NAME:
Keo
ABOUT
At 21-years-old, Finn Keogh has already lived dozens of different lives. Before he became the frontman of ascendant rockers Keo, one of the UK’s most electrifying and talked-about new acts, there were years of living in Plymouth, Birmingham, Waterford, Portugal; of Irish trad music, busking, globetrotting and chaos. There was a turn as a child guitar prodigy, a school expulsion, plenty of teenage misadventures. His formative years were spent adapting to ever-changing circumstances, all in pursuit of his calling as a generational songwriter.
Siren, the debut EP from Keo (due June 19 via AWAL), is an extraordinary exploration of all of these selves. Written over an 18 month period, the five track-long effort has the tender gaze of a young, sober, headstrong artist reckoning with his earlier life; on the cusp of indie stardom, looking back at where he’s been and where he might be going next. These are tender times to capture in song, but Finn writes with real empathy and compassion.
Rounded out by his older brother Conor (bass), drummer Oli Spackman and fellow guitarist Jimmy Lanwern, Keo have followed a steep upward trajectory since emerging from London’s revered open mic circuit shortly after lockdown. Their evocative blend of indie-rock and grunge has earned them widespread acclaim from press and radio, as well as coveted support slots with Kings of Leon (BST Hyde Park) and Nieve Ella.
Sonically, much like their most obvious comparison point Wunderhorse, or even Silverchair and A Hero’s Death-era Fontaines D.C., lurking beneath Finn’s tales of bruised nostalgia are sharp, irrepressible melodies. In a Keo song, such as stirring debut single ‘I Lied, Amber’, every element counts – every plucked bass string, rolling drum fill, dissonant guitar strum, or affecting vocal line feels urgent and vital.
The lyrics across fan favourite ‘Stolen Cars’ – which dive deep into mental health burdens, self-forgiveness, and recovery – are emblematic of Siren as a whole. The EP was named after a hybrid creature of Greek mythology, a half-bird, half-woman figure who lures sailors to hysteria by the sweetness of her song. For Finn, this image of self-destruction spoke to parallels in his own mindset: “I wanted to write about what it means to look too deeply into things – to go down a rabbit hole of making everything exactly how you want it to be.”
Siren’s central conflict, notes Finn, is “the back and forth between feelings of jealousy and perfectionism”. He adds: “I've always had this need to be a leader. It’s a deep-rooted need to spearhead whatever situation I'm in.” For the EP, he welcomed the dynamics of a group, leaving room in his compositions for his bandmates to flesh out the arrangements and finesse Keo’s full-blooded sound.
There is rich musical history in how the cross-currents of Finn and Conor’s relationship intertwine. As children the siblings performed at venues across the country – and, briefly, in the States – with their father, an Irish music and comedy entertainer. Dressed in waistcoats, they would reel out songs and jokes to the delight of family, friends, and drunken pub dwellers.
“We played hundreds of gigs with our dad, often in the middle of nowhere. I learned that going on stage can feel like going into battle, in that you have to give it your absolute all,” Finn says. “We would witness rowdy guys starting fights, but watching how our dad reacted by always enforcing a lighthearted atmosphere gave us the mentality of ‘the show must always go on’. As a result, me and Conor know that this is our trade, it’s our way of life, and we’re going to fucking die trying to make this happen. There’s no Plan B.”
Off stage, Finn honed his craft with the help of guitar teacher Paul Hill and began busking in Totnes town centre. Listening to Ben Howard and Nick Drake opened his mind to alternative ways of playing his beloved instrument, while Conor picked up the bass. Not a place exactly famous for outré self-expression, it was during his secondary education in South Devon when Finn realised that performing offered him an outlet. Where Conor was the more academically-gifted of the two brothers, Finn – who struggled with dyslexia and anxiety – would spend his lunch breaks in the music room.
At the age of 16, a series of life-altering events would light the blue touchpaper. A fight with a classmate saw Finn get kicked out of school, while his mother’s sudden cancer diagnosis spurred the family to start afresh by emigrating to Luz, Portugal. From a short-lived stint in Waterford, Ireland as a toddler before moving around various cities across the South West, he had struggled to put down roots and truly integrate into any one place.
In Luz, however, his world gradually opened up. “I found community, I felt free. Most of my growing up was done in Portugal,” he says. Unable to complete his GCSEs due to COVID, Finn spent his days surfing and skateboarding, while his nights out became an endless swirl of house parties. The latter is a memory that informs Siren’s ‘Thorn’ – a truth-telling portrait of a past “toxic” relationship, replete with moments of howling feedback.
Having earned enough money by performing covers at local bars, Finn headed for London with Conor, where they settled in a small Stoke Newington flat, still teenagers living life with abandon. They gigged relentlessly in the subterranean venues of Camden, meeting Oli and Jimmy in the thick of this period: Finn would cold-email promoters to secure bookings
and head out to shows several nights a week, the sense of the city sprawled out before him.
Around the same time, Finn witnessed a “transformative” Wunderhorse gig, at which he met frontman Jacob Slater. That experience evolved into something almost cosmic, when a moment of pure happenstance led him to bumping into Slater on the Tube a few weeks later. The pair wound up browsing guitar shops together on Denmark Street, with Finn gaining invaluable advice as to how to take Keo to the next level.
It was truthfulness and musical integrity, above all else, that Finn knew he had to keep at the heart of the band’s output. “An ethos that I really believe in is that music saves peoples’ lives, and I don't think it should be taken lightly,” he affirms. “I really care about our work being honest and vulnerable, so that people know they’re not dealing with shit alone.”
Equal parts a communal outpouring and a riveting personal travelogue, each track of Siren is infused with raw urgency. Keo are ready to hurtle forward and usher in a new dawn, with the knowledge that their leader’s journey to date has been both necessary and significant.
ExpandSiren, the debut EP from Keo (due June 19 via AWAL), is an extraordinary exploration of all of these selves. Written over an 18 month period, the five track-long effort has the tender gaze of a young, sober, headstrong artist reckoning with his earlier life; on the cusp of indie stardom, looking back at where he’s been and where he might be going next. These are tender times to capture in song, but Finn writes with real empathy and compassion.
Rounded out by his older brother Conor (bass), drummer Oli Spackman and fellow guitarist Jimmy Lanwern, Keo have followed a steep upward trajectory since emerging from London’s revered open mic circuit shortly after lockdown. Their evocative blend of indie-rock and grunge has earned them widespread acclaim from press and radio, as well as coveted support slots with Kings of Leon (BST Hyde Park) and Nieve Ella.
Sonically, much like their most obvious comparison point Wunderhorse, or even Silverchair and A Hero’s Death-era Fontaines D.C., lurking beneath Finn’s tales of bruised nostalgia are sharp, irrepressible melodies. In a Keo song, such as stirring debut single ‘I Lied, Amber’, every element counts – every plucked bass string, rolling drum fill, dissonant guitar strum, or affecting vocal line feels urgent and vital.
The lyrics across fan favourite ‘Stolen Cars’ – which dive deep into mental health burdens, self-forgiveness, and recovery – are emblematic of Siren as a whole. The EP was named after a hybrid creature of Greek mythology, a half-bird, half-woman figure who lures sailors to hysteria by the sweetness of her song. For Finn, this image of self-destruction spoke to parallels in his own mindset: “I wanted to write about what it means to look too deeply into things – to go down a rabbit hole of making everything exactly how you want it to be.”
Siren’s central conflict, notes Finn, is “the back and forth between feelings of jealousy and perfectionism”. He adds: “I've always had this need to be a leader. It’s a deep-rooted need to spearhead whatever situation I'm in.” For the EP, he welcomed the dynamics of a group, leaving room in his compositions for his bandmates to flesh out the arrangements and finesse Keo’s full-blooded sound.
There is rich musical history in how the cross-currents of Finn and Conor’s relationship intertwine. As children the siblings performed at venues across the country – and, briefly, in the States – with their father, an Irish music and comedy entertainer. Dressed in waistcoats, they would reel out songs and jokes to the delight of family, friends, and drunken pub dwellers.
“We played hundreds of gigs with our dad, often in the middle of nowhere. I learned that going on stage can feel like going into battle, in that you have to give it your absolute all,” Finn says. “We would witness rowdy guys starting fights, but watching how our dad reacted by always enforcing a lighthearted atmosphere gave us the mentality of ‘the show must always go on’. As a result, me and Conor know that this is our trade, it’s our way of life, and we’re going to fucking die trying to make this happen. There’s no Plan B.”
Off stage, Finn honed his craft with the help of guitar teacher Paul Hill and began busking in Totnes town centre. Listening to Ben Howard and Nick Drake opened his mind to alternative ways of playing his beloved instrument, while Conor picked up the bass. Not a place exactly famous for outré self-expression, it was during his secondary education in South Devon when Finn realised that performing offered him an outlet. Where Conor was the more academically-gifted of the two brothers, Finn – who struggled with dyslexia and anxiety – would spend his lunch breaks in the music room.
At the age of 16, a series of life-altering events would light the blue touchpaper. A fight with a classmate saw Finn get kicked out of school, while his mother’s sudden cancer diagnosis spurred the family to start afresh by emigrating to Luz, Portugal. From a short-lived stint in Waterford, Ireland as a toddler before moving around various cities across the South West, he had struggled to put down roots and truly integrate into any one place.
In Luz, however, his world gradually opened up. “I found community, I felt free. Most of my growing up was done in Portugal,” he says. Unable to complete his GCSEs due to COVID, Finn spent his days surfing and skateboarding, while his nights out became an endless swirl of house parties. The latter is a memory that informs Siren’s ‘Thorn’ – a truth-telling portrait of a past “toxic” relationship, replete with moments of howling feedback.
Having earned enough money by performing covers at local bars, Finn headed for London with Conor, where they settled in a small Stoke Newington flat, still teenagers living life with abandon. They gigged relentlessly in the subterranean venues of Camden, meeting Oli and Jimmy in the thick of this period: Finn would cold-email promoters to secure bookings
and head out to shows several nights a week, the sense of the city sprawled out before him.
Around the same time, Finn witnessed a “transformative” Wunderhorse gig, at which he met frontman Jacob Slater. That experience evolved into something almost cosmic, when a moment of pure happenstance led him to bumping into Slater on the Tube a few weeks later. The pair wound up browsing guitar shops together on Denmark Street, with Finn gaining invaluable advice as to how to take Keo to the next level.
It was truthfulness and musical integrity, above all else, that Finn knew he had to keep at the heart of the band’s output. “An ethos that I really believe in is that music saves peoples’ lives, and I don't think it should be taken lightly,” he affirms. “I really care about our work being honest and vulnerable, so that people know they’re not dealing with shit alone.”
Equal parts a communal outpouring and a riveting personal travelogue, each track of Siren is infused with raw urgency. Keo are ready to hurtle forward and usher in a new dawn, with the knowledge that their leader’s journey to date has been both necessary and significant.
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