow erosion, sung with a voice that feels both ancient and immediate. At the Orpheum Theatre in Boston, he didn’t just perform; he wove stories. Stories that remind us that truth, when sung earnestly, never goes out of style.

That was the heartbeat of the night: a man on stage, washed in campfire-like glow, literally holding his heart as if it might burst out of him as he sang. The Orpheum, sold out but still somehow intimate, felt less like a concert and more of a master storyteller recounting emotional ghost stories.

Kennedy began the show solo, just him and his guitar, no spectacle to hide behind. It set the tone for an evening that prized honesty over production. The main on-stage attraction was a large open book, a perfect set piece for Kennedy’s performance. His voice, raw, relentless, enormous filled the old theater like a living thing. 

Between songs of pulverizing heartache, Kennedy endured the less poetic side of performing in Boston: the chorus of “woos” and “I love yous” from the city’s most average romantics. It was an odd reminder that even a stoic seanachie still has to battle crowd noise between verses. “People fuck up quiet moments,” he once said mid-show with a grin, and last night, they certainly tried.

But Kennedy was unshakable. He sang like someone determined to stay adrift until he found truth. “Leave the old version behind,” he said of one song. “It’s like two versions of myself meeting.” Later, with Ben, his longtime pianist, he brought the room down to a whisper. Together they conjured heavy minutes filled with quiet, steady joy; the kind that hits harder than any chorus.

The show’s second half swelled with new material. “Often Lately” and “Endless” hinted at where Kennedy’s compass points next; a little more rhythm, a little more fight, but still anchored in soul. One line from “What It Means” lingered: “Will beauty ever pay me a visit?” A question that didn’t need an answer, as those in the audience were certainly hearing it for themselves.

There were interruptions. Some scuffles in the balcony, two apparent medical emergencies that ended up halting the show near 10:30, but Kennedy handled them with grace, even checking on an audience member himself. While alarming in those moments, they only added to the strange intimacy of the evening, proof that no matter the size of the crowd, Kennedy performs like every song is for one person.

In a city that loves its noise loud and its emotions bottled up, Dermot Kennedy cracked both wide open at the Orpheum. The Irish singer turned the historic theater into something closer to a late-night living room washed in orange light, wrapped in flannel, and carried by a voice that could shake the room and all those in it. There were no flashy lights or backing dancers, just one man wrestling with time, heartache, and hope somehow making the whole thing feel like a shared secret among a thousand strangers.

By the end, it felt like he had exorcised something, or maybe made peace with it. “This career feels like I’m lost at sea sometimes,” he admitted earlier, but on this night, in this room, he was exactly where he needed to be, for all of us.

Review & Photos By: Ryan Davey