Providers of a Little Discourage,

The central theme arising from the books I have read recently is that of identity and belonging. In one of these books, Rebus’s Scotland, Ian Rankin discusses how it feels to be from Fife and how Fifers always have a stronger bond to their Kingdom than others do to their region. Pride in one’s hometown or country is commonplace but rarely do people talk lovingly of their region or county specifically. Maybe it is easy to identify with Fife due to its size, Ian Rankin talks about how the small region of Fife clings onto its individuality between Edinburgh and Dundee, whose own council authorities were once in line to divide and share responsibility for Fife.

Whenever I’ve left Fife, I am always struck by how much I miss Fife’s pace of life. The fishing communities along the east differ from the mining towns in the west, the farming outposts and the industrial and service towns in between, but that doesn’t mean that Fifers necessarily only feel bound to their hometown. Through learning, working, shopping, playing sports, riding the train and sightseeing, all of Fife is familiar to me. This week, I was asked how long it would take to drive to Fife; naturally, I asked where they wanted to visit in Fife and they became confused. I had spent so long talking (warmly) about Fife that they believed it was a town; this emphasises the point that other people identify themselves by their hometown.

Maybe Fife has let me down my whole life and I don’t know it, but where I feel let down by Fife is in its lack of events and entertainment. Fife doesn’t hold an attraction for performers and it’s easy to see why. Recently, a music festival, featuring prominent brands in the industry and in aid of charity, ran at a loss. I saw for myself only last weekend when Adam Smith Theatre was less than a third full for the visit of Roddy Woomble, one of the country’s best voices and songwriters.

As we filtered into the theatre, I felt sympathy for the band, the people of Fife had let them down. From their performance, it was clear that they did not feel sorry for themselves and Roddy impressed me with his chatter to Kirkcaldy. In any case, we were not to blame - we were the Fifers who had bothered to attend.

The gig served as a cosy reminder of how wonderful Roddy’s two solo albums were and how much I love violins. In the stripped back version of You Held the World in Your Arms, Seonaid Aitken’s violin is at its most striking. It seems natural that this song should survive to Roddy’s solo shows given the use of strings in the original Idlewild version. When I think of other Idlewild songs that could possibly be exploited by Roddy, Seonaid, Sorren and Craig, I struggle and come to the conclusion that most are best stored away in the quality archive.

I left with a promo poster (not a difficult task to attain, mere politeness isn’t a chore for me), anticipation of the new album and a hope that Roddy would return to the Kingdom. I urge everyone to bring a friend.

Analysts Adumbrating Anfractuosity,

After noticing The Pit of the Stomach by We Were PromisedJetpacks was nominated as one of the twenty best Scottish albums of the last year, I had high expectations for their concert at the Lemon Tree, Aberdeen. The week before the concert, I bought it in Fopp for £5, I listened to it and I thought it was okay. I wasn’t moved greatly by it and I wished that I had bought a ticket for Admiral Fallow the evening before. Upheaval elsewhere meant that I couldn’t easily attend that concert so I was left with We Were Promised Jetpacks.

The problem was three-pronged. It was too late, my days have been demanding of late and 2215 hrs may as well have been the year 2215 because that’s what the start time felt like. I was distracted; I could not give them the attention they might have received on another day. The most important issue was the relative quality of The Pit of the Stomach versus These Four Walls.

The Pit of the Stomach is one-paced. When nearly every song is at constructed in the same manner (and usually brash and bold), personality is lost. Of the whole album, I can recall one lyric, ‘it’s hard to remember a colder November’. Hard to remember is a hard-hitting gritty song that puts me in mind of The Twilight Sad, its emotions are real and reflective of human struggle but the extended and drawled headline is painfully out of tune. Act onImpulse actually seems like a quiet version of Medicine.  On listening to the songs individually, I feel that my critique is harsh because, in isolation, they are all admirable. In a live setting, the band do not stop for meaningless chitchat, the charge through the set list - this doesn’t endear them to me.

What The Pit of the Stomach lacks is the punch of previous singles Quiet Little Voices and Roll Up Your Sleeves. Ironic, it was that, at the height of summer, ‘Roll up your sleeves for winter’ was best received.

In much the same way as people will cite Maps as the Yeah Yeah Yeahs best song despite the fact that it is not wholly representative of their catalogue, I most enjoyed Sore Thumb on the evening. The song is mostly instrumental and not dissimilar to Mogwai in its broodiness. On the evening, it stood out for its frailty and calm on an evening of racing thoughts and bellowing voices.

Cavillers from Incomprehension,

I rarely offer filum reviews on The Bellyaches, however, I recently asked someone what filum they were going to see. Their reply was muffled and I thought that I heard, ‘American Clive’. Here is the review that was omitted from the newspapers:

Filmed on location in Scotland, American Clive will surely prove to be the low-budget success of the year and make its directors’ grin widen. Those directors, already rejoicing in the knowledge that they’ve delivered the emotions of this crushing story to filum, now, only have to await the deluge of public adulation that is sure to follow.

American Clive tells the story of American Clive who faces a massive dilemma. American Clive’s life is thrown into chaos when she cannot remember the dream she had – that dream was the perfect screenplay and her life as a film-maker depended on it. The directors of American Clive perfectly convey the angst and frustration felt by American Clive as she waits for the memory of the dream to return. American Clive was gripped by the dream and, whilst unconscious, she decided everyone else would be too; she awoke and thought that she must write it all down. Unfortunately, she then decided that the dream was so vivid that it did not need documenting. In the morning, she remembered nothing.

After days of self-torture, American Clive is invited to become an astronaut, however, she sidelines the decision on space to sleep and retrieve the dream. Sitting upright in her bed for 24 hours a day, she stares into space, not the space that awaits her on a Russian rocket, but the space of the errant dream.

American Clive will have audiences in tears and be watched for generations to come as teachers across the country leave their classes in front of the DVD on the last day of term. Some stewdents may have brought in Gameboys or Ludo but American Clive will captivate all whose whiskers happen upon it.