Southern Tenant Folk Union, Storytelling Centre

A band whose live performances I've reviewed three times in the past, and with the same line of personnel for tonight's as for those on 10 December 2015 and 12 May of this year, so there's not all that much new to say.  The fact that I've been to see them again indicates I'm something of an established fan, and this was another excellent performance.

There was plenty of new material though, from the recently released seventh album, Join Forces.  Once again much of the material is political, McGarvey happily wears his left of centre views on his sleeve, and the act is all the better for that honesty.  Tories will not always feel comfortable at a Southern Tenant gig.

The evening mixed up the old and new, with more recent material dominating the first set, the back catalogue more apparent in the second.  It's a reminder of how much the band's styles and personnel have changed over the decade in which they've been recording and performing.  The current five piece has survived for some time now, and is all the better for it.  It's proving to be one of the best yet, with Rory Butler's thin but  interesting voice providing his own fresh interpretations of older songs and setting the tone for those on the last two CDs.  Musically the style is more folk than country at the moment, with Katherine Stewart's fiddling at the forefront, but McGarveys plinking banjo always providing a reminder of their Americana roots, even on the superb, and very Scottish, sets of tunes that Stewart sparkled on.

Always enjoyable, especially in front of a home crowd, Southern Tenant continue to impress as a live act and wouldn't disappoint any fan of quality folk and acoustic music.

A Street Cat Named Bob

Based on the book of the same name, this is the true life story of James Bowen and the cat that helped turn his life around.

Bowen is a recovering heroin addict, living on the streets and earning just enough from busking to feed himself.  The opening scenes, showing a few of the harsh realities of that life, suggests Ken Loach territory.  But director Roger Spottiswoode has chosen to go down the feelgood route and there's little grit to the drama from that point on.

Helped by his drugs counsellor Val, he is given a flat and the chance to get himself clean.  Further good fortune comes in the shape of eccentric neighbour Betty, and, sneaking in an open window one night, a ginger tom.  It's the latter who proves to be the biggest influence on James' road to recovery.  With Bob at his feet, or draped across his shoulders, his busking, and later Big Issue selling, never fail to draw crowds of admirers.  And far more money than he's been used to.  He and Bob also become, without being aware of it, a YouTube sensation (go have a look).  This will eventually lead to the book deal that propels him to greater fame and fortune.

It's concentrating very much on the heart warming stuff.  The difficult relationship with his father is quickly glossed over, and the portrayal of his final withdrawal from methadone is a long way from Loach.

Luke Treadaway gives a strong performance as a somewhat sanitised Bowen, and Joanne Froggat is excellent as the stern but supportive Val.  There's only one real star though.  Much of the cat action was undertaken by Bob himself, and any cat owner will marvel at how you can get one of these highly independent creatures to accept direction!

Is this a movie designed to get you feeling all warm and fuzzy inside?  Very much so.  Is it over sentimentalised?  Check.  Is it shamelessly emotionally manipulative?  Yup.  Does that mean I hated it?  No.

But I'm a cat lover/owner.  If you're not then this is one that's best avoided.  If you are then you'll probably fall in love with Bob.  I must admit to crying during the film, from the memories it brought back of a ginger cat who once helped me through some difficult times.  You might not have such an immediate emotional connection, but if you can ignore all the fluffiness of the script this is great fun for cat fans.

Heidi Talbot, Eastgate Theatre, Peebles

Her sweet and husky Irish lilt has established Heidi Talbot as one of the finest singers on the contemporary folk scene, with several fine albums to her credit and an excellent live act.  The current tour is to launch the latest album, Here We Go 1,2,3, which features more lyrics penned by Talbot herself than her previous work.

With her trademark fairy lights enhancing the stage, she's joined by two mutil instrumentalists in husband John McCusker and the risng star Toby Shaer, plus the magical guitar work of Sorren Maclean.  And, this effectively being their home gig, Heidi and John had brought along their young daughter Mollie Mae to join them in a couple of numbers.

They played two sets, with a mix of new and familiar material.  And Talbot made way for the talents of her band with a couple of rousing sets of tunes, mostly written by John and a song from Maclean (who provided backing vocals on many of the songs).  The new material feels very personal, the lyrics drawn from experiences in Talbot's life, and there's a good mix of themes and tempos.  The standard of musicianship is high.  McCusker is rightly sought after as musician and producer, Maclean is well established in Scotland and beyond.  And Shaer was absolutely their equal, providing some delicious flute solos.

Talbot's an endearing presence, funny and open, and there were several dry remarks and amusing stories from her spouse.  They create a warm atmosphere, and whether it's a tender love song or a rousing reel the audience always feels complicit in the event.

Highly recommended.

Sheesam & Lotus & Son, and The Crooked Boys

Two very different Canadian bands, but both providing great entertainment via their own routes.

I've reviewed S&L&S before, in September last year, and everything I wrote then still stands.  A central core of fiddle, banjo, sousaphone and two excellent and complementary voices with additional sounds from an eclectic mix of instruments, tap dancing and body parts (by which I mean Sheesam playing his own body, not that they bring along an assortment of bits of corpses).  Plus, on this occasion, a song from the usually silent Son Sanderson who might not equal the others in vocal talent, but is their match in entertainment.

It's foot tapping feelgood music, with the benefit of visual and verbal comedy.  Not to be missed if they come your way.  (They have a few more dates in England this week.)

In contrast I came to The Crooked Brothers with no expectations, or any idea of the type of music they played.  With drums and double bass anchoring, the three front men  play an assortment of guitars, dobro, mandolin, banjo and harmonica, and all three take their turns at lead vocals.  There's variation there too, from a gruffness the equal of Tom Waits to a sweeter balladic tenor.

The music is hard to pin down.  Country rock, blues and folk are mixed into an appealing chunk of Americana sound.  There's a lot of energy in the songs, even the slower numbers, with solid rhythms, diverse harmonies and lyrics covering a variety of subject matter.  The sinisterly titled 'Organs on Demand' is well outside the usual remit of country music!

There was also a solo number, the excellent and bluesy Mean Mean Baby, with just voice and harmonica, and a duo performance, but for the most part this is very much an ensemble performance, tight and fun for all involved.  All three singers take their turns providing introductions and showed off some pleasantly dry humour.

Although the standard of musicianship, and sheer originality, falls short of the standard set by the first act, it was a hugely enjoyable set and immediately enjoyable.  Being called back for two encores testified to the rapport they built up with their audience.  They can be seen at various venues around Scotland in the coming days, before they move over to Holland.

I, Daniel Blake

Franz Kafka's The Trial is famed for it's depiction of an impenetrable labyrinthine bureaucracy, the banality of totalitarianism, the powerless of the individual faced with the complexities of authority, and for providing the inspiration for Iain Duncan Smith's vision for the DWP.

OK, I may have made that last bit up, but I, Daniel Blake is a powerful reminder of the narrow boundary between truth and fiction.  A fifty something carpenter who is recovering from a serious heart attack, Blake has been told by his doctors he should not return to work for a lengthy period.  But the DWP have been instructed to ignore expert medical opinion and instead heed the decision of the rather less than expert staff at Atos.  Blake is told that, by DWP standards, he is considered fit to work.

He tries to help a young mother, Katie, who has been moved to Newcastle from London where the authorities are unable to find her suitable accommodation, and is having similar problems getting enough money to live on.  She eventually resorts to desperate remedies just to feed her kids.  Blake, with only himself to look out for, tries to hold out, but is forced into an action that reflects the downward spiral he has become trapped in.  The one thing that kept him going, hope, is steadily eroded by the obstacles that dog him throughout.

Meticulously researched, Ken Loach has produced a picture of Britain that most of us are fortunate enough not to experience, but could easily just be a mishap away from.  To be able to keep his life together Blake has to look for work he's not fit to do.  It's humiliating, confusing, and, if you've no experience of accessing the internet, inaccessible.  The whole system is dehumanising, not just for those trying to claim their dues, but for the staff who have to administer it, being forced to meet artificial targets at the expense of the human beings who have come to them for help.

Dave Johns is superb as the central figure, clinging to his dignity with humour and humanity, and understandable fury and frustration.  Hayley Squires' Katie is an intense portrayal of desperation.  This is drama, so there are moments of pathos, of tear inducing sadness, but the audience doesn't feel any sense of emotional manipulation.  The sense of reality is too ingrained in the fabric of the movie for any suggestion that this is melodrama (and Loach has been careful to use well documented incidents as the basis for his action).

Mhairi Black is right, anyone who has responsibility for the way we treat the less fortunate in society should be made to watch I, Daniel Blake.  Probably the most important British film of 2016.

Dr Johnson Goes To Scotland (A Play, a Pie and a Pint), Traverse

A follow up to 2015's very successful A Word with Dr Johnson, this is a headlong dash through the tour of Scotland Johnson made in 1773, with the Scot Boswell as his companion, guide and advocate.  The latter hoped to convince the great man of letters that his highly negative views of Scotland were misplaced, and that greater exposure to the land and people would change his mind.

Picking out some of the most interesting of the events documented by Boswell in his account of the journey, the play is fast paced, funny, almost cartoonish at times, with scenes following one other rapidly.  Gerda Stevenson and Morna Young have a lot of fun portraying the many characters the pair encounter along the way, including a couple of horses complete with pantomime coconut sound effects.  Yet still with time to pause and deliver some poetry and music, and there's a fine rendition of the beautiful Gaelic song Fear A Bhata.

Beyond all the laughs there's a serious side too.  Johnson is forced, reluctantly, to admit that in some ways Scotland is the superior country, especially when shown the development of a sign language for the deaf.  And there's a strong contemporary relevance to the dialogue when the travellers discuss Scotland's relationship with England and the UK, and the nature of national identity.  Their answer lies beyond being just about the people, or language, or historic culture, but in how a nation keeps evolving and redefining itself, how it relates to the wider world.  The contrast between the narrow tribal nationalism currently so prevalent in England, and the more inclusive, outward looking, civic nationalism that has developed here, is a stark one.

Lewis Howden is a pompous, at times arrogant Johnson, but one willing to change his mind when the evidence is put before him and generous enough in spirit to admit it.  Simon Donaldson excels as Boswell, disputatious and energetic, licentious yet learned, his narration holds the story together as it flies along.

Easy to enjoy just as a comedy, lightly informative as a historical piece, there's also enough depth to the script to give the audience more serious questions to ponder if they wish.  Highly recommended.

One Thinks of It All as a Dream, (A Play, a Pie and a Pint), Traverse

It's 1967, Pink Floyd are hitting the big time, and front man, and creative powerhouse, Syd Barrett is showing signs of erratic behaviour. Is that down to the effects of the drugs that flow plentifully around their rock star universe, or there something more serious going on?

Commissioned as part of the Scottish Mental Health Arts and Film Festival, the action shows the changes in Barrett's mental state over a period of several years, and the affect this had on the other members of the band.  The costumes and set do a good job of taking us back to the sixties, but the dialogue says otherwise.  It's stilted, artificial and loaded with heavy handed references to contemporary events just to sledgehammer home the times.  This ersatz reality detracts from very real sense of Barrett's other-worldliness and the reactions of his musical colleagues.  At times it has the feel of a badly narrated documentary.

The play is partially redeemed by the final five minutes, showing Barrett some years after he left the band, when Euan Cuthbertson's portrayal is at it's best, and the ambiguity surrounding the real causes of Syd's problem is amplified.  Andrew John Tait gives a good performance as the voice-of-sense and commercially driven Roger Waters, but the other cast members are overly by the script.  And the cameo portrait of controversial psychiatrist R D Laing was a shoehorned reference too far.

It all felt like a missed opportunity.  Disappointing.

PS.  On returning to the bar there was seventies Fleetwood Mac pouring from the speakers.  Coincidence, or did someone in the Traverse decide it would be ironic to suggest a link between Barrett and the equally tragic figure of Peter Green?  I think we should be told....