Ciarán reinvents himself on the lush and lived-in Róisín

McDonald was easily the shyest piece of the BROCKHAMPTON puzzle, shrouded in mystery, rarely in the spotlight. If he did emerge into the glare, he'd swiftly return to the background; among the band's fans, though, the desire for his presence was immense. Early Bearface solo tracks, uploaded to Soundcloud and Bandcamp in the early 2010s, circulated widely; just a few crumbs of his angelic falsetto, recorded over airy guitar, but enough to make a mixtape or two, alongside his more electronic work.

In 2022, when BROCKHAMPTON burnt out and fell apart, the clock was set ticking for a wave of solo releases. McDonald's time to shine as a one-man show felt imminent, but from November 2022 to July of this year, there was nothing. But the years of silence weren't for nothing. Róisín shows that he was right to take his time and not be pressed by expectations. Titled after the middle name his parents would have given him if he'd been born a girl, Róisín is at times gentle, much like his established honeyed demeanour, but it’s also murky and corrosive, colouring his music in heavy chiaroscuro, sprawling in unexpected directions.

Little remains of what won the introverted star devotees in the first place, and what’s left has been contorted in a way that puts his music closer to velvety guitar experimentalists Mk.gee and Dijon, the latter a close friend and collaborator. “Houston” reimagines a leaked outtake from BROCKHAMPTON’s final days as an impeccably produced, soulful sway, beaming with passionate hooks as McDonald's signature singing soars to new euphoric heights.

“RED 99”, with its cathedral-like atmosphere, splices an intricate acoustic melody with digitised chatter before levitating into a cacophony of squeaky strings. Closing number, “Waterslide”, is a triumph too. Here, in grieving the loss of a childhood friend, McDonald sings with such a monolithic timbre that it feels divinely cathartic.

Given how confident Róisín feels from the get-go, it's hard to believe that McDonald wasn’t sure at first if any of these songs would land. That’s also why it took so long to hear from him; he wrote under self-imposed scrutiny, with each recording session tackled with a mindset of do-or-die. But when you consider his formative inspirations, Prince and D’Angelo – both disciplined and meticulous in the studio, to say the very least – the effort to perfect his formal introduction makes sense.

Part of McDonald's multifaceted sound is its undeniable alt-pop cadence, but when it’s peppered with distorted inflections, like on the Roy Blair-assisted “Loom” and the deceptively noisy “K-Bar”, the obliqueness that emerges is thrilling. On a good sound system or great headphones, the reverberance on the silky-smooth “Chevy” and after-hours “White Leather” does plenty to coddle the ears. Even the near lo-fi interlude “Bashment”, worked up with James Ivy, sounds so wonderfully lived-in.

As rough around the edges as McDonald and Róisín portray themselves, it all comes together beautifully. The funk sensibility keeps the music familiar, the sparseness offers room to imagine more, and the storytelling is pleasingly vivid. For years, McDonald's songcraft has been an open secret but, as these fascinating earworms suggest, the sky's the limit for how far he can go. Róisín finds him already up among the stars, where he truthfully has always belonged.