Ballads Of The Book

I’m not an Idlewild fan. I’ve never been an Idlewild fan. However, I have noticed that Roddy Woomble has been experimenting with folk. Last summer, he released ‘My Secret Is My Silence’, an album that included contributions from rising star Karine Polwart, Barnsley’s famous folk babe, Kate Rusby, and her (may or may not be any longer) husband John McCusker, the diminutive Scottish fiddle genius who also produced the album. With form like that, it was no surprise that he came up with the idea of uniting some of Scotland’s musical talent with some of the leading lights of the Scottish literary world, and so ‘Ballads Of The Book’ was born. Released earlier this year on Chemikal Underground to great acclaim in Scotland and further afield, the natural progression for this project was live performance of the songs, and what better arena than the all-day jamboree that is the Triptych Sunday closing event at the Tramway.

Not all the musicians and authors were able to attend, but Triptych and Chemikal Underground still managed to push the boat out, putting on a programme over three arenas; the Electric Stage, the Acoustic Stage and a room featuring readings from some of the authors. Sadly, the latter only had a capacity of 50, and I never seemed to get there on time to see anything. I wasn’t too disappointed though, as I was able to see how the art exhibition by Jenny Soep was progressing. This was yet another interesting aspect of the day as a whole, as the artist could usually be seen in front of the stage painting the musicians as they performed.

Mystifyingly, Norman Blake only played two songs; his contribution to the album and a track he claimed was by a Californian band called the Cabin Boys. However, this was fortuitous, as it allowed those interested to scurry along to T4 to see a performance by Burnt Island, the band featuring the writer Rodge Glass (who collaborated with Vashti Bunyan on the album). This turned out to be a duo, as the drummer had had an accident and was unable to play. I was impressed with what I heard, and resolved to check them out at the earliest available opportunity. They were the highlight of the day for me, and not just musically. I couldn’t help thinking that this was what Turin Brakes could have been if they had had a sense of humour, e.g., Rodge Glass asked for less vocal or guitar in his monitor and his compatriot asked for a little less irony in his!

Next, it was back to T1 for Foxface, a band featuring a drummer in a fox facemask (shades of Gabriel-era Genesis), which he had to remove when he wanted to play his banjo or his accordion. Yes, at the same time as he played the drums (think about it). I’d seen yet another enjoyable set, and the band left the stage with the promise of their first album, sometime at the end of the summer, they think! I’m sure we’ll all hear about it when it is released.

In order to avoid the dull as ditchwater Trashcan Sinatras, I went to check out Mike Heron, but I lasted about 5 minutes. It appears that he barely survived the 60s. What else was there to do but spot celebrities (I saw Stuart Murdoch at the bar), check out the price of food (quite reasonable, but very scarce) and see who was DJ-ing? Upstairs, Roddy Woomble and the bass player out of Sons And Daughters were in control of the decks, whilst downstairs, King Creosote was holding court.

It was soon time for Alasdair Roberts. I was surprised by his 45-minute set, and not least because he turned out to be quite a cheery chappy. Also, he only sang two songs with the word death in them! He seemed quite reluctant to perform his ‘Ballads Of The Book’ contribution, ‘The Leaving’, something he had in common with almost everyone I saw. They all appeared to be anxious not to make a mess of things. He needn’t have worried, because he didn’t put a foot wrong.

I decided not to watch Emma Pollock, as I’d seen her support Camera Obscura only 8 days before. I also decided not to wait for hot food, so had shortbread and hot chocolate, instead, and then went out into the Hidden Gardens to consume my meagre rations. On re-entering the building, I found the more miserable one out of Arab Strap delighting the audience with the extended version of ‘Come Back’ by the Mighty Wah!

After another walkabout, I took a seat upstairs to watch King Creosote. The fact that he was playing the Electric stage spoke volumes. I miss his accordion. I miss his folky tendencies. Normality was restored at 9pm when James Yorkston took to the stage in T4. It was good to see that at least one member of the Fence Collective had not deserted his acoustic roots. I had to chuckle, though, when I remembered a comment he made at a gig I attended in 2004. He alluded to the fact that a certain famous Glasgow band didn’t mean much to him beyond the fact that their success was bankrolling his next three albums. He was, of course, referring to his label mates Franz Ferdinand. I had to laugh because Robert Hardy and Alex Kapranos were standing in front of me!

After that, I decided that I’d had my money’s worth and had had a very enjoyable day (which would have been utterly unbearable without the smoking ban) so, on my way out of the building, I popped back into T1 and caught the end of Sons And Daughters’ set. They don’t do much for me, and didn’t last night, apart from try to blind me with a very bright light. It was late. I was tired. Other people were leaving. I didn’t have to feel guilty about wimping out 90 minutes before the end of an 8-hour day, and I didn’t have to worry that I’d appear rude by leaving before the headline act. I’m not an Idlewild fan. I’ve never been an Idlewild fan.

They seek him here, they seek him there

Today, I went for a walk in Elder Park. I try to go there once a week, just to be close to nature, you understand. My gran used to take me there when I was very young, though I have no idea why, as I didn't live anywhere near it. I was born just over mile from it, though, and have worked close by for the best part of quarter of a century. It's not the nicest park you'll ever see, but it's all there is; a little oasis in a desert of deprivation.

It was cold, but bright and sunny and, as I turned the corner from Govan Road, I saw a number of people wearing rosettes and carrying leaflets. It is only three days to the election, after all. I walked past them, and along side them, more than once in the short stroll past Linthouse St. Kenneth's church. I even walked past the candidate. At no time did he, his workers or the token Muslim and token African who accompanied them, offer me a leaflet or suggest that I should vote for that party. I guess that I didn't look like a Govanite (in spite of my heritage) or didn't look like I would vote Labour. What a relief.

Sadly, I didn't have a camera, not to take photos of the ducks in the park, but to capture the moment for posterity. If any Govanites chance upon this blog, they may wish to see the guy they have elected to the Scottish parliament for two successive terms, as he spends most of his time in court earning big bucks. Having said that, perhaps some of the natives already know him from his day job. Anyway, just for the record, here is a photo of Gordon Jackson QC MSP.




Here's hoping he has plenty of time to devote to his legal work after Thurday.