King Creosote @ Celtic Connections - Old Fruitmarket, Glasgow – 28th January 2024
A special night on several counts, not least the loss of my CC cherry, an aspiration of many a long year. (Believe me, it isn’t that straightforward for someone living in England’s Midlands, it’s not as if it’s just up the road! In January, FFS!) That it should be Kenny Anderson, aka King Creosote, delivering the honours automatically adds further fillip, his I DES one of last years more intriguing releases. An intriguing mix indeed, with songs of plaintive yearning and almost experimental slabs of industrial noise, with, often, the both together, and a mile apart from the near orthodox motorik folk-pop of Astronaut Meets Appleman. On occasion, a sometimes difficult listen, and, frankly, Lord only knows what it all means, but a record that lingers, the train journey north sustained by it on repeat.
The Old Fruitmarket is exactly what is says, if part of Glasgow’s City Halls Venue. A large and high-roofed hall, with the names of erstwhile fruit and veg vendors plastered about the balconies. Two floors, standing down, and, sitting above, so, on that basis, much as many a converted theatre venue, if with a shedload more character. A decent-looking bar hugged the side wall with a merch table at the back, so all any honest punter might need.
Bang on 8, on strode our tarry King, eager to explain the support act. In that there would be no support act other than the support act provided by he and his band. Which isn’t as contrived as it sounds. Well, not quite as contrived, with the idea being he would keep a low profile during this first segment. (As in, yeah, right.) So who did we got? Derek O’Neill on keyboards, Lomond “Ziggy” Campbell on further keyboards and vocals, and Andy Robinson, programming and percussion. Further upfront came Mairearad Green on accordion and occasional bagpipes and Hannah Fisher on fiddle, both vocalists too, and, like the others, long-term KC associates. A surprise was Heidi Talbot, on further additional vocals.
Green opened proceedings with an accordion based song, Anderson strumming along and gurning, breaking any of her concentration, with, then, Fisher attempting the same, on fiddle. Once more the elvish interferences of her bandleader conspired to have her lose her way, starting again and switching to guitar, all to Anderson’s mirth. Talbot was looking nervous, but it was Campbell next, with a synth heavy drone and response. All so far, so weird, nobody quite sure whether any of this was expected or intended, let alone rehearsed. (And so, all the more likely part the master plan.) Talbot, as the one with least Fence Collective collectivism in her, elected to do a Tom Waits song, her stirring version of Time, asking for and getting the audience to sing with her. And that was that, off they went, Anderson promising to return in a frock for the next section.
He didn’t, but, kicked straight in with a cover, a whimsical tread of Tom T. Hall’s That’s How I Got To Memphis. A fairly light number, certainly as compared to anything on I DES, it was followed by the somewhat similar tones of Running On Fumes, from his Jon Hopkins collaboration of 2011. Then, in a fashion repeated several times during the show, he launched into the first song from the new album with a brief acoustic “rehearsal”, as in, he and his guitar alone. A few bars, and some banter, in, ahead the dirgey slabs of synthesiser drones piledriving in, and we were off. It’s Sin That’s Got Its Hold On Us, with plenty of knowing looks and gestures, worked well in the live setting, the contrasts between the acoustic guitar, Mairearad’s accordion and Fisher’s counterpoints of fiddle versus the heavy electronica of the rest of the band. If Talbot looked a little at sea, she had the opportunity, later, to add some effectively icy duet vocals, the tremble in her voice giving her a suitably spectral presence.
It was all swiftly apparent we were getting the album in order and track by track, as Blue Marbled Trees followed, perhaps the strongest link to the more commercial side of the singer, the propulsive beat another fond familiar, with Fisher’s fiddle a more obvious source of the melodies than on the disc. Robinson was busy between drum machines, and his mallets, shakers and tambourine; it’s not often a cymbal and side drum comprise the entirety of the actual physical kit. Burial Bleak was bleaker than hell, as it only threatened to be on the album. By now there was a distinct sense that there is a deliberate distance of some size and intent between this album and the last. It feels almost as if his brush with the mainstream is to be denied, Anderson much comfier with this slightly shambolic version of himself, and with an acoustic-electronica palette. Of course, this is mere supposition, with nothing given away from the stage, bar a gag or two about ageing. (Did you know he was 56, he telling us several times.)
Dust was danker and dronier than the studio version, with Green shifting to bagpipes, not that we were to get anything as novel as a tune out of the instrument, the tone and substance all the requisite delivered. Is this all sounding depressing? Strangely, it didn’t, even if you were to hang on the words, it all being balanced by his wryly cheeky chappy demeanour and the backshot video. I found myself captivated by split shot images of, possibly/probably Crail’s distinctive roofs. All to soon it was the set (and album) highlight of Walter De La Nightmare, quite the most joyous a dirge can ever be, even if you discount the tremendous lyrical self-deprecation. Bloody gorgeous.
I wondered how Susie Mullen might unfold, given the main thrust of the song is a repeated tape loop of spooky schoolgirl witches. The answer was by muting that aspect slightly, still there, but bringing up the other elements higher into the mix, and Fisher playing her fiddle over the top of, and replicating the banshee chorus. With the drum machine on overdrive. The audience seemed suddenly to go ballistic, arms flailing around me. The more experimental Love Is A Curse blended well into the almost title track, Ides. Anderson here made sure due recognition and gratitude was given to O’Neill, for his keyboard and overall contribution, the song a piano led reverie. O’Neill, or Derek, is Des, one of many possible given explanations for the album’s name, should that be at all convincing. Anderson’s falsetto wept pathos.
Please Come Back I Will Listen, I Will Behave, I Will Toe The Line threatens, on record, to be an absolute belter, and, here, tonight, it was that and so much more. With pounding rhythms, it became ever more manic, Anderson pleading and pleading and pleading. It was astonishing and uplifting, stretched out and extended by repeated entreaties. Almost as exhausting to listen to as exhausting for Anderson to implore, it felt like a showstopper, or, at least, the end, a point duly made by the singer. But rather than going off stage, on they stayed. Three more songs ensued, each of them new and getting a first play. Much as I was hoping for, say, Melin Wynt, especially as the bagpipes reappeared, this wasn’t to be, even with Anderson now strapping on Green’s accordion. Entitled So Folorn and Saffy Nool, the first two remained much in the dronetastic synthfests plus acoustica model of I DES, their newness of no concern or threat to the audience, by now eating out of Anderson’s hands, to his no small evident (surprised?) glee. The finale, which we had all been coached for, right at the start, was a frankly bizarre remodelling and deconstruction of, I think, an old Dryburgh’s advertising jingle, which were instructed to sing along with, in unison: “Strike it rich with Dryburgh’s heavy, Scotland’s heavy.” Of course, I could be wrong, it possibly all coming from Anderson’s florid imagination, his muse having precious few boundaries or limitations. Irrespective, it was a marvellous way to end the night, even as it became swiftly apparent that encores were not included tonight.
In our review of I DES, I mused as to whether any of the meaning of this extraordinary melange of an album would become clearer in a live setting. Did it tonight? Not a chance. Did it matter? Hell. no, and Kenny can continue to mystify and intrigue me, onwards.
Here’s a recent clip, sans Green, Fisher and Talbot. Enjoy:
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