THERE is a lot of hidden talent in these little islands way out west. You will never guess who appeared on stage playing the mandolin at a recent reception. One of our wannabe MPs, that’s who. No, it wasn’t Dr Jean Davis, of the Lib Dems. I do, however, have a suggestion for her that could help her win the next election if she keeps reading.
Somewhere, sometime, another parliamentary hopeful has been strumming furiously. Somewhere, sometime, a band was formed. And somehow Donald John Macsween, of Labour, is one of them.
Although he and most of his fellow performers were lurking beneath black fedoras so nobody would recognise them, your correspondent was not fooled by these mad hatters. Gavin Lawson was the lead singer and the unlikely ensemble was largely made up of a bunch of municipal types you bump into in the corridors of the White House council HQ.
Not quite what you may think of as eye candy: Derek McKim, Lachie Macinnes, Matt Bruce, Andy White and Alan Fish were obviously selected carefully because of other talents. Derek looked very chilled, as is anyone who can hide behind that bushy a beard. Matt looked meaner and moodier than usual – no, I didn’t think it was possible, either – lurking under a big brim. And the lot of them played not only adequately but almost superbly and in very melodic and harmonic time.
Gavin is a class act. That voice. He could put out the line no bother. If he wants to move his musicality up a notch, a future as a precentor in the Free Church (Continuing) awaits whenever he wants it. He and the lads soon had the small but perfectly formed congregation of culture vultures gathered in the Bayhead hall with the promise of a sausage and a swig quite enthralled. The mixture of wistful tunes drew heavily on mellow, western, jazzy, gospelly blues and stuff.
With yee-ha classics to boot, like Big Rock Candy Mountain, the huddle of Hebridean hobos put the count in country music with the seven of them wedged on to the creaking stage which had been kept warm by Murdo Dan Macdonald in the Altogether. Not that MD was showing us anything inappropriate, you understand, it is just that this new band of his is called Le Chèile, Gaelic for altogether.
It was a rollercoaster journey. The circle was unbroken by and by after we saw the light and then we went down to the river but we kept on the sunny side before saying goodnight to Irene and then seeing her in our dreams.
These guys do not even have a name yet. Suggestions like The Death Knell of Crofting, the Hillwillies and The Alasdair Allan Fan Club have, unaccountably, been discarded. Your suggestions, though, will be passed on.
Their professionalism even extended to a roadie being flown over the pond to take care of business. Mike Erickson soon had them wired up and, being American, he was also able to flip the burgers. Invaluable.
Mr Macsween’s contribution? Well, he is no Jimi Hendrix. Eric Clapton need not fret, either. But on this his first musical outing, he was, it has to be said, not that atrocious. He didn’t actually sing solo I don’t think, but I suspect he will be planning to withhold that particular treat until the post-election party. That news should clinch it for the SNP.
All bands have a rider – a list of demands you have to agree to when you book them. I have seen theirs. Champagne, caviar, pretty girls? Nope, just tea, coffee and home baking. Wow, how random is that?
Did ever-optimistic DJ know that Noel Gallagher was going to throw his toys out of the pram and that Oasis were going to have a vacancy?
The new Noel Gallagher
Donald Lamont came up with the outlandish suggestion that, rather than knocking lumps out of each other over who said what and when over the rocket range in Uist, maybe DJ Macsween and Angus Macneil, the MP, should instead just have a sing-off.
That fits snugly alongside the radical new criteria of custom and tradition that is now the mantra adopted by the great and the good who rule over us. Can the candidates actually sing, though?
To make it fair, I wonder how well Angus B could play the mandolin. He has that dark-eyed look of a cool plucker and I bet he could squeeze a melodeon or get a cat’s wail out of a set of bagpipes, if pressed.
I am sure, too, that the Lib Dems’ lady-in-waiting would be more than capable of tickling the ivories if Jean Davis put her mind to it. She has, I would say, that well-rounded personality which looks so homely and comfortable, particularly if it was perched adjacent to a grand piano.
So each Saturday evening up until polling day, we could have BBC Alba screening all the candidates’ efforts through their respective musical renditions. The weekly theme could reflect that week’s election issue. So rather than have all that tedious debating over whether SNP-inspired RET is the best thing ever, they could each perform their version of Sailing and be done with it.
We would then ring in and vote. Done, matter decided.
On the Uist range issue, Macneil, Macsween and Davies and any other running mates which materialise from the Stop Sunday Ferries campaign could take it in turns to perform a tribute to defence minister Quentin Davies. Elton John’s Rocket Man? Or B.A. Robertson’s Bang Bang?
The next week, the issue could be, oh I don’t know, fishing quotas. The hopefuls could all give us their versions of Brotherhood of Man’s perennial Save All Your Kippers For Me.
Then, just before the phone vote, the candidates could all gather round and together play something appropriate. Like Prawn To Be Wild or something by Sushi Quatro?
Or maybe just something off the Sex Pistols’ memorably anarchic collection entitled Never Mind The Pollocks.
An Lanntair on Monday night when he met a Hebridean Humpty -that’s Humpty with an H.
