Glasvegas in arse end of nowhere

And so it came to pass that a messenger came to them in the fields and told them that the Lord would give them a sign; his one and only son and he shall be found in a stable.
And the people said: “Let us go and see this thing that is happening” and hurried off and spread the word.   And so it happened that the people of the far frozen  north arose from their winter slumber and went with haste and  followed the signs to the east to pay homage.  And the people returned glorifying and praising, for all the things that they had heard and had seen which were just as they had been told.  

And so it is one frosty festive eve a  hundred or so hardy Scottish Highlanders make the pilgrimage through the snow towards a lowly cattle shed where Glasvegas , the spawn of those post punk hell raisers, The Jesus & Mary Chain, lay claim to their place at the right hand of the Father's of Scottish indie rock.  Reverently the Celtic tribes, whose hitherto entertainment has probably varied between counting the icicles forming on the inside of their window panes and inventing novel ways to smash the ice in their toilet bowls every morning, shuffle through the farmyard.  Some stop to stare in awe at the spanking new über tour bus parked up next to the hen house; Glasvegas will obviously have no worries if there is no room at the inn then for them.

So how do a band who have  experienced the heady heights playing Wembley Stadium,  Radio City Hall in New York, Lollapalooza, Chicago and boast a platinum  (eponymous titled ) selling CD in the UK end up here?  Glasvegas, it would seem, appear to be going through a renaissance of their “arse end of nowhere”  touring period; endearing then to fans in places largely ignored by the outside world.  Where to paraphrase from  Cult Tv documentary on Gwen, most people pass by and nothing much happens.  (Note: The Beatles.  They actually did play here once in the 1960's, presumably on their own pre fame “arse end of nowhere” tour, and only four people turned up to watch. I spy a handful of couples of a certain age in the crowd, teenagers of the 60's, clinging to each other in terror, but nevertheless determined to atone for this never forgotten sin.) Oh, by the way, the band's profile in the USA was initially raised through exposure on the St Louis web radio station, IChannel ..........web radio................get it?

As t he temperature struggles to reach -10 degrees in the shed on-stage it's difficult to distinguish between the dry ice and the roadies breath. Despite trying to glam the place up by sticking some  Christmas lights around James Allan's mike stand (I'm wondering how conducive that will be to songs about gang murder, S.A.D. lights and the disintegration of the nuclear family) the venue still has the subdued aura of somewhere Presbyterian farmers would have married off their already pregnant daughter's in the 1970's.  However, all this is swept aside as the band appear on-stage to the strains of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata and James wafts through the mist dressed uncharacteristically in pure white like some saintly apparition.  Only never fear, the de rigeur black shades are still in place, the hardcore Vegas disciples are still chanting: “Here we, Here We, Here We Fucking Go!”  and the Beethoven is of course still the backing track to Stabbed.  The energy instantly lifts and the place is transformed.  The crowd,  in good voice, lets loose on a wave of Celtic abandon that I would recommend everyone to experience once in their gig going lives.  One poor soul in steamed up bi focals spends the entire thing facing the wrong direction but still looks like he's having a great time.  

The band  use this opportunity to try out some new material from upcoming CD Euphoric///Heartbreak to be released later this year and to introduce new Swedish drummer, Jonna Löfgren; replacing Caroline MacKay, who was recruited because she looked right but whose skill she has admitted herself didn’t go much beyond banging on two drums.  It is the familiar anthems Geraldine, Daddy's Gone, Flowers, Cheating & Go Square Go (thanks to super fan Stuart Vegas by the way for showing me the salvaged set list) that raise the roof.  Listening to us give an unaccompanied rendition of the Daddy's Gone chorus an emotional James Allan gets up from his seat on the speaker stack and tells us :“That's the best thing I've ever heard in my life.” Mmmm.....slight exaggeration maybe, but hey, we can forgive him this, here's a man clearly going through some kind of personal rite of passage in front of our very eyes.  It's a bit like being part of some giant group therapy exercise only with none of the bad bits.  Like all good front men worth their salt Allan has a healthy dose of self obsession, that mixture of confidence tempered with vulnerability that induces love and devotion in both sexes, and a personal history providing a wealth of song writing matter.   A turbulent childhood/adolescence spent in and out of institutions including the notorious Polmont Young Offenders Institute was followed by a stint as a professional footballer cut short at twenty five because, he tells us after “Flowers And Football Tops”, heading the ball made him go “airy fairy”.  Dogged by mental health problems and allegedly going AWOL from the band for a short spell he also confesses that his life has been “like travelling from the Norfolk Broads to Ibiza” (….at least that's what I think he said).

C omparisons with the J&MC are inevitable, probably based on the perma shades, the  gritty urban image, the west of Scotland twang and the Alan McGhee connection.  In reality Glasvegas are indeed the upbeat bastard sons of J&MC, but with none of the ear splitting guitar feedback, the intensive post gig guitar smashing, the odd crowd riot and the big hair.  A Jesus & Mary Chain Lite for the twenty first century generation.  Glasvegas coincidently share a producer with Interpol and Franz Ferdinand.

All too soon and just as the temperature in the shed begins to comfortably rise above zero the gig is over.   Ending on a  wall of sound and the melancholic Ice Cream Van, an air of dissatisfaction creeps around the shed. No one is ready to leave the party yet.   The little guy next to me, voicing all our thoughts shouts out: “Dinnae end on that wan we'll be hingin' frae the rafters pal”, which roughly translates as: “Excuse me guys it may not be such a good idea to end the concert on that particular number as we the audience may leave feeling slightly depressed indeed if not positively suicidal”.  No sooner has he shouted this when he crouches down head in hands and I am bending down to console the boy, obviously overcome with emotion, when he looks up and grins:”My fucking eye's been stabbed.....fucking brilliant!!!” and brandishes a Glasvegas plectrum thrown by a  forceful guitarist's arm more used to reaching the depths of Hampden Stadium.  Then the lights come up and we know there's no going back.  Eye(s) shining with pain and happiness the boy sets off into the snow with 99 or so other rejoicing Highlanders.