Daily Archive

It is more than just a parochial Jocko thing - I am on record as saying that pretty much nothing of any musical use has ever come out of my homeland.  No, not even Deacon Blue.  Or The Proclaimers.  There is something about the Fence Collective and their shambling, alcohol-fuelled songs of Fife and yearning that really floats my fishing boat.  Dragged along in the dolphin-friendly net of The Spitz’s Festival of Folk were half a dozen members of that ramshackle collective.

Us punctual types were treated to a surprise (maybe surprise is too strong a word - when I saw the line-up I thought the fact his name was missing was merely a misprint - let us say unannounced) brief early solo set from Collective chief King Creosote.  Magnificently poignant songs of small town heartbreak, sparsely adorned and all the better for it.

Candythief were next, and I found their powerpop trio shtick too sweet for my palate.  Too conventional and uninteresting, I was forced to keep myself awake by going for a quick fish for gossip with the lovely Adem about next year’s Homefires. 

I’ve often mused on the Frank Zappa question (a bit like the West Lothian question, but with much further reaching consequences for the constitutional structure of this country): Does humour belong in music?  I have come to the conclusion that it does, but only in funny music.  Hardsparrow are funny music; kicking off with a song called “Crab Fishing”, sung as a love song to a inflatable crab.  And something featuring the lyrics  “Gordo is a paedo, he saw me in my Speedos, and I’m not going back to that lido ever again” made me want to wet myself in appreciation of its genius (I reckon you might want to download that one here).

The errroneously upside-down headed Gummi Bako at first lead me to believe that he was continuing in that comedy vein by adopting a curiously querulous nasal tone for his first song.  Unfortunately, that appears to be his chosen singing voice, and I found it difficult to bear, let alone make out what he was on about.  A call for “Kenneth” prompted King Creosote to stagger up behind the drums for his next appearance.

Barbarossa did a useful one-man-band folky laptop thing with acoustic guitar, sweet sweet vocals, and occasional crunchy electronics.  A good-looking fellow, and considerably less evil than his t-shirt promised.  “Love and You” is dreamy, and still rattling around in my head.  Mp3s here.

And so we finish as we began, covered in blood and with our umbilical cords wrapped around our necks with more cannily-observed songs about love and loss.  Pictish Trail, real name Johnny Lynch, has the kind of beautifully emotive voice which would make me get a bit misty eyed after a whisky or two.  The highlight comes towards the end when “Kenneth” and Adem are called to the stage for the busily percussive harmonies of “Into The Smoke”.  After that, I untied my boat and drifted off into the night, hastily adjusting my prejudices about Scottish artists as I went.