From Kitchen to Club: A D.C. Night with Kingfishr

Written by Ali DeLambo

Somewhere between a barstool ballad and a cathedral hymn, Kingfishr — made up of Eddie O'Brien, McGoo Hannigan, and Fitz Fitzgibbon — has found its footing on American soil. The Irish trio, known for their sweeping, emotionally-charged anthems and soft-spoken charm, brought a packed Songbyrd Music House to its knees—or at least into full-hearted sway—on April 22 for their first-ever U.S. tour stop in Washington, D.C.

I was lucky to be there thanks to my friend Christina, who earlier that day had Kingfishr perform a private set on her apartment complex roof—a surreal scene around an electric fire pit with three jet-lagged musicians. Still buzzing from the magic of it, we walked into Songbyrd that night, barely able to believe it had all happened.

And somehow, the full show still managed to top the intimate set.

You could feel the nerves and giddy disbelief radiating off the band from the start. “This is mad,” one of them said, eyes scanning the sold-out crowd in the cozy venue that buzzed with anticipation and thick Irish accents. They weren’t exaggerating—their debut U.S. tour has already felt like the beginning of something much bigger.

Though no single song was called out as a hit or highlight, the entire set carried the weight of a band determined to make every note count. There was a reverence in how they played—deliberate but never stiff, like they were offering up something sacred. Each chorus lifted the room a little higher, built not just with instruments but with intention. You could sense that they were still pinching themselves mid-verse.

Midway through the show, the musicians confessed they’d quit their careers as engineers back in Ireland to give music their all—a choice that now felt prophetic in the best way. There’s something inherently romantic about throwing caution to the wind for a dream, especially when that dream lands you on a stage in a foreign city, in front of strangers singing along.

The crowd, mostly young and wide-eyed, had clearly done their homework. Fans clutched cans of Guinness, which quickly ran out at the bar—yes, they sold the place dry. A staff member had to hand-deliver cans of the black stuff to the band mid-set, which they cracked open on stage with grins that could have lit the room without amps. It was one of those perfectly human moments—small, silly, and completely unforgettable.

There’s a tenderness to Kingfishr that doesn’t try too hard to impress. They didn’t need a big light show or gimmicks. Just three guys with a quiet fire and a few pints, doing what they love. As the final song rang out—layered, haunting, and thick with harmony—the room held its breath a little longer, not ready to let go.

If this show was any indication, America won’t be a stranger for long. For those of us lucky enough to catch them in a venue this intimate—whether in a kitchen or a club—it already feels like we witnessed the start of something rare.