The Glasgow he returned to was a very different animal from the one he remembered leaving. When he had left he had watched the flames of the city burn with tears in his eyes for many nights from miles and miles away. Now, there was just shells of once familiar buildings, glimmers of the past scrawled in dying graffiti on blackened walls, and of course the carpet of ivory bones, which crunched underfoot, he wondered if some of them were folk he’d known, shared a drink with maybe.
New Hellfire Club Glasgow takes on Knockengorroch World Ceilidh 2017, with a very unique approach to writing a review...a poem! Knockengorroch has always been a festival club favourite, but this year it truly did cement itself as Scotland's most awe inspiring party of the year! Hat's off to y'all at Knocky that make it such a wonderfully special experience.
(All opinions and views expressed by the artists are that of their own.)
A 20's something Glasgow lad
Who grew fair by the Clyde,
Awoke one morn' to discov'r
A fire doth burn inside.
With a scratch of his beard and a pull at his pants,
Out came the gunny sack, t’was his only chance.
To flee the city's smog, the breweries and their bouf,
He ventured off o'er burn and glen, in search for the forest of the South.
Now, the truest of Scotsman would normally say,
"You should never cast a cloot till the end of May",
B't this wee lad's the exception to the rule,
As he quite believes his Da' is an old Ayrshire fool!
Look Da, it's Knock and it's thirty degrees!
I've whipped out the shorts and the knobbly knees,
Can yeh see I've pitched my tent by the lass from Dumfries?
Says she's brought aw' the family, the dug and her niece.
He'd been told by an'ther, th't if he picked from the ground,
Within just an hour there'd be colour and sound.
So, he swallowed said advice and set off on foot,
His ear tuned to the Jackal's, Twistettes, Maxi Roots.
A dip in the river, a jump of the pond,
A whole weekend of bliss b’fore he'd have to abscond.
So, he grabbed a wee lass by the waist and the wrist,
And danced the world ceilidh whilst moderately pissed.
Unicorns parading, at least thousand strong,
Through a field in a valley to their own woodland song.
Children in polka dot, Mothers in plaid,
Fathers in tartan, making fun is their trade.
Music and dancing, a fire lit kiss,
A people he loved, he'd most certainly miss.
Until that time comes again when the sun beats the rain,
Back to Knockengorroch, a memory unstained.
Written/Edited - David Spence. Photographs - Ailsa Duncan.
The 3 tracks from Perfume are all wonderful pieces of chilled out electronica. 3 soundscapes that veer from Afro beat to jazzy overtones with consummate ease while retaining a simplicity that allows the music to breath. Often there is a temptation to flood such music, to overload the listeners' senses by complicating things for the sake of it - the layers in these tracks run deep, but they are distinct and readable.
I like the fact that nowadays more and more artists are taking the self-release, independent route and are succeeding doing it. Being signed to a label doesn't seem so vital anymore. It's definitely harder because you don't have the instant access to resources or contacts a label can have, but you can build those slowly and most importantly you can keep your creative freedom. Also being able to reach your audience directly through social media is great. You definitely have to be creative in finding ways to make a living oﬀ your music but I believe it is possible. One good example is American singer-songwriter Kina Grannis. She's a successful independent artist. I think her journey is interesting and she is extensively and cleverly using social media to build her career. And now there are many more artists doing so and I think it's pretty cool.
It doesn’t happen a lot these days, but every couple of weeks on a Friday night I tend to go out and eat, rather than drink. Don’t get me wrong, I do have the odd beer with my food, but it’s still always good to go out and do something a bit different every now and again, and since there is literally about a dozen eateries within ten minutes’ walk of my front door we are spoiled for choice, yet choose we must.
When did music lose its bite?
Where are all the protest songs in our times of strife?
Where have all the cowboys gone?
All important questions that seem to be swimming round my head this dank Wednesday morning as I awaken to Theresa May’s appalling fucking visage haunting my TV screen once again. Okay, maybe not the cowboy one, I think that was just a weird dream I had. We may get back to that… possibly.
I have a lot of influences. My dad was a big David Bowie fan so I grew up listening to that and other rock bands. At one point I was really into T-Rex as a teenager. I loved the flamboyant costumes and the light rock/pop melodies. I started playing fiddle at school then I got into folk music through this. I listen to a lot of contemporary Scottish and English folk music and always liked the odd sounding melodies from old folk songs. I also liked the unique voices that I would hear through folk music - it was never auto tuned and all the voices are so different as they sing in their own accents, and often their own dialect. Whilst listening to this I was also still listening to a lot of indie rock music and pop music and this still influences me a lot to this day. My favourite artist at the moment is an American harpist called Joanna Newsom who has a very distinct and unusual voice and is also incredible at accompanying herself on harp.
What are your influences?
I listen to hip hop, punk, pop, indie, rock, folk, disco, soul, reggae, funk. I think hip hop & punk have influenced my lyrics quite strongly, the rhythm of the rhymes and the content.
Amy Winehouse is a big influence on me lyrically.
As a writer I’m influenced by my surroundings, Scotland, my relationships, my friends.
Any regular gig-goer can attest to the trepidation that strikes your heart when a solitary band member takes to the stage before the set time. Not many things can silence a metal crowd but when Fleshgod Apocalypse's drummer Francesco Paoli hobbles on-stage there is a collective freeze amidst the audience. As he begins to explain his apparent ankle injury (the backstory of which I lose in the midst of my brain frantically begging "Please don't cancel! PLEASE DON'T CANCEL!", he informs us that the bad news is he'll be playing at fifty percent capacity (with additional technical aids) but that the good news is (in typified tradition of FA's dramatic flair) the show will go on!