Eye O' The Dug: Top O' The Class

He's a persuasive type, my friend McG. When he suggested back in January that we head north o' the border for a FenceFest called Eye O' The Dug, I said no (for purely financial reasons). He ignored me and bought me a ticket anyway.

Thank Christ for that.

It's like having an extra Mum and Dad, being mates with McG and Ber. But parents who can drink you under the table and have excellent knowledge of american hardcore, 90s indie and shoegaze. I feel like their errant teenage daughter, as we head off for a 6 hour rail marathon to Leuchars. They've made egg sandwiches for the journey, and have control of the train tickets. I love these people.

Arrival at the B&B in St Andrews provides some laughs - we're in a family room. It gets better. The owner Brian loves my accent and when I say I'm originally from Huddersfield, he replies "ach aye, so's the wife!". Honestly. Then he asks if we're here for the golf. We look at each other - three less likely golfers you could wish to meet. Then he points out the shower is large. He clearly thinks we're swinging golfers (not 5 iron swinging - no, sexy swinging with lingerie and optional dildos). Time to get out of there sharpish and head off for TUNES.

St Andrews student union is home to Day One of EOTD. And it's a fancy student union - it has Orla Kiely wallpaper (adorned with some very lovely posters from the Fence chappies):

Booze in hand, we head for Francois and his Atlas Mountains. They're a rayon de soleil (that's ray of sunshine, in case you're not au fait with the lingo). Great to watch, bright, sparky, and Francois is absurdly pretty, so it's a good start. More beer appears, then a pie, then the fire alarm goes off and we all stand pissing about in the freezing cold, then I seem to be drunker than I thought I would be at this point. I blame the whisky token presented on arrival, which secured a pint (PINT) of whisky and ginger cocktail, dutifully necked at a silly pace. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think the Djangos happened at this juncture and I loved them. For my swan song, those nice Hot Chip boys took to the decks, and I busted my moves to Prince's 'I Wanna Be You Lover' which is surely one of the finest foot-tappin' tunes ever created by a man in high heels wielding a Stratocaster. 

Zebedee said time for bed (before you make a tit of yourself).

Sunday dawned and I seemed to have caught a headache. Nothing the bracing winds of St Andrews beach couldn't blow away (aided by paracetamol and cake). Bit of wandering reveals that St Andrews is inhabited by some Scottish people and an awful lot of Americans. Why? Is it the golf? The University? Or, perhaps, because, "Scotchland is, like, totally awesome, dude!"

She likes a hat, our Ber.

Our home for Day Two of EOTD would be Younger Hall. A large impressive room with a huge organ (leave it), coupled with a second, much more intimate, room downstairs. We headed downstairs to kick the day off with Barbarossa. It gets pretty packed in this smaller room, and luckily, Johnny Lynch (aka The Pictish Trail / main Fence man) appears, to encourage the lazy arses sitting on the floor to stand up so more folks can get in. Bravo. Barbarossa consists mainly of James Mathé, who I saw support Junip a year or two back. It's the perfect start. He has a gorgeous voice and Rozi Plain joins him at one point to create some truly lovely harmonies.

My crush on Mr Pictish Trail continues unchecked and unabashed. Listen to 'Secret Soundz Vol. 1' and you'll get it. Marrying the perfect amount of guitar picking, loops, beeps, plinky plonk, and THAT voice, it's a mixture that makes me giddy. And he can whistle. When he sings 'All I Own', I almost dissolve into a heart-shaped puddle. Channelling Elvis at the end of his set ensures he has a lifelong hunk of my burnin' love.

Hangover took over for a minute after the thrill of Mr Trail, so I had to have a sit in the sunshine with a cuppa and a nice oatcake. Bluebells flowering, it was a sweet quarter-hour. RM Hubbert wandered past with what looked like a can of Irn Bru. Then, I saw some bloke sporting a kilt at the merch stall, buying a CD then stashing it in his sporran-cum-penis-warmer-bag. None More Scottish.

I bought my only merch of the weekend - 'Thirteen Lost & Found' by RM Hubbert. This man is a sweetheart, I could watch him strum / drum / flick / scrape his guitar all day. He played 'A False Bride', a song so sparse and sad, sung with his clear voice, and I'm fairly sure some smoke / an eyelash / CS gas must have sneaked in my eye, because they got a bit watery. 

James Yorkston is a local boy done good. He was his ever-witty, self-deprecating brilliant self, and told (via song and guitar) a hilarious story about blowing up the 18th hole on THAT famous golf course (despite his Dad being in the audience, and his fear of a thick ear).

I interrupt this broadcast with a short break for fried food, beer, and a bit of a wander. Those Fence boys must like their pies, because they actually scheduled a "Dinner Break" into the running order. Genius.

Wandering the streets of St Andrews, I discovered what may well be the best road name of all time:

I know, I know. I'm pathetic.

The rest of the evening was a bit of a riot. Kid Canaveral - why have I never seen them before? Withered Hand - why have I seen him so many times? Because he's fucking brilliant, that's why, dear. Dan Willson is a king among troubadours, he played with his full band, the audience finished his lyrics when he couldn't remember, the room was packed out with superfans - this fella is adored, not least by McG, who is probably in the running for NumeroUnoFan. To top it all, Mr WH was wearing some fetching eyeliner (but no spectacles), which we all found not the least bit odd, but rather cute.

Last up, and the most perfect finale was a helping of Head Fence Boy himself, King Creosote, aided by the wonderful Jon Hopkins, superb KT Tunstall and The Geese fiddlers (hooray for the Geese, who played along with more than one act during EOTD - good stuff). Playing the songs from 'Diamond Mine', KC and his sunshine band held that huge hall completely captive. Of all the songs on the album (if you haven't heard it - who are you, Rip Van Fucking Winkle???), 'Bubble' is my favourite, and when they play it, god, it's sublime. There's a lovely bit where KC and Johnny Pictish have a bit of a hug and do their EOTD thank you's to their helpers and pals. 

The final song of the night comes as a bit of a shock.  'Song To The Siren' is a piece I've loved for many years, thanks to the superb 1983 This Mortal Coil cover. On this night, I'm knocked sideways by the beauty of the sound, as Kenny sings so plaintively, and I have a wee moment where I think of my Dad, and next thing I know, tears are absolutely bucketing down my face. Bloody hell. Then, it's all over, everyone is cheering and McG turns round to discover me with mascara all over the place and a snotty nose. 

My surrogate parents wipe my face with a bit of spit on a hanky, then take me off for the aftershow (Mr Pictish has invited the ENTIRE audience up the road to a tiny club that holds about 100 people max). We drink, listen to a mad mix of tunes, and I see lovely Withered Hand, who hails me as "the girl I speak to about spectacles" (I like this).

All good things must come to an end, so we head off for a good night's kip, up bright and relatively breezy, just in time to watch McG devour a ten-piece breakfast (when asked what he'd like for the cooked breakfast, I think the nice lady at the B&B expected him to choose some things from the 10 possible choices. He just gestured at the whole list and said "I'd like that". Greedy fucker.).

To conclude, a shit weekend, dump of a town, crap music, organised by a bunch of total cocks.

*congratulates self on clever reverse psychology to keep hipster idiot crowds at bay next year*

http://www.fencerecords.com/

(Postscript: Fence Records are holding a showcase at the 2012 Camden Crawl. If you've a sane bone in your body, you'll go along and enjoy a truly spectacular Sunday afternoon. And if you get bored there (you're a freak), you can always head off and find yourself at the very excellent Local offerings - details if you press right here, dear.)

Fence Records Chart Ruse #1: Good News Is All Around

It's not often I get in from a gig at the Witching hour and start tip-tapping about my evening. Taking into consideration that it's colder out than Cruella de Ville's heart, the January deadline taxman's taken all my dough (nod to Ray Davies) and I'll be imminently leaving my spiritual home, Disgracelands (sob) - yet despite all this misery-making stuff, I get home after an evening out East and I'm still beaming from ear to ear.

Let's hear it for the Fence Collective (woohoo). They've put on a superlatively good bill at The Shacklewell Arms tonight. The tickets were a homemade thing of beauty, and within the ridiculously cheap bargain price of ten quid a pop, you come away with a 7" single too. Eh? What? I mean - it's just absurd. I've paid twice as much, sat in some fancy venue, surrounded by chit-chatting idiots, yet come away with nothing more than a face like a smacked arse.

Shove it up your hole, TicketMaster.

Arrived at the venue to be greeted by a sober McG. This is, in itself, impressive. He's made a big effort, because he's a huge fan of Withered Hand, and after his poor pissed-up showing at David Thomas Broughton recently, he knows he has to rein it in if he expects to hear/see anything after 9pm. The rest of the clan arrive (Ber, Screw). Into the tiny hall (doorman: sweetface Johnny Pictish - Fence god), to the strains of the first act, Seamus Fogarty. I've never seen Seamus play before, but he's very good and an unexpected treat. One song near the end of his set "Little Mama" has Screw and I agreeing we'd like to see more of him. Lovely fingerpicking and a gentle voice. And joined on stage by the omnipresent and very brilliant Geese fiddlers, who seem to be at any gig by any Scottish act on any given evening (if I go see Rod Stewart or Wet Wet Wet any time soon and they're playing along on 'Maggie May' or...erm...*thinks hard* one of Wet Wet Wet's songs, I won't be remotely surprised).

Short interval, and I get to chat with proud Dad Andy, Mr Withered Hand Sr. We've met once before, when I ran the door at a The Local night in Crouch End, and I discussed spectacles with him and son Dan. He's a funny chap, and we have a laugh about how easy it'd be to stay in when it's as nippy as this out. But like Withered The Elder pointed out, "when you start staying in, you start getting old". I'm with you there, Andy.

A second unexpected treat up next - Darren Hayman does a short set. He's regularly an unexpected treat, Mr Hayman. Pops up unannounced all over the place. I saw him do an impromptu turn on the little secret living-room-in-the-woods at End Of The Road 6 years ago, and have liked him ever since. Very clever lyrics and no slouch with the wit between songs. Hats off to Mr Hayman, as he tells us, "I'm 41. And I can't help but think that if the 15 year-old Darren, walking up Kentish Town High Street to see The Damned, had happened upon the 41 year-old Darren playing his acoustic guitar with alternative tunings and a capo, he'd have said 'what a cunt'." This coming from a man who looks like he should be in an Enid Blyton book. And he wears excellent spectacles.

Last on the bill, the not remotely unexpected but looked-forward-to-for-weeks, Withered Hand. Dan Willson (that's two 'll's) was first discovered by Screw and The Brummie a few years ago, at a little gig at The Silver Bullet in Finsbury Park. After then seeing him at the infamous AAA Viking Moses no-show gig in December 2010 (damn you, HM Customs), there's been no holding back on our fandom for Dan WH. Tonight, he's introduced by much admired Kenny Creosote, who tells us that they are both suffering from kebab poisoning (Dan - lamb, Kenny - veggie option) and that WH isn't well. I've a sneaky feeling they both have the shits. This doesn't stop Withered Hand from putting in the most sterling performance (not wearing his spectacles).

He really is just brilliant. Passionate, heartfelt lyrics, which despite the often grubby and funny subject matter, have a sort-of skewiff spirituality about them. Starts out with 'Cornflake' and there's no letting up. There's 'Takeaway Food' (the cause of the gut rot, aptly enough), 'Providence', and the very beautiful "Love In The Time Of Ecstasy', all from the album 'Good News'. It's a joy. McG normally has to be restrained when WH plays, he's sings along rather... enthusiastically. Tonight, he has a partner in crime, in the form of a small blonde woman standing behind us, who, it turns out, knows all the words and has come from absolutely fucking miles away, the isle of Eigg. This is quite a journey, she was really pissed and sang like a good 'un. Superb. WH finishes with 'Hard-On' - and it's impressive, as it's the first 'Hard-On' I've ever seen move a crowd to applaud loudly, whistle, sing and hum along.

Leaving the room, and we get the added treat of swapping the sweetest homemade ticket for a shiny new bit of vinyl. This is a Fence release called Chart Ruse - read here:

http://www.fencerecords.com/news/f3nc3-r%E2%85%93cords%E2%80%99-chart-ruse/

If you weren't there tonight, buy one off their website. It's a cracking bit of design on the sleeve, but to discover the delights within those black grooves, I'll have to make like a teenager and head round a mate's house, as I have no means of playing it (the shame). To give you an idea of what might be instore, here's a spot of WH strumming his stuff on an Edinburgh rooftop:

http://witheredhand.com/

(Postscript: I had a spectacle incident yesterday. Still a four-eyed novice, I popped out for chocolate/crisp supplies, absent-mindedly leaving my reading bins on my face. On re-entering the building, my specs steamed up. This made me laugh no end. It's always tickled me when I've seen it happen to others , but my first ever misty experience was very pleasurable. Simple things, simple minds...)

Oh, and quick, before I forget: The Local and TLOBF are doing a Shhh event tomorrow/today, Feb 4th:

http://thelocal.tv/listings/eventdetails/4-feb-12-shhhh-the-gallery-cafe/

Come along. It'll be good. NB - I'll also be working at this event so remember: SHUT THE FUCK UP WHEN THE ACTS ARE ON. Asking you relatively nicely and thanking you kindly.

Luminaire: Wake Week & Lights Out

Little point in me going on too much about the closure of the Luminaire. Everyone’s gutted, that’s a given.

A week of sold-out shows gave the venue a proper send off. I had a busy week, so sadly, I only made it to a couple of them. Fence Collective did a great showcase to kick the week off. Blondie and I had a lovely evening. Particularly enjoyed King Creosote and Pictish Trail on stage at the same time. Superb.

Met up with Kieran and Lou W for a Dry The River matinee on the Sunday. It was a fundraiser for the Teenage Cancer Trust, and a ridiculous bargain at two quid, all of which going to the charity (good old Lumi – kindness itself, even in the death throes). This was, however, a bit of a mistake. None of us had much energy, and although they were very good, even an energetic performance by DTR couldn’t raise our spirits. I had a brief conversation with Mr Inglis and it seemed the Sunday blues had reached him too. And then we ate a weird 1970s meal in a little restaurant on Kilburn High Street, which I won’t name, because I’m not AA Gill.

The Luminaire’s funeral night was a different kettle of dead fish. It was a bit of a riot. Although there were some sad and rather poignant moments (a funny but touching eulogy given by Son Of Dave, hearing Andy Inglis speak about the venue he loved), and some bizarre moments (there was a coffin – an actual coffin…with pall bearers), it was a sterling night. Great music (I fell a wee bit in love with John & Jehn), top DJing, some very expressive dancing, and one truly Formula 1-esque moment, as Mr Inglis hopped athletically onto his bar and sprayed the assembled crowd with fizz (oh, they were begging for it), whilst toasting his venue partner-in-crime John Donnelly. It was the most rock ‘n’ roll wake I’ve ever had the honour of attending.

RIP, you lovely old girl.