When Brockhampton, the self-proclaimed “best boy band since One Direction”, took their final bow in 2022, silence followed. Understated vocalist, then named Bearface, was anointed by fans with a divine right to step forward. Would he be their prodigal son, trading in provocative, rambunctious rap for a mature, solo return? Still, silence followed. Four years on, Ciarán has finally shed his old moniker and delivered his debut album, ‘Róisín’.

‘Róisín’ is conceived in deep, orchestral strings that carve out its opening track, ‘Crown’. Somewhat gothic, rattling tambourine sounds out a campfire feel, while unintelligible vocalisations sit at different levels to make up the glowing, storytelling circle that surrounds. Immediately, we’re dropped into a Southern Americana folklore, with music that lies miles from Brockhampton’s West-Coast rap or Ciarán McDonald’s Belfast upbringing. 

Largely strung together under a poor-weathered New Jersey sky, the album’s textures and layers sound as atmospherically waterlogged as the dampened trip that saw collaborators including James Ivy and Roy Blair housebound, with only ‘Róisín’ for company. Like Jersey pine bark, it’s all rain-damp, rugged grooves. 

Amongst the ruts and ridges, McDonald traces his personal geography; an almost unnoticeable interlude, ‘Greene Ave’ slips by – nodding to the post-Brockhampton apartment where his silence stewed in demos deemed unworthy, alongside Ryan Yoo (boylife) and Nick Velez, whose instrumentations both thrum throughout ‘Róisín’.

“Everywhere the sun is, every line a road” (‘RED 99’); somewhere along the road, Ciarán finds faith. Or rather, his devotion desperately seeks a recipient. On ‘Loom’, it spirals out, wrapping and looping around woven semantics of ‘stitches’ and thread. Sonically, his needle lies perfectly parallel to the gritty, guitar-led subgenre strung by the likes of Chanel Beads and Dijon. 

From time to time, he loses himself in unyielding longing, “like I’m a dog”; in ‘Dummy’ he admits, “If you want it, I want it”. With gentle, elegant musings of instrumental and voice, McDonald births his own scattered yet intrinsic orchestra. ‘Claddagh’ is similarly dreamy, barely lucid and named for the traditional Irish ring that circles the album’s binding triplet: two clasped hands for friendship, a heart for love, and a crown for loyalty. 

‘Róisín’ is the search for something higher than, a place or person to which he can channel his yearning and want, likely the fire that was lit under him by a prophetising fanbase. Across the record, Ciarán offers himself up, shrinking into the distant observer who preferred recording his Brockhampton elements remotely, over noisy LA collaboration; without preface or later admittance, McDonald wrote ‘Chevy’ for a friend’s wedding, and love’s portrayal is synonymous with religion: “She said, "You need Jesus" / She said, "You need God" / She stares at the altar while grippin' your arm”.

Widespread and unreserved, it's uncertain where Ciarán directs his divinity – at love or his artistry. Everything on the record sings with faith, each lyric somehow reverent and repentant, as his hands, once clasped on the cover, gravitate toward something more: “I raise my hands up way high / Feelings that I might favour while waitin’ up till daylight”. In 'Galvarino', he stretches for a fulfilment that’s just out of reach: “Something that's part of you's been yearning a while / There's something you never had”. Musicality cycles through his desires, where sampling from Blackstar (hip-hop duo including British jungle producer Rebel MC) segues and splits the song between uncomplicated stripped acoustics and heavier alt-rap.

On ‘Róisín’, he tries on various styles and influences, like ‘White Leather’s sluggish, mellow take on British grime that explores the struggles of being an accomplished artist: “Never thought as an artist / These days would be the hardest / And you'd miss the ones where you're starving”. Ciarán’s first solo single, ‘K-Bar’, encapsulates his search for a new, actualised iteration; he first tried on the new moniker while professing a desire to wear his lover’s clothes, and have her paint his nails. The out-of-character imagery, “We could both be girls”, reflects his desire to take on something new: “I’ll give you a reason to put it all on me”.

The album’s name encompasses another identity; if born a girl, his mother would’ve delivered him Ciará Róisín. Across the 13 tracks, he signs this name, scattered from ‘Houston’s “Texas sky”, Brockhampton roots (the track began as a leaked band demo), to British influences. 

‘Little Rose’ is Róisín's English translation; the album is a blossoming. As ‘Waterslide’ closes its curtain, we watch him ascend. It’s starkly beautiful, transcendentally orchestrated with his familiar angelic harmonies floating minimal lyricism: “And I lay down / by the waterslide / in heaven (in heaven) / in heaven (in heaven)”. Warming and familiar, distant piano and a distorted, far-off monologue deliver the track like a highlight reel. ‘Róisín’ ends in crooning bagpipes, an inexplicably poignant cultural homage. As Bearface, Ciarán, or Róisín, his search ends at home, a radiant actualisation. 

Evie Johnson

@eviemayjourno

Image: ‘Róisín’ Official Album Cover