It’s been hard to escape the word ‘Homecoming’ up here this last while. It’s the name given to a year-long series of events running in Scotland to celebrate the 250th anniversary of the birth of Scotland’s national bard, Robert Burns. As the furthest Burns ever made it out of Ayrshire was Edinburgh, one wonders quite why they decided on that path, till one reads the literature and realises that the common goal was to make our wee country seem desirable to ex-pats or those with Scottish lineage to come back and re-connect with a version of the country which never really existed. Quite what Burns, a legendary cynic, would have made of that is open to question, but I think on some level he’d appreciate the ruse.
The benefit to us who actually live in the damn place has been opportunity to do things which are a little different, hence why we are stood standing in a courtyard of a lovely little castle in a beautiful country park in Kilmarnock. It’s a town which has recently been in the news, with Diageo planning to close their Johnnie Walker factory which has been in the area for over two centuries. Fuck lives and tradition if you can save some cash, it seems. You can’t escape the situation – road signs say ‘Keep Johnnie Walker in Kilmarnock’ and it’s impossible to go past two houses without seeing the same message in a window. The anger is almost palpable. It’s a place which needs to enjoy its Saturday night.
If the campaign has caused sleepless nights for many people, there’s a fair chance they caught up during opening act Robbie McInnes. He’s one of those almost comically dreary singer-songwriter types with an acoustic guitar, fuck all to say and a pretty average voice to say it with. His lyrics plumb the banal barrel at its base – he wants to put his arms around you, you know – and dribbles out a solipsistic shower of vacuous bullshit. Added to this, he’s as proficient in guitar as your average 2nd year schoolkid, meaning we get shedloads of stultifyingly dull strummy four-chord nothingness that the really boring bastard at a party who grabs the hosts guitar would play. He’s clearly played to mates who have either been too stoned or stupid to tell him to stop. It’s slow, deathly, empty and seems to last forever. Mercifully, after 25 minutes, he stops. This development makes the crowd happy.
Next up is Orcadian Kris Drever, who is an antidote to the act we’ve just witnessed. He’s different, in that he can play guitar and sing, and thankfully he has some decent songs there too. His voice swoops and soars, and though it gets a little bit much by the end, he’s certainly stopped the crowd regret arriving early.
Camera Obscura have been playing for a while now, and the breakthrough has just eluded them. On this form, they really shouldn’t doubt themselves, though; glorious, swooping baroque pop songs abound. The six-piece really know how to construct a mood which makes you yearn for a cravat and a cup of tea; it’s less a mythical Scotland than a mythical Carnaby Street that springs to mind. ‘Let’s Get Out of the Country’ is the hit-that-never-was, while the elegiac ‘Lloyd, I’m Ready to be Heartbroken’ provides the next act with just about as apt a mandate as you could possibly imagine.
For, acoustic guitar and no other adornments, up steps Lloyd Cole with ‘Are You Ready to be Heartbroken?’’ which is as pith and wonderful as it was 25 years ago. He’s a little heavier, and there’s grey in his hair, but he’s still recognisably the same impossibly louche character who appeared back then. ‘I haven’t disappeared for twenty years and this isn’t a comeback’ he smiles, ‘I do still make albums’. To make the point, he plays the sublimely beautiful ‘Woman in a Bar’ before ‘Rattlesnakes’ is given the stripped down treatment.
The thing about Cole, in amongst the bon mots, the coruscating wit and the cynicism-spiced-with-hope undercurrent there is the undeniable truth; he’s written some terrific songs and he still has a voice which is as burlap smooth. Indeed, he resembles not so much a pop star these days as a sort of Indie crooner. And, in true Best Of-advert style, he’s written more classics than you remember – ‘Brand New Friend’, ‘Lost Weekend’, ‘Perfect Skin’, and ‘Undressed’ are worthy of being in anyone’s iPod.
He ends with a really rather lovely singalong version of ‘Jennifer She Said’ which is still being sung by the crowd as they leave. Always a good sign, that. He’s still officially, properly cool and he’s been well worth the trip. Reality beckons though, as we depart the castle the castle and back to the signs. Let’s hope for the workers Kilmarnock this is a story with a fairytale ending.
Filed under: gigs Tagged: | camera obscura, diageo, johnnie walker, kilmarnock, kilmarnock edition festival, kris drever, Lloyd Cole, rattlesnakes, robbie mcinnes
Are Camera Obscura’s two indie ladies genuinely shy, retiring and library loving or are they foxy foxes under it all just waiting for some lager, AC/DC tunes and a wee slap? Over to ELM……
Obviously, my manly scent drove them wild, but they are professional; they retained their cool, indeed, to the untrained eye, you’d think they didn’t fancy me, which obviously can’t be true.
Did ELM waft its body odour there way just to make sure they’d be driven wild?
Didn’t need to, you could tell she sensed it.
And still they refused a threesome? Lesbians maybe?