DJ Colly

Colm was adopted at the age of one by a roaming pack of Irish animals somewhere along the misty hedgerows and rain-soaked fields of the Irish Midlands, during a time when the wind carried stories and the land itself seemed alive. Raised among stubborn donkeys, watchful sheepdogs, and the occasional fox that kept its distance but always listened, he learned early that communication didn’t need words—only rhythm, instinct, and a bit of defiance. While others spoke plainly, Colm understood the language of movement: the stomp of hooves, the whistle of wind through stone walls, the low hum of life beneath the surface.

At the unlikely age of sixty-five—measured in seasons rather than years—he learned to speak “English” fluently, though by then it almost felt unnecessary. He had already been shaped by rain against tin roofs, distant trad music drifting from pubs, and the quiet intelligence of the creatures that raised him. Eventually, he outgrew the fields, but the fields never really left him. He carried their rhythm with him.

Now, Colm makes music that feels like folklore told through machines—earthy, raw, and quietly powerful. There’s a pulse of something ancient beneath it all, like a memory you can’t quite place but somehow recognise. His tracks sit between wild and controlled, where instinct meets precision, inviting listeners into a world where the past lingers in every beat, and music is just another way of speaking without words.