Co dhiu,
fed and
watered, the
Dun
Ringles
(Wattie
and
Jason)
hit the
stage and,
by popular
demand
kicked
straight
into their
1992 faux
ZZ
Top
meets
Steppenwolf
rock anthem
“Gunhilted”.
The absence
of the other
half of the
band (Robin
“Dr Teeth”
Watson
and
Jon “He
Wasn’t in
the Mule,
Was He?”
Laing,
who had
found more
interesting
things to do
playing a
wedding in
Edinburgh or
something),
was
mitigated by
Jason’s
battery of
high tech
prog rock
muso
accessories
and
effects.
Once the
audience had
collected
their
headbanged
out brains
off the
floor, the
pace slowed
down with a
rendition of
the
countryphobic
“Beyond
the Cattle
Grid”
from the
current
album “Giraffic
Park”.
Lewis Street
exile Wattie
may live in
Point these
days, but
his lyrics
here prove
that you
can’t take
the Town out
of the
Townie -
there’s an
obvious
nostalgia
for the days
when the
uncivilised
maws were
barred from
the
cosmopolitan
boulevards
of SY, and
one suspects
that when
Wattie
becomes
dictator of
the
Comhairle,
these
measures
will be
reinstated.
Woaargh,
a'bhalaich!
Rawkin'
Gypsy
Beannag
Wearin
Git-tar
Maniac Jason
and a
slightly
embarrassed
Wattie fail
to get their
accents
sorted in
Men At
Work's "A
Tale of 2
Tractors"
Next up was
“A
Tale of 2
Tractors”
from 1992’s
“Vom
Your
Sproggans”.
Apparently
set to the
tune of
Men
at Work’s
“The Land
Down Under”,
this is a
dark tale of
simmering
rivalry
between two
neighbouring
crofters. Or
perhaps two
hillbilly
farmers in
the
Appalachians.
Or two
former
members of
70s yokel
rockers
The
Wurzels
in Somerset
– the wild
variation in
Jason’s
singing
accent as
the song
progressed
made it hard
to tell.
The bluesy “Bee
Without A
Bumble”,
from the
1994 Viking
invasion
concept
album “Flang
Your Doodle”
was next. It
has to be
said it’s a
little light
on
historical
accuracy.
For example
- “This
is my car/I
drive it
home/Sit in
traffic
jams,
Watchin’
other cars
go by/ladies
pushin’
prams”.
Now everyone
knows the
Vikings
didn’t have
prams. But
huidh, maybe
it’s a
cunning
metaphor for
how the
pillaging
Norseman
sitting in a
queue of
longships
was in
reality
trapped in
the same rut
as the
modern day
suburban
husband,
going
through the
motions of
life etc
etc. Co aig
a fios?
Straight out
of “Bee
Without a
Bumble”, the
band
launched
into their
non-family-friendly
single-entendre
perversion
in the
Castle
Grounds
ballad “Peter
Dan the
Rubber Man”
from 1992’s
“Boke
Your Drarsh”.
And then
hastily into
the
Leodhasach
Country and
“Westren”
of Jon Dun
Ringle’s
1992 “Cromwell
Street
Congregation”
, a song
that
Kenny Fags
and
Garry
Hawthorne
would have
paid good
money to
have
written. Not
that they
ever saw a
Friday night
in the
Narrows
because
they’d
invariably
be playing a
wedding
dance in the
Caber.
“I
Don’t Like
Sheep”
followed.
Another one
from “Flang
Your Doodle”
that doesn’t
seem to have
any Viking
connotations,
but is
instead a
rant against
the dominant
life form of
Lewis, in
the form of
a sensitive
ballad with
a nice tune.
“I don’t
like
sheep/They
make me want
to
weep/They’re
not the
apple of my
eye/Unless
they’re in a
pie.”
Historically
we know that
the Vikings
actually did
like sheep,
although
they were
more likely
them wee
brown things
you get on
St Kilda and
not big fat
cheviots or
even
blackfaces
at all. They
used to
graze a lot
of them out
on wee
islands
round the
coast, you
know, rather
than putting
them on the
moor, so
they would
probably
have been
quite well
fed because
there was
some good
grass out
there and…
ahem,
anyway…
On to the
final song
in the set,
“Giraffic
Park”,
the title
track of the
current
album. This
is the
terrifying
tale of a
monster
giraffe’s
attack on
the town of
Stornoway
and his
strange love
for a blone
in a
Mackay’s
frock who
looked like
Ch*rsty
Al*ne.
But why was
he in the
Castle
Grounds?
Where did he
come from? I
think a
concept
album is
needed to
explain
this. In an
interesting
postscript,
it seems
that Finbarr
Saunders
of
“double
entendres”
fame is
currently
locked in a
bidding war
with the
late Frankie
Howerd
and
the
producers of
the Carry On
films for
the rights
to the line
that comes
before “She
was wearing
a Mackay’s
frock”
At the end
of the set,
the audience
required
some
prompting to
demand an
encore, but
were
eventually
persuaded to
do so by
being
dragged up
on the stage
to help out
with the
acapella “Diggum
Da”
(also from “Flang”,
and also
fleek all to
do with
Vikings).
Everyone
stayed up
for backing
vocals on a
discotastic
rendition of
1992’s “Funky
Peatstack”
from “Vom”,
with
unsolicited
atonal
chanter
solos from
Roddy Huggan
and
arrhythmic
bodhran from
the
Hippy.
The final
final track
of the set,
after some
considerable
discussion
over what
key it was
supposed to
be in, was a
rockin’
assault on
Huckleberry
Hound’s
1957 classic
“Calum
B Sounde”,
with Jason
going git-tar
crazy in a
Hendrix
style and
Wattie
handing the
bass over to
Dead
Olac Guirean
so
he could
concentrate
on excessive
rock n roll
vocalising.
Unfortunately
Dead Olac’s
fingers were
calibrated
for his
cheapo bass
so he ended
up pulling
the strings
of Wattie’s
slightly
less cheapo
bass very
hard and
drowning
everything
else out.
But huidh,
cove, that’s
rock an’
roll.
The Dun
Ringles
headed off
stage to
tumultuous
apathy from
the
remaining
audience (ie
Susie),
but just
when the
fans thought
the night
was over and
were about
to dash for
the exits,
who should
appear but
some cove
claiming to
be
international
do-gooder
and failed
70s Hearach
pop star
Obbe
Geldof.
Geldof (82)
harangued
the audience
for money to
feed the
starving
livestock of
the Outer
Hebrides and
herded all
the bands
back onstage
to do a
grand
ensemble
closing
number in
aid of his
“charity”.
For a moment
I thought I
saw a
fleeting
resemblance
between
Geldof (74)
and tax
exiled Matheson Road pop
svengali/Tape Records
CEO
CJ Mitchell,
but I cast
the thought
to the back
of my mind…
Once lined
up on stage,
the
Avante
Gaelic All
Star
Ensemble
began to
argue at
length about
who was
going to be
George
Michael
and
who was
going to be
Simon Le Bon.
This was cut
short when
the opening
chords of “Feed
the Sheep”
kicked in
and Neil the
Hippy
snatched the
opening line
“It’s
Christmas
time – and
there’s some
sheep in
Sandwick”.
Everyone
then took
their turn
in a moving
rendition of
the old
charity
classic
about the
plight of
hungry sheep
in the
desert
wasteland of Mc*******'s croft, and
you could
see the
glint in
Obbe
Geldof’s eye
as he
counted up
the money
he’d
collected
and fled
modestly out
the back
door before
the song
ended.
Geldof had
instructed
the bands to
keep playing
for a long
time “to
give the
punters
value for
money”, so
when they
ran out of
words for
“Feed the
Sheep” they
attempted a
dance
version of
Bod
Strummer and
the Dun
Guireaneros
/Lynyrd
Skynyrd’s
epic “Freechurch”.
This sort of
fizzled out
after about
15 minutes
of aimless
keyboard
meanderings,
but will
undoubtedly
be cut short
into a disco
remix when
the live
album comes
out.
So that was
it – the
Midges of
Rock was all
done and
dusted for
another
year, and
long before
the Sabbath
as well. As
I staggered
towards the
Braighe
road, drunk
on Tennent’s
Lager and
gassed up
with samosas
that Jason
had left, I
thought back
to the early
80s when I
was a brash
young hack
at
Rolling
Steinish
magazine,
wired 24/7
on a
cocktail of
raw suet and
suidhean
mash. Man, I
was full of
notions
about where
music was
going. I was
sure that
the future
lay with
radical
avante garde
collectives
following
neo-marxist
theories of
aural
politics,
like the
Pop
Group,
the
Gang of Four
and
The
Lochies.
So yes, I
confess that
back then I
wrote off
the
Guireans,
Cyclefoot,
Zing-Pop and
all these
guys as a
shower of
talentless
morons,
incapable of
stringing
two notes
together,
let alone a
song. Yes, I
derided them
for
devaluing
the
transformative
potential of
popular
music with
their
trivial and
myopic world
view. Yes,
I told
everyone I
knew that
they were
just plain
crap. And
yes, now
that I’ve
been to MOR
2003 I have
to admit
that I was
wrong.
They’re far
fleekeen worse than
that.
Lester
“Peat” Banks
-
The
Plasterfield
Advertiser 7
September
2003