Every time in recent years that this rogue's picnic of New Age revellers has played the Olympia, they've sold it out. This May bank holiday will probably be no exception, particularly if people are tuning in in large numbers to Kila's latest album, their fourth, Lemonade and Buns.

A studio recording can be an odd freeze-frame of what a collective of musicians are up to. With Lemonade and Buns, Kila gatecrash the place like it was a live gig: all urgent, hypnotic contribution and surrender to the groove.

The hard Irish core of the band are the cultured peace-Provos of the O Snodaigh brothers - Rossa's whistles and countless rhythm devices, Colm's flutes, guitars and percussion - never mind the cultural anomaly of Ronan O Snodaigh's hoarse, grittily enunciated, as-Gaeilge, savannah-rapping.

In recent times, Ronan has lent his services to the big, faintly daft Millennium Drum Carnival. He has also recorded and toured with the sublime Dead Can Dance - whoever is sailing in her at this precise moment in time.

Another important element of Kila is the sole oestrogenic compound, Dee Armstrong, a children's playwright and young mother of three. She brings all sorts of sonic textures to the Kila wall of sound: accordion, hammer dulcid wail of a slamming minor.

Being a kind of lackadaisical purist of Irish trad - favouring the individual voice or instrument - to my ear, Kila sometimes sound caught between the big-band, Riverdance/Afro-Celts mix and the more propulsive straight-ahead trad bands - but breaking through the groove, they always manage to unskin many nuggets of pure music. My recent iffy review of Lemonade and Buns attracted letters from Kila fundamentalists, one of whom accused me of being marooned in "Buntus Rince" (the cheek - Ed).

Kila play the Olympia Theatre on Friday April 28th