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:
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:
(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:
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.
