James Yorkston - Its Lovely to Be Here: The Touring Diaries of a Scottish Gent

For LJ, ER & TR

I td been a strange old time for me. I was approaching 30 and had thus far failed almost entirely in my efforts to become a working musician, whatever that meant. What did that mean? Well, not working in a hotel or bookshop; doing music and nothing else. Id spent most of my twenties on the wing and a prayer of another persons band; following said other persons blind belief and infectious confidence. Unfortunately or fortunately, perhaps it had got us nowhere, very slowly. Well, not quite nowhere. Wed done the odd bit of touring, released a mostly forgettable album, recorded in a few friendly studios. Wed had a taste of what it was like to be musicians. Did that make it easier? No, of course not. It made it worse.

During the dying embers of said band, Id begun to make a plan to help my state of mind. You see, the thing about being in someone elses band, is that musically it isnt always 100 per cent satisfying. In fact, in this case, by the end it wasnt even close. That alongside the fact we were all still working our day jobs or on the dole and it became an uncomfortable situation. Pretty quickly the most obvious direction to head was OUT. My master plan? Simple. I was going to work in a bookshop, re-sit my exams from school (they have an expiry date, I was surprised to learn) and apply to attend university for the first time, to go and study you guessed it music.

I had this little fantasy that I could release my own music on the newly emerging Internet, maybe play one or two shows a year and thatd do me. Id already had a taste of life as a solo artist Id been handed a support slot for Bert Jansch in the back room of a bar somewhere in Edinburghs East End but that gig hadnt gone terrifically well. Why not? Well, I was dreadful. Bert was nice though. I gave myself two years to finish those exams, record a few songs of my own and have a record of my time in Edinburgh before I buggered off somewhere else to wallow in academia if academia would have me. A good plan? Well, its giving up. Giving up is always a good plan it clears the decks. Lets you see whats really what.

With this new found musical freedom, Id been heading back home to Fife once in a while to see what my old buddy Kenny was up to. Kenny and I had attended the same secondary school and our paths had crossed many times since, mostly in tiny beer sweated venues up and down Scotland. Ever industrious, he had now opened a record shop in St Andrews called Fence Records, and was starting to put on shows every Wednesday in this wee wine bar close by. Id show up there now and then and hed let me sing a few songs, or sit by the side of the stage with my mandolin and clang along with whatever he was doing It was incredibly liberating, not really knowing his songs (or how to play the mandolin) but being there anyway, playing away without a worry. If I fluffed a note, the worst thing Id get is a wee laugh from Kenny. Next time he played the song, Id maybe get it right.

He had all sorts of musical oddballs turning up who for some reason or another didnt want to play or hear Brown-Eyed Girl or Wild Mountain Thyme. A few of them Kenny was related to his younger brothers, who went by the noms de guerre of Pip Dylan and Lone Pigeon and a few he wasnt The Pictish Trail, Uncle Beesly and Billy Pilgrim. Aliases abounded in late 1990s North East Fife. It could be a cacophony, sure enough (especially if I were onstage, I should add for historical accuracy), but it all started to make sense somehow and more and more like-minded folk, musical and otherwise, started rolling up. Alongside this, in his shop Kenny had started selling his own music, under his new name, King Creosote. His CDRs would sit in the racks alongside David Hasselhoffs and Kylie Minogues and this was fine encouragement for others to do the same. Imagine having your own CD in the shop? Hmm. Now, theres an idea

So I started recording the songs Id been writing. Pretty shoogly at first, as I tried to find my voice as a solo artist. My guitar playing was rudimentary, my singing voice weak and unsure of itself and as for the songs well, I knew what I didnt want to be writing I knew who I didnt want to be but finding something I could live with was a different matter. One of the early songs was called Kenny Rogers. It wasnt very good. Another early one was Pictures of the Saints and it featured me pretending to be Scott Walker. Any good? What do you think? Thats right. But it did have an almost not-bad lyric in the middle: Some people mistake silence for wisdom; I have no idea so Ill just keep on talking Hmm. So maybe it wasnt that hot.

But soon a few okay things started emerging. A song called A Man with my Skills, another The Lang Toun, another Moving up Country, Roaring the Gospel. Bits and pieces. It took a while, thats for sure, until I had the 10 songs needed, creaky guitar and woozy ramblings all. I gave Kenny a CD of them and some artwork, he burned a few copies and placed them in the racks of his shop. My debut album, something to be proud of. I think it sold six copies in total.

Despite this success, there was still some ambition to be assuaged, a nagging which led to me sending a demo cassette to John Peel. Id grown up listening to Peel, of course himself and Andy Kershaw. There wasnt a huge amount of alternative music played in Kingsbarns, the village Im from, during my childhood alternative to Top of the Pops or the Auld Grey Whistle Test, which every time I turned on had some long hairs soloing wildly and boringly or some folky trouts carping their way solemnly through some dirge. Peel, though well, for me, like for so many others was simply essential listening. Songs about New York by artists youd never hear of again. Newsletter! Newsletter! Who wants to buy my Newsletter? It seemed so exotic back in windy old Fife.

So, Peel it was. Ill send him a demo. Record the songs onto cassette, listen back its all there make a cover professional-looking write clearly, including my phone number and address in case he wants to pop round buy a brand new Jiffy bag envelope, write his name in big, clear letters go to the Post Office and hand it over: How much to send this to London? The Post Office wifey scans over the name and gives me a quick look that says Hell never play this, youre wasting your time my manny but I shoot her a look back that says Hes a close and personal friend or maybe Im getting old and maybe a little desperate. She backs down, asking me for her 68p or whatever it was back in those days. 30p, perhaps. I walk home, high on adventure having just climbed the first demo tape to John Peel mountain.

The next few weeks I listened in to his show intently and thoroughly, all the way through just in case hed slip it in right at the end. But he never did. Or at least, I never heard it. I wonder if I had a plan B?

Then, one Sunday morning, I got a call from a friendly sounding guy with a rather odd Denis Norden type accent. Hello, is that J Wright Presents? (My recording alias at the time) Ah, yes. Hello? And said friendly sounding guy tells me how hed heard me on John Peel and wanted to release my music. Wow. His name is Joff, he runs Bad Jazz Records and hes offering me a 50 advance. Ive hit the big time.

These record deals take an age, even with tiny wee micro labels like Bad Jazz. The first two weeks of negotiations involve me asking him for 10 before Ill send him a copy of my other songs. But James, this is how the music business works: you send the A&R people a CD for free how else will they hear you? Aye, Joff, but Im skint