The incessant Dublin rain was undoubtedly a strong contributing factor as to why anyone at all showed up at the support show. If the evening was clear and warm, I'm sure this story would be quite different, but the universe conspired together with the weather and music gods, and the body-heat warmth and roof of Whelan's bar provided a welcome respite for those who had tickets. It was a wise move on the part of the universe. She knew what she was doing.

Nineteen-year-old Mick Grady stepped out onto the stage to an uninspired and sparse audience. Skinny, ragged blue jeans, a plain black t-shirt and his eyes pierced the room with a smouldering intensity from under a low-hanging fringe of dark hair. If I were his mother, I would insist that he go home immediately and eat a decent meal.

He paused with nerves, but there was also a deep confidence in his disinterested vibe. The audience wasn't aware anyone was on stage yet. Who cares about the warm-up band? He could be a roadie for all anyone knows. The crowd were focused on the bar and themselves, waiting for the main act to come on much later.

I watched with curiosity as Mick clasped a guitar in one hand and ventured timidly up to the microphone. His band members shuffled in after him, unprepared and visibly nervous. The warm-up band 'No Regrets' had cancelled two hours previously, and recently formed 'Cold Heart October' stepped into their place. This was their first real gig, but I confidently predict it won't be their last.

Grady opened with an anxious throat clear and laugh, "We're proud to be here at Whelan's." He waited for a response, but aside from a single embarrassed whoop, probably from a girlfriend, the crowd collectively shrugged and went back to ignoring him.

Mick turned around to check his band. They nodded in readiness, and he twisted back to the audience. "This is called When We Dance."

The lights dimmed, and a spotlight flicked on, shining down on Mick, then smaller lights on each band member. Brian O'Connell opened with a haunting glide from his fiddle, layered with cheap stomp-box reverb. The sombre tone set a scene. John O'Reilly dropped in with a fat bass from the Yamaha keyboard, and Dermot Murphy quickly caught the rhythm on drums. Donal Lynch strummed in with his guitar, and finally, Mick Grady dropped in his lead guitar with a simple riff. They sounded okay for a garage band with cheap kit. Tight and practised.

But, what caught our collective attention was not the music, not the lyrics, not the vibe. It was Mick's voice. When he sings, the room electrifies. A chill and a prick of goosebumps flooded over the audience, who were now all very much paying attention.

Grady commanded and earned the eyes and ears on him, but his simple lyrics were somehow irrelevant. The words aren't where you focus. This is something else. His voice hypnotises, sinks into your consciousness, breathes life into your heart, floods you with endorphins and floats you to the ceiling. A warmth burned through me as if I had just swallowed a pint of brandy.

I felt the electricity, the pulse of the few dozen in the room, all synchronised to his rhythm, all gasping for more, unable to look away. Nothing else exists when he sings; the world is in the notes coming from his mouth, and those sweet notes tell only of happy things and warmth.

How does he do it?

This was five seconds after he started.

He kept us enthralled and entangled for the whole song, which seemed to last an eternity, but when it ended, the room demanded, no, needed more, like the first jab of heroin; we craved it.

I flopped back to the ground from the moonwalk levitation I'd been floating in. The shock of the come-down hurt. I looked up with fawning anticipation. What just happened? I looked around the room, and others seemed to be having the same experience.

The band played three more original songs, each as energising as the first. And with each note, the crowd pushed forward, desperate to soak up more of whatever Mick Grady was flooding us with.

When they went off stage, there was a loss in my gut. I felt suffocated and desolate. Drained. This was an emptiness that couldn't be replaced. I cried real tears.

When I listened to my bootleg recording, the bum notes and immature lyrics threw me off. It didn't sound like the same band. But, in the moment, seeing Cold Heart October and especially Mick Grady perform live was nothing short of a spiritual experience, and I'm at a loss to explain it.

Watch out for these newcomers. Leave your soul at home in case of damage.