Homegame 2011

The beautiful fishing village of Anstruther on Scotland’s East Coast recently played host to another of the Fence Collective's inventive, eclectic, indoor festivals, which Clash was lucky enough to attend. 'Homegame' has reached near mythical status in music circles, with this year's event selling out in less than half an hour. In such a excitedly expectant atmosphere there was nothing else for it, we rolled up our sleeves and dived right in...

First stop, the Town Hall, where we were happily knocked backwards by the the rousing wonkytonk & gospel of Gummi Bako. Purveyors of laconic ballads and raise-the-roof country rock alike, the Fence favourites Amish-bearded singer goaded us, screamed at us and whipped us all into eager shape for the rest of the nights proceedings.

Post set we exited sharply in order to get a spot for late night shenanigans in the intimate 'Space Cave', which was hosted by the inimitable former Beta Bander Lone Pigeon. After a slightly iffy intro, he took us on a winding and intricate piano led journey into one man's troubled soul, amidst twinkling lights and an appreciatively indulgent audience. However, it was the darkly diminutive Joanna Foster who shone brighter than any of the lights. A solo set, also accompanied by piano, allowed her feather light voice, in its cascading high register to stealthily steal the hearts of everyone there. It was sadly all too soon washed away by a spectacular thunderstorm and the sobering realisation we were sleeping in the car...

Awoken by cramped limbs and the arrival of the (friendly) local police propelled us on a morning stroll along the seafront, dappled with other, better rested, festival goers. There couldn't have been a more beautiful or bracing way to begin day two. But before the music began we hit a little shop on the 'high street' that had given itself over to trading in Homegame related goodies; beautifully produced vinyl and CD's and lots of quirky local artworks specially commissioned for the event. It's incredibly heartening to see a small label have such a massively positive impact on the local community and such exceptionally helpful staff (a free knit yourself a beard pattern? don't mind if I do!).

Bolstered by the sea air and some home made scones (yeah, we're that rock n roll), we sauntered back towards the musical action. Never has the soul been lifted by a venue as ones is when entering into the sunshine décor of the Erskine hall. High ceilinged, plastered with kids paintings and lots of (in relative terms) big comedy bums on tiny primary sized chairs. And if anything tells you about the egalitarian nature of proceeding it's witnessing organiser and Fence patriarch King Creosote busy at work on the sound desk (at which the organisers all take their turn).

Our first harmonic treats of the day came courtesy of a few of the Bristol Fence massive. Speill Berrg & Delifinger (one of the chaps from OLO Worms accompanied by his lovely wife) with an acoustic guitar, a Korg and a mate chipping in on the beats. With appetites well and truly activated, the splendid Rozi Plane took the stage in her endearingly ridiculous shorts and babseball cap with a few of the guys from Francoise & The Atlas Mountains providing percussion and brass accompaniment. Her set was no nonsense yet infinitely warming, the strains of her muscular guitar and clear voice wrapping around our heads like sunshine itself. Not only did she deliver a superb set, she gave us the tip of the day, to go see the 'nimble fingers' of Jamie Harrison in the Rugby Club, which we duly did and boy she wasn't wrong. Playing an intimate set to maybe 20 people, the self deprecating young man in question produced a jaw droppingly beautiful Gretch guitar and proceeded to play like a young Bert Jansch or Davy Graham, singing short, clipped songs of partisan bears and the sad fate of his mate's chickens. Spare, simple and stunning.

And so to the evening. It seemed the entire festival was back in the Town Hall (scene of last years unforgettable Four Tet set). It was here we delved into the realm of joyously unabashed Indie pop. Edinburgh based Kid Canaveral were just back from a successful jaunt at this year's SXSW festival and had everyone dancing within moments, their engaging melodies and jaunty harmonies winning many new fans I'm sure. Their upbeat stage presence was enhanced on the last song by a bouncy red haired friend whom frankly, they should employ as a full time dancer.

This was followed by the first show from resident regent and co-organiser King Creosote and Lancastrian band The Earlies who play a whole host of surprising instruments including flutes, a cello and most endearingly of all, a tuba. Moments in, the strangers around us were strangers no more and a veritable hoe-down was under way. It was heartwarming, homely stuff and perfectly pitched for the last big band of the evening.

Despite our early attempts at getting into local pub The Smugglers to see yet another tip (too many and always good) it was absolutely jammed to the rafters, so we headed off to night spot Legends to hear a nifty DJ set from electronic wunderkind Jon Hopkins but were soon overcome with sleepiness and headed back to our castle (or car) to bed down for the night.

We awakened on the sea front to a truly spectacular view and the aroma of the world famous chip shop already floating our way. As tempting as it was for brunch we headed back towards the Erskine Hall to be fortified by wares from local bakers Fisher & Donaldson, who put paid to literally hundreds of hangovers over the weekend. Sadly we had to miss the Ivor Cutler tribute show (a true shame) to pay homage to our host, the hardest working man in music, The Pictish Trail aka Johnny Lynch. Johnny was attentive throughout the entire festival, speaking to fans, encouraging bands and making sure everything ran smoothly. Hats off to his enthusiasm, good humour and general amiableness under an unenviable amount of pressure. Just to add to this, he played a blinding set, interspersed with poker faced comedy quips. As always, watching him was an absolute pleasure. A pretty much perfect start to day three then.

Next up was Rachael Sermanni, a beautiful and beguiling 19 year old from Carrbridge (north of nowhere) who's been hotly tipped for big things and its easy to see why. Her robust guitar playing and cracking voice is full of character and recently drew her to the attention of Mumford & Sons, with whom she's played a few times. If we were betters we'd have a few quid down on her. This girl is a future star, no doubt about it.

Highlight of the afternoon was the stately return of the regent King Creosote, joined by collaborator Jon Hopkins to play songs from their recently released album 'Diamond Mine'. To a packed hall they played a truly magical set, a conjuring of historical sea shanties and Celtic balladry, culminating in a heartbreaking rendition of 'Nothing Compares To You', so altered and stripped bare it sounded as though it was a KC song all along. It was genuinely 'hairs standing on the back of the neck' good.

After this we were honestly satiated but what do you know, we had some room left for the magisterially gloomy, fire and brimstone of southern gent Josh T Pearson who, for want of better words, was remarkable; a truly spellbinding and charismatic performer. The emotional denseness of the songs were overwhelming at certain points but leavened by unexpectedly humorous banter inbetween. He's definitely someone to catch live. We felt a bit sorry for the young Glasgow band Randolph’s Leap who had to follow him (I task I wouldn't have wished on any seasoned professionals) but they were great, concise, clever...and funny. Why is hardly anyone funny any more?

It was all over too soon; the glorious bands, the great banter, the familiar faces, the undiscovered gems. Even then we missed a few performances we would loved to have seen. Och well, there's always next year...and Clash will be there, with beards on!

Words by Anna Wilson

Photography by Nickie Divine - www.nickiephoto.com