"All the levers forward, all the time," was one of the text messages I received from the Sergeant Matron prior to the gig, however, on this occasion I think that one of the levers broke off from the control panel and his comment of being "45 going on 15" seems more appropriate as an epitaph to mark the memory of this occasion.
It had started in the usual kind of way, the mad dash to get everything together the night previous, followed by an annoying shift at work that had to be completed in the morning. This could've made things tight for getting to the island on time had it not been for my good friend and work colleague Dasbo The Asbo - who forfeited his Saturday off to help me complete my duty and get us on the road earlier.
You see, the Isle of Gigha is some 160 miles away and with Bingo at the controls there was every possibility of us getting lost or going in the wrong direction entirely. Fortunately, this time, he came prepared with "the analogue SatNav" as he referred to it: a small yellow post-it note stuck to the air-vent of his car's dashboard listing all the roads between Fife (aka Hazzard County) and Tayinloan ferry port.
You see, we had decided to go in heavy this time, taking the tepee, gazebo, tents, fold down chairs, table, and Aladdin Blue Flame paraffin droid for extra heat in the evening if required - and, of course, for cooking homemade bothy-style pizza on.
I had prepared around 8 pizza bases in the bread machine the night previous and - utilising the remains of a disposable barbeque - rigged up a grill-mod to the top of S3E3 (my Aladdin Blue Flame Paradroid) to make a tasty pre-gig munch. Who said camping out had to be without its luxuries? Provided we caught the 4 pm ferry across to Fantasy Island, we'd get there in plenty time to set up basecamp and stuff ourselves full of carbohydrates to help soak up the inevitable colossal consumption of liquid adult refreshments.
S3E3 - IMPERIAL PARADROID
"If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing badly," as G.K. Chesterton once put it, and we RV'd with the Matron at Tayinloan ferry port with five minutes to spare. Throwing everything into the Matron's four wheeled Tardis, we edged our way slowly towards the ferry whilst Bingo nonchalantly sought out a parking space as though he had all the time in the world.
In the distance we could see Captain Pugwash waving us onboard.
What should we do? Go ahead and risk leaving Bingo behind, or hang back a bit and hope that our Banana Split friend would have a sudden burst of adrenalin and realise the gravity of our predicament? Something suggested that Pugwash wasn't happy so we hit the gas and decided to try and explain that there was one more person on the way.
"Are you buggers blind!" exclaimed Pugwash. "We've got a tight schedule to keep. This ferry leaves in two minutes."
The dude wasn't for messing with so we got on board and gesticulated hand signals to Bingo to try and convey urgency as he wandered leisurely onboard.
"Steady as she goes landlubbers!"
Our haphazard plan had worked and an hour later we were basking in the sun around basecamp drinking an assortment of well-deserved alcoholic beverages and munching freshly made pizza.
BASECAMP
The Isle of Gigha is uncharacteristic of Scotland. Due to the Gulf Stream it sports its own unique microclimate and one could easily be mistaken for being in the Mediterranean with its beautiful white sands and turquoise-blue coastline. Around one hundred inhabitants live on the place, all of whom are blessed with being oblivious to the bad craziness of mainland existence. In short, it is a kind of Garden of Eden with exotic plants sprouting from its fertile clay and gravel subsoil. With the Paps of Jura visible 20-odd miles in the distance, the image of tranquillity is complete.
What a place to see a Shooglenifty gig!
ISLE OF GIGHA
At around 7:30 pm some kind of summoning bell must have sounded that we failed to audibly register and everyone got up and made there way to the village hall like Eloy to a Morlock cave. This wasn't a time for expressing individuality in case we missed something like a scheduled alien abduction, so we followed suit eventually arriving at the village hall some ten minutes later.
The hall was in the middle of the island, hidden down a side track amidst some thick woodland. Cautiously peeking inside the hall to ensure there was no human sacrifice taking place, the Matron became perturbed upon seeing chairs all set out with a bunch of blue-rinsers decrepitly poised on each of them, staring at an empty stage.
"Oh bollocks!" remarked the Matron. "They've got chairs. Freaking chairs! There can't be any sitting down at a Shoogles gig. What about the hobo-dancing? This could be a disaster. There's not a soul in there under 75."
I smirked. He was being overly dramatic about the age group but his paranoia amused me. Surely he knew about the support act? This was my fifth attendance of a Shooglenifty gig and I confidently knew that if chairs weren't removed before the Shoogles hit the stage, seating would be kicked out of the way or trampled upon to make space for the evocation of the dance-demon 'Hobo'.
EVIDENCE OF HOBO POSSESSION
"Might as well get a beer and check out the support act," I exclaimed, making my way to the bar as Karen Matheson burst into song.
Five minutes later we were all outside again observing a build up of younger people arriving to see the main event.
Now, I'm sure Ms. Matheson is a very talented singer n'all, but this really wasn't my bag. All that Gaelic aren't-we-mighty-swell hollering just really grates at me. I've had a lifetime of being raised on goth rock and doom metal for christsakes! I'm utterly amazed to have somehow made the transition to appreciating bluegrass, acid croft and reggae in the last 20 years, however, this kind of thing is still out of my reach. Maybe in another 20 years once all my hair has fallen out and I've had my ass sown shut with a catheter fitted will I be able to perch myself at the front row of a folk gig and raise my arthritic hand in the gesture of the "devil horns". Imagine that. Geriatric-X.
But this turned out to be a well-timed intermission as Bingo and Dasbo had bought dungarees for this event and had even threatened to wear them. They had bottled out back at basecamp but subsequent alcoholic consumption had instilled a little Dutch courage and the pair made off to get appropriately adorned.
Meanwhile the Shoogles' banjo player Gary Finlayson shows up, points at the Matron and I sitting outside the venue and exclaims: "Aha! The Bothy Council are here!"
Now, clearly the internet is a dangerous tool. Write anything about anyone anywhere in cyberspace, and your comments will be duly noted and registered. It's fascinating and frightening at the same time, and it has aided as much as ailed me over the years of running this crazy website. However, in a modern world of ten second attention spans, musical mediocracy and banal celebrity obsession, one has to do one's bit to acknowledge true talent when it is encountered. Exactly why Shooglenifty aren't dominating the airwaves perplexes me, but I am also kind of glad that they aren't. Part of their appeal is their obscurity and the hoops of fire one has to jump through in order get a hold of tickets just makes you want to get tickets all the more. For example, for this event I had to send off a cheque to some wee woman that lived on the island. I mean, who in the hell uses cheques in the 21st century?
In short, Shooglenifty are their own subculture and provided they keep it that way and don't enter into the feedback loop where subculture becomes pop culture in order to be sold back as a weaker strain of the original subculture, this band's rightful place in history as something unique and truly special is justly secure. After around thirty years of creating wonderful music, I'm pretty sure they know way more about being at the top of their game than I am even capable of comprehending.
As for "Gary the Banjo", he comes across as a true gentleman who will happily engage you in conversation. I mean, I'm not one for being a fan-boy of anything or anyone (nobody is really all that important in my opinion), but I can't deny that this guy's banjo playing has inspired me sufficiently to recently go out and buy a banjo in order to start learning the instrument myself.
"Banjo?" I hear you say. "Really?"
Damn right. Gary is the Jimi Hendrix of banjo players and breaks all the rules. In fact, breaking rules is what Shooglenifty seem to be about as far as I can tell. How does one define their genre, for example? Acid Croft is perhaps a self-imposed label that they have employed to describe what they do, but what exactly does that mean? Is it Celtic Fusion, Folk, World Music, or something else entirely? Why does it even have to be defined? The idea of a musical genre just limits what music is all about anyway and stifles experimentation as far as I am concerned.
"Where's Bingo and Dasbo?" exclaims the Matron just as the pair of them walk round the corner adorned in dungarees.
I had to admit that I felt like a bit of a zoomer sitting there with a bowler hat on, until I laid eyes on this pair. Sheer genius! Dasbo had even dug out some old tackety boots to complete the hillbilly illusion whilst Bingo looked more like a local butcher or cake shop assistant with his blue and white pinstriped dungars. Major bothy points awarded to both of them for not giving a shit.
The memory of the rest of the evening is sketchy as it always is once Shooglenifty's dark fiddle playing sorcerer Angus Grant has weaved his esoteric powers (although, to be honest, the consumption of copious amounts of alcohol couldn't possibly have helped in the retention of memories either).
Their regular mandolin player, Luke Plumb wasn't there (being temporarily in Tasmania) and neither was their usual drummer James Mackintosh (for whatever reason) but to my surprise it made little difference and the two stand-in musicians played exceptionally. I mean, bloody hell, how more professional can you get than having back-up musicians of a high calibre just in case someone in the band gets sick or can't make it?
By the end of the evening after making a complete tit of myself trying to recall long forgotten school day dance manoeuvres at the after-gig Caleigh, I somehow lost everyone, made it back to my tent and failed to gain access to the Matron's van to get a hold of my sleeping kit. We had came in heavy but it looked like I was going to be sleeping light and I crashed out on the tarpaulin floor of the tepee throwing a jacket over my head to block out the forthcoming sunrise.
Memories are now beginning to return and I can recall Dasbo living up to his name and attempting to let one of the tyres down on a police car that two law enforcement officers had been driving around the island in (for whatever reason). They had been a little excessively gimped out for this gig, what with bullet proof vests, canisters of pepper spray, truncheons and a whole assortment of RoboCop-type knickknacks attached to their utility belts, but somehow Dasbo actually managed to convince them that he meant no malice when caught red-handed at their passenger side front tyre.
Later on, I myself got rumbled whilst attempting to bleed the lizard in some nearby bushes. I had embarrassingly fallen face first during mid-stream and was trying to compose myself when I noticed the fuzz standing behind me.
"Erm no disrespect sir," said one of them with a smirk on his face, "but is there any chance you could use the toilet in the hall or at least disappear further up the road away from children when attempting to relieve yourself?"
Shooglenifty are playing various dates at the Spiegeltent in August during the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Go check 'em out if you're there or buy all their albums and support this wonderful band.
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