From playful improvisation to the sweep of Poaching Days, Rumac’s Celtic Connections show marked a turning point rather than a milestone.
Rumac stepped onto the stage at the TV Studio at SWG3 for one of the biggest headline shows of his career, and you could tell immediately he wasn’t planning to play it safe. His roots in Scottish trad were clear, but he pushed at the edges of it, letting things bend and wobble in ways that kept the room alert. He drove the accordion hard and didn’t hide much while he did it. When something landed, it showed; when he was fighting through it, that showed too. That mix of openness and volatility shaped the whole night.
Support came from Jared Rowan, who didn’t waste any time warming the place. His set moved quickly through trad favourites, threaded with clubland touches he dropped in without making a thing of them. It was confident, playful and relaxed, the kind of opener that lifts a room rather than trying to steal it. By the time he finished with his take on Toca’s Miracle, the crowd were loose, smiling and ready.
In the days before the show, Rumac had been open about feeling unwell, and he mentioned it again onstage. Even so, there was no sense of him pulling back. He trusted the room to understand when he needed a breath and leaned in when he had the energy. Turning up like that, and choosing not to cover over the rough edges, earned him a lot of goodwill before a single tune from his own set landed.
Before he picked up the box, the screens lit up with footage of his first appearance at the Mòd, when he was about five years old. It wasn’t used as a soft bit of nostalgia. The whole room was asked to sit with it for a moment, to see where all of this started. It framed the night as part of a long, personal journey rather than just another gig.
He opened with Everybody’s Making It Big But Me, a tune that has followed him long enough that it almost announces itself. It still raises a smile, but it doesn’t sit where it once did. These days it feels less like a statement and more like he’s thumbing through an old photograph.
Improvisation threaded quietly through the set. He slipped into Nothing Compares 2 U mid-flow, let it settle, then eased it into the theme from Local Hero so smoothly the join barely registered. It didn’t look planned; it looked like instinct, and the audience followed him without hesitation. That kind of trust isn’t handed out lightly.
It had the kind of scale you associate with old Runrig or Big Country
Midway through, he set the accordion down and turned to a song from Poaching Days. He’s spoken before about how much that track matters to him, and the room responded immediately. The lights lifted, the sound widened, and suddenly the space felt bigger than it really is. It had the kind of scale you associate with old Runrig or Big Country and the lighting of a Coldplay stadium anthem.
Later he mentioned that this would be his last run as a solo act, with an accordion-fronted band taking shape. He didn’t make a production of it. It came across as a natural step rather than a dramatic pivot. After hearing how the larger material sits live, it feels like an evolution that makes sense.
He closed with a run of tunes that felt carefully judged rather than nostalgic. He’d spoken openly about the risk of leaving his most popular material too late in the set, about the danger of running out of steam before the room did. With that in mind, it was no surprise that Gaelic Choir was held back. When it arrived, it landed exactly as intended, familiar and communal, the kind of tune that still lifts a crowd even deep into a long night. From there he moved into Jean’s Reel, the tune that first pulled him towards the accordion, played with a mix of ease and intent that suggested he knew he’d paced things just right.
Only after that did he tear into an unplanned burst of Thunderstruck. Given how rough he’d been feeling, it was a bold swing, and every bit of effort was visible. It wasn’t tidy, and no one wanted it to be. He gave whatever was left, and the room met him in the same spirit. A finish held together by will and instinct, and a quiet acknowledgement that he’s no longer singing about other people making it big. He’s firmly there himself.
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