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.)

End Of The Road 2011: All Growed Up #2

Should have known that fog would mean a grey start to Saturday. And it did. But you can't sit around with a face like a smacked arse when this is going on round the breakfast table:

Breakfast of King

The day may have made a damp start, but our spirits were soon lifted by a trip to the Garden Stage to see James Yorkston. Having watched a beautiful performance by James recently at St Giles' church (he read from his Domino Press book about touring "It's Lovely To Be Here - not had chance to read it yet. If you read this, A-D - lend?), I knew I was in for some very special soothing of my slightly furrowed brow. Tartan (how apt) blanket laid out and a nice lie-down as he played, accompanied by a lovely string section. Sigh.

Second must-see of the weekend - Canada's most-super Dan Mangan. I honestly can't get enough of this man, and lucky for Blighty, he comes over to see us on a regular basis. Despite breaking a B string, he played his heart out, not with his usual electric ensemble, but with a beautifully fitting string set-up. His double bass player is a hoot, makes a superb effort on the falsetto vocals on 'The Indie Queens Are Waiting' which raises a real giggle from the assembled fans. 'Nice, Nice, Very Nice' is a wonderful album - buy it, you won't regret it (anyone who references Mr Vonnegut also a winner in my book). And then, he brings the sun out (I'm putting it down to him - the God I don't believe in must love him too). There's an obvious finale, but one every assembled fanfreak is happy with - huge 'Robots' sing-a-long, and Dan chucks himself offstage for a walkabout to play among us, which goes down a storm. Big admiration.

Nicer than 'Nice' Mr Mangan

No need to go anywhere right now - next up, another EOTR stalwart fave, Mr Bob Log The Third (oh, how I'd love to have met First and Second). BLIII is unmissable. Last time I saw him, it was Christmas week, the final week of lovely Lumianire's existence, watched with dear friends from a top vantage point. He's a regular here at EOTR, but I have to say, this is BLIII's year. Something struck a chord, a very deep-down-and-dirty chord, with the audience and it was a riot. When he asked "hey crowd, are you wet yet?", there were whoops from every lady present. He suggested we had dirty minds - he'd only wondered if we were sweating. When he announces his 'secret' performance in the Tipi at half past midnight, you know mayhem is in store. At this point, I catch up with Lou W, who really is quite moist at the thought of Bob and is his newest, biggest fan. A plan is hatched to be up front for the Tipi bedlam, she wants to be bounced on Bob's knee, and perhaps give his Scotch a stir. Rather than show you some dull snap of BLIII, not remotely capturing the essence of this remarkable phenomenon, I'm attaching a little footage of the man in action - prepare to feel damp, people:

Generally, I make one cock-up each year at EOTR, usually involving missing an act. I've absolutely no idea what happened next, maybe I was sidetracked by fried food or fine hirsuteness, but I managed to not see Phosphorescent. WHAT??? WHY??? Apparently, he was amazing, a solo set. And he played "Wolves". Stupid, stupid, stupid me. (I'd like to mention that 'Wolves is likely to be played at Mr McG's funeral. I mention this not because there's anything up with our Irish friend, heralding an imminent demise, but because the playlist for his funeral currently stands at approximately 173 songs. This funeral, when it eventually comes to pass, is going to last about a fucking week. The lovely, long-suffering Bernie is surely hoping she goes first, just so she doesn't have to sit through it.)

After it dawns that I've cocked up, it all goes tits up. I've since looked at the line-up and can't remotely remember what I was up to for about the next 2 hours. I vaguely recall seeing a bit of Welsh wonder Gruff Rhys, but that's about it. Next thing I knew, I was swaying to the psych-swirly Black Angels (thrilled to hear that Nana had found something she really liked, buying 'Passover' from the dear folks in the Rough Trade tent, and it's a bloody good album), now way past 9pm. Think the Health & Safety Officer came out in Scooter Steve at this juncture, as he pointed out the mirrorball in The Big Top stage, which had some seriously worrying long spikes as part of the design. "That's just hanging by a thin wire and if it comes down, someone's going to get hurt". No shit, Grandad. But he did have a point, and from here on in, none of us wanted to stand under that bad boy:

Death Star

Black Angels gave way to Mogwai, who were just superb. Perfect, perfect sound. Then some Okkervill River, with a bespectacled Will Sheff treating us to a heartrending 'Stone' but more importantly, giving it his all on 'Black', to which I sang along, unashamedly. Then, Bernie appeared from a toilet break holding something in her hand. I wondered if she'd had an accident on the way, but no. On entering the lav, she'd seen this shadowy thing in the corner and realised it was a crutch. Who on earth comes to a festival with an injury so bad that it requires a crutch, only to leave it in the bog after some urinary (or secondary) relief? How could you forget the bad leg / broken foot? Booze must have played its devilish part for our mystery injured party, that's all I can surmise. Some legless (pun intended) pisshead staggering about thinking 'something's missing here'. She meant to hand it in. It didn't happen. It was used as a Dick Whittington-esque stick to hold the Cab Sav bladder aloft. It was used to poke people in the back. I think it may have ended up on stage with Bob Log III at midnight, but maybe he was just pleased to see us:

Bet she kicked Legless while he was down too.

OK, let's cut to the chase. BLIII is on stage at 12.30am. We get there about midnight and it's already starting to fill up. Undeterred, we head for the front and Lou swears she may rip the tits off anyone scuppering her chance to grace the big man's knee. You couldn't move as showtime came around. What really amused me is that all the young ladies around didn't even bat an eyelid at the nice, bespectacled 'roadie' who came on stage to test kit and mic. Probably old enough to be their Dad, and sporting big specs. Well, young ladies - there's the thing with wearing a bike helmet to play. No-one really knows...that actually, BLIII is a gentle, speccy Buddy Holly lookey-likey. Tickled me pink. But hell, get that man in a lurex jumpsuit and his shiny helmet, and it's tits in his whisky and hot-ass-on-knee aplenty. It wasn't easy to maintain a position right at the front of the stage with the youth desperate to be near our hero, but years of elbow experience paid off. I really don't mind letting anyone pass me at a gig, I have lovely manners. Unfortunately, them there youth of today do not. At one point, two brazen hussies make a loud and pushy move to pass Lou W. It was a thing of beauty. She subtly held them at bay for the rest of the set, using just her elbows in some mental skiing action (I'm laughing out loud at the memory of it now), which considering the persistence of these little nightmares, was quite a feat of endurance. No bingo wings on our Lou. Bob was great. Amazing. And us old birds did the graceful thing and let the youth in their hotpants grind their asses on Bob's leg. It would have been too unkind to them (and, in fact, him) if two middle-aged birds in army jackets and old Levis had thrown their shit on his leg. (Top songs, Bob - 'I Want Your Shit On My Leg', along with 'Boob Scotch', 'Clap Your Tits' and 'My Shit Is Perfect'. Nice.)

Fired up by Bob, I cracked open Father's flask of Fighting Cock (not sure how that reads for you, bit weird for me), and headed for good ol' bourbon oblivion. It was bloody brilliant:

Definitely to blame.

There are vague recollections of attempts to pole dance down part of the Tipi. There was definitely dancing to Aretha F in the fairy woods whilst singing loudly. There was a sing-a-long of the very brilliant Fleetwood Mac's 'Go Your Own Way' on the path near the tents, until one tent shouted "Shut Up And Fuck Off", because it was 4am and they were sick of hearing "If I could, baby, I'd give you my world" for the umpteenth time. No sense of humour, some of these modern nylon constructions.

Yorkston Rocks God, Norway Rocks The Lexington, PJ Rocks The Troxy

Well, that was the week that was (not David Frost/Two Ronnies thing). Now that I'm snuggled under my cloud and having my first night in for 6 days (steady on, middle-aged woman, what are you thinking?), I can reflect on what was a daft-busy week.

Went to Paolo's book launch last Tuesday. Bizarrely, it was at Balls Brothers wine bar on Broadgate in the City - can you get any less Mod? Paolo Hewitt is a top music journalist and writer of books on all things Mod, footy, Weller, Small Faces (you get the picture). Excellent music at the launch - northern soul and Motown, the place was full of snappy dressers in immaculate threads. Love it.

Wednesday was fave gig-in-a-church lark. Accompanied by dear Howard Local, I went to the book launch of James Yorkston's It's Lovely To Be Here: Touring Diaries Of A Scottish Gent. St. Giles' church is a lovely place. We arrived in time for Phillip Selway (Radiohead drummer), but left for the pub after a couple of songs. Sorry, Phillip - I'm sure you're a super chap and not without talent, but it just wasn't happening.

But such a different story when Mr Yorkston hits the altar. He's a joy to listen to, and when he reads from his book, it's hilariously funny and dry. This book is the first publication from his record label Domino's newly founded Domino Press. The cover is a really sweet hand-sewn image of him and his guitar on their travels. I buy a book afterwards, but decide to have it dedicated to a friend (wonder if I can borrow it back soon...?):

Scottish Folk Fuzzy Felt

Thursday brought Ja Ja Ja, a night of Scandinavian mayhem, coordinated by the lovely Andy Inglis, and curated this month by John of Quietus and Phil of Stool Pigeon. I'd already heard tales of Deathcrush - two girls, one boy, much attitude - so when they hit the stage, I was thrilled to see they didn't disappoint. In fact, I can concur with a male friend - the young blonde guitarist would give anyone a hard-on...even me.

Årabrot up next - made me realise I've been watching too much bloody folk. I need an earful of heavy on a regular basis or I'll start thinking morris dancing is a good idea (sorry, Northern Tim - I know this is your latest pastime - you, velvet flares with bells on, pig's bladder on a stick - fuck me, Cecil Sharp House must be wondering what's hit it). If there's one thing Norwegians do well, it's heavy. That, burning churches, explorers and pickled fishy stuff. The sound picked up nicely here, and there were naked men on stage rocking their balls off. Super.

Last but not least, Kellermensch from Denmark - very good, like a metal Arcade Fire with plenty of personnel on stage. Good fiddle player. I'm afraid I got rather drunk, and then the evening took a turn for the interesting and didn't pan out in any way I expected. But all really very good indeed.

Friday was relatively gentle, and I was rather feeble, so hair of the dog with the Boss, followed by nice glass of Red with Mrs B was all I could muster...

Bounced back nicely on Saturday. A full day successfully sourcing props for a Fairy Liquid job was followed by an equally successful trip to Heavy Load. Heavy Load is a top 70's rock night, a haven from all things chart, in fact a haven from the modern world - full stop. The clientele are in stack heels and everyone thinks they're either Anita Pallenberg or Keith Richards circa Morocco '68. Not been for ages, and bizarrely, all the old faces have turned up. Even managed to strut about to The Doors and Small Faces. Great to see Northern Tim (even if he has taken up morris dancing) and Alf and Alex.

Had an invite from Howard Local to the Slaughtered Lamb for an afternoon gig to be filmed for Local TV. I think the premise of this is that The Local will arrange impromptu sets by a handful of artists in town, film them, interview them, then post this on their site/Youtube. Good idea. One of my favourite music things of recent years has to be The Black Cab Sessions. Sterling stuff - get artists currently in town into the back of a London cab, get the driver to introduce the artist, then drive round the streets whilst they are filmed playing a number. Genius thinking and great fun.

The Local had She Keeps Bees, Skinny Lister and Napoleon III on the bill, each to play 3 numbers. She Keeps Bees are amazing. Handsome couple, I've waxed most lyrical about them on this blog in the past. Jess Larrabee is completely gorgeous, with a sultry bluesy voice and wields her guitar in the coolest way. Her man and drummer Andy LaPlant is like her mainstay and watches her every move (and listens to every funny, mad thing she says between songs with a look of love...aaah, romance).

She Keeps Bees (and dogs, by the looks of it)

Skinny Lister are a riot. I first saw them at The End last year - vague memories of sea shanties, singalongs and a girl singer flashing her knickers came flooding back as they all took to the small stage. They're great fun to watch and harmonise well. But no knicker flashing from Lorna - she's wearing shorts. Disappointment all round.

I have to leg it at this point - top songstress and siren to the dark side, PJ Harvey awaits me at The Troxy. The Troxy is an old cinema/bingo hall near Limehouse, now reincarnated as a huge glam Art Deco gig venue. I get picked up by The Boss - this is her treat, and I'm a lucky girl. Once inside, we partake of a little Mr Daniels and coke, and promptly bump into top fella and Blunt photographer Jermaine Francis. Jerms is a right laugh, and introduces us to his friends Kat and Anthea. It turns out Kat is also a photographer, and has snapped PJ for this latest album cover. Anthea runs a record label called Thrill Jockey and we have a good chat about some of her artists (Arbouretum - top stuff - over here end of March - check them out). As I'm chatting to Anthea, I mention the Ja Ja Ja night, and she says it was curated by her best mate, John...and then John Doran turns up! And then, it gets weirder - The Boss realises that she was at infants' school with Anthea 30 years previously. And that Anthea's sister used to teach her synchronised swimming (?!?!?). You know - like you do. Too many coincidences, small world and all that...

Then the lights dim, and the diminutive tour de force that is Miss Polly Harvey takes to the stage. Resplendent in black, with fantastic feathery headdress, she looks tiny but her dinky presence fills that stage and the hall. And so does that voice. John wondered how hard it is to learn autoharp (like I'd know - I had all on mastering Mull Of Kintyre on my acoustic), but she plays it beautifully. It's the most gorgeous, haunting sound and suits this latest album so well. The songs are dark, war torn, ragged, so very English (that'll be why she called it Let England Shake, then - idiot), it had me on first listen. And don't go thinking I'm some überfan - I'm not. I do like her, but not like some of the folk present tonight. I witnessed one tiny brunette pixiette go bloody mental when she came on stage...plenty of old faves played too, she had the place begging for an encore at the climax:

Dark Angel & Her Harp