Extreme Listening Mode!

Homecoming, Scotland’s year-long attempt to persuade tourists to come here and spend money – sorry, to celebrate the 250th anniversary of Robert Burns – has been, overall, a bit piss. It’s the usual thing – plenty of dinners for politicians to attend, plenty of worthy-but-pointless initiatives and not much in the way of anything for the taxpayers who actually paid for the bloody thing.

Tonight sees something worthwhile, however. The cream of Scottish music from the last two decades (who would agree to play) are booked in a mini-festival at the SECC complex. It’s been reasonably priced but has failed to sell as well as was anticipated, with promoters DFC blaming the perceived politicization of the event. With politicians being only marginally more popular than predatory paedophiles at the moment, they may well be right.

The Law

Immediately though, the silver lining in that cloud is apparent. The gig has been moved to a smaller hall and is very busy. Then the giant fat man who has, for reasons unknown, been given the compere job waddles on and starts talking in a high-pitched, camp tone which seems designed to make everyone want to kill everyone near them in some hitherto-unrealised homophobic bloodbath. Well, me anyway. He has a mohawk, despite being white and forty stone. This is not good.

And neither, really, are Twin Atlantic. They are all right, sort of like Biffy Clyro with a heavy cold. The songs are short, poppy and evoke a massive collective shrug. It’s just difficult to see anything special in them. There is a band in every town in Britain who sound like this.

The Law

Onwards then to Dundee’s The Law, the Jonathan Wilkes to the View’s Robbie Williams in that they seem to turn up everywhere their mates do but you aren’t really sure why. They clearly own Oasis records and they are so Scottish indie-rock it hurts. It’s listenable. It becomes clear that there are a few buses from Dundee down in civilization for the show and they get a good response.

Codeine Velvet Club

Next up are the Codeine Velvet Club aka the side project of the curly-headed one from the Fratellis. Like most sensible people, anything remotely connected with the Fratellis brings me out in hives and a deep self-loathing due to being a part of the same species as them, but this is actually not bad. Swaggering, woozy blues- and jazz-flavoured rock with a nod to Spiritualized and replete with horns suggest he’s maybe wasting himself with his landfill indie crew. That said, when the PRS cheques come in, I’ll bet he doesn’t regret which band he’s prioritized. But don’t be put off by his day-job. Codeine Velvet Club are worth a listen.

Eugene Kelly of The Vaselines

Previous experience has suggested that the Twilight Sad are not, their somewhat plodding songs striving for Joy Division but settling for Editors. Thankfully, the Dykeenies surprise with a four song set delivered with panache and some genuine emotion. It leans towards emo at times, yes, but they have the strut of early Killers mixed with the day-glo simplicity of blink 182’s most enjoyable stuff. It’s bubblegum heartbreak and it’s very decent indeed.

Frances McKee of The Vaselines

Fatboy somewhat sells the next act – and the audience – short by intimating in his intro that the only reason anyone in their right mind would have heard of them is because Kurt Cobain liked them. And fair play to the Vaselines, they play ‘Molly’s Lips’ and ‘Son of a Gun’ when they could easily get all precious about it. And they are brilliant. Dirty, grungey pop that is clever, sexy, cute and a little scary all at the same time. Frances appears to be looking for a date, before realizing that most of the audience are about 12.

King Creosote

King Creosote emerges and gives a nice, if incongruous, little set. Quite why it was decided to put him on in the middle of indiefest is a mystery, but he’s good at what he does even if his voice seems to get more anodyne every year.

Idlewild

It sets it up nicely for Idlewild, who are just ace. ‘You Held the World in Your Arms’ gets the place flying and then there is no let up through a storming set, with an emotional ‘American English’ suddenly taking on the elusive communal hymn shudder that U2 used to do so well. It’s a scorching performance from them and a reminder of just how great they can be. Ending with a rasping ‘The Remote Part/Scottish Fiction’ which almost lacerates the arena, their elder statesmen of Scottish rock status is secured.

As is that of the Skids in the Clyde Auditorium. ELM witnessed their comeback anniversary gig in Dunfermline in 2007 and can’t help feeling they should have left it there. That show was, quite simply, astonishing. This is doomed to failure from the start. Firstly the venue. Can promoters please stop booking the Clyde Auditorium for rock shows. It is seated. This makes it shit. In this weird, cavernous atmosphere, the band gamely try to make it happen, but the hall has the ambience of one of those BBC New Year TV shows, and it just never really takes off. It’s not all bad – with songs like ‘Masquerade’, ‘Into the Valley’ and ‘The Saints are Coming’, how could it be – but it’s just not what it could be.

Lloyd Cole follows them with an acoustic set much more suited to the surroundings.

Lloyd Cole

Back to the big red shed for Teenage Fanclub. What can you say about them? They are just great. It will remain an eternal mystery how a band who can play ‘I Need Direction’, ‘About You’, ‘I Don’t Want Control of You’ and ‘Don’t Look Back’ in the same set aren’t the biggest band in the world anywhere ever, really. Norman sums it up after a majestic ‘Sparky’s Dream’ when he says ‘you’re right mate; that one IS a fucking belter’.

Teenage Fanclub

Pearl and the Puppets have been booked in now for three songs and it’s a shit time as the audience of mainly pissed-up View fans are not in the mood for wistful acoustic stomps. Fatboy then comes on and reinforces ELM’s prejudices about Dundonians by pointing out that he is, like the View, from Dundee. Unlike the View, he appears to sweat whilst moving his gargantuan, talentless frame and I sincerely hope I never have to see or hear him again.

So the View; just an ace way to end it. They blast through their set like the spiky little poppets they are, including a segue from ‘Same Jeans’ to ‘Louie Louie’ which suggest they are more aware than their critics would allow. The crowd, by now viciously drunk almost to a man, are going completely mental and ‘Superstar Tradesman’ damn near blows the roof off the place.

So, kudos to the organizers for finally delivering a show people wanted to see. The crowd weave out and one can’t help feel Burns – a man who was no stranger to vomiting on the odd pavement in his day – would approve of the scenes. Here’s hoping, anyway.