The Homegame diaries – Day 2, Saturday 13 March

There’s no two ways about it. We’re running pretty late.

Yesterday’s over-exertions in Anstruther have left us a little worse for wear, and negotiating the trail to Homegame doesn’t start till the rugby hoards have made their mark on the streets of Edinburgh.

So, of course, by the time we roll in at 4pm we’ve already missed Benni Hemm Hemm and Meursault whipping up an aural storm. But thank god we’ve still got James Yorkston. Or, maybe not.

On our arrival at Erskine Hall we’re politely informed the former Fence luminary has ‘called in sick’ – posh code for ‘he was bevvied last night and couldnae make it in due to his gnarling hangover’, no doubt. Fortunately, stand in pairing The Lone Pigeon and Pictish Trail are more than adequate replacements, dousing the crowd with a stream of delicately executed acoustic numbers.

The Erskine’s tangerine-splattered walls are a little too much for our pulsing craniums and, on the back of a tip from Team Skinny, we march on down to the Hew Scott Hall where Men Diamler is dishing out a plateful of quirky laments.

Striding through the crowd, acoustic guitar in hand, the corduroy-clad songsmith woos the audience with chirpy off-kilter cuts and a cloudbursting warble. The expletive-addled finale proves too much for younger punters, but for the rest of us it’s an archetypal Homegame moment that will live long in the memory.

By now our hangovers are receding quicker than Wayne Rooney's thatch and we attempt to finish them off with a quick trip to Anstruther harbour. With the sun setting and a cool sea breeze blowing through our barnets, we’re struck by the beauty of this tiny Fife village. The sad thing is, if it wasn’t for Homegame we’d probably never know it exists.

Poignant day trip moment ticked off, we make a beeline for the Town Hall where we catch Remember, Remember turning out a dreary post-rock symposium. One half of UtR is adamant the Glasgow outfit’s better than this, but tonight they're a paralysing bore until the cacophonous closing number invigorates our pulses. Sadly it's too little, too late and the damage is done.

Returning 80s legends The Bluebells are greeted with a hero’s welcome. But chomping through stodgy, jangle-friendly numbers like a pastiche of their former selves, there’s little sign of the sparkle that rocketed them chartwards during their ‘glory years’.

Young at Heart is the obvious standout and a sea of moment-catching mobile phones greets its epileptic violin strains. But the execution is lackadaisical and the group’s only bonafide classic is reeled out as tiredly as you’d expect of a band that’s strummed the same chords for over 25 years.

Accepting defeat in our attempts to stay off the ale, we retreat to our new favourite boozer, Saor Alba, where we’re met with a cockle-warming coal fire, the oddly familiar sirens of Casualty and a host of Central Belt scenesters. You just couldn't make this festival up.

Beer swilling in bellies, we find Meursault, Animal Magic Tricks and King Creosote setting up in a sardine squashed Hew Scott Hall. Sounding a little blunt, the telltale signs of tiredness creeps through the set and a wave of punters, including half of UtR, make their way to the Legends rave room to witness Silver Columns attacking ear-canals with ‘electro moroder disco sounds’. Whatever the hell that is.

For the rest of us, we’re done. Finding Team Skinny in need of a lift back to Auld Reekie, we make a beeline for the UtR mobile and set off on the trek home to bed. Tomorrow we’ll be in better shape, we promise.

Words: Billy Hamilton
Picture: Su Anderson