
"The Rye? Commoners fondling partridges for a sixpence,"
-Sr. Mick Jagger
  There was a time when men were men and music was roared not
whispered; a time when 'windswept' and 'artistic' went hand in hand
with 'belligerent' and 'psychotic'; when the catatonic state was
merely a pastime and alcohol was inhaled not for pleasure but
survival; a time before chicken rolls, skinny jeans, the wheel.
  It is these times THE RYE evoke; nay,create anew. The Rye- a
quadrupedal semi-musical beast stitched together from all four corners
of the known island, a tune-spluttering troglodyte of the damp and
depraved innards of a crumbling Galway City- is an elemental force
akin to a brain-damaged pensioner's wit.
Unbridled, red-raw and half-oiled.   Made up of Kevin Melly on
howling, winking and acoustic divilry, Cian Mulligan on five-course
banjo, lead guitar and pints of liver, Barry Wallace on grinning
between bass and tenor banjo, and the ginger Dessie Harrington on
animalistic unprovoked drum-battering, The Rye is a folk heroine's
sopping wet reoccurring dream.
 Rife with an idiosyncratic charisma, The Rye pay homage to both the
whiskey-stained barflies of Southern old-time good-timery and the
toothless gin-soaked grimaces of traditional Irish yarn-spinners in
equal measures, poured into the broken glasses in the hands and
beneath the feet of those who are enlightened.
  The Rye- the physical embodiment of grand craic for want of an
evening, all twelve tribes rolled into one, the Proper Job.

The Rye is following

The Rye is not following anyone.