KING CREOSOTE PLAYS INVERNESS

Musician expresses an opinion – Inverness collectively shites itself inside-out.

“Well, he’s screwed himself now” confidently proclaims the local artisan to other nodding local artisans in the foyer. And it was an opinion I had certainly flirted with as I wandered out of Eden Court Theatre, surrounded by a rake of 40somethings wearing deliberately esoteric 90s band t-shirts and very suspect knitwear.

The night started as many do in Eden Court: queuing politely for an expensive pint in a plastic cup amongst the din of the middle-aged hubbub of babysitter chat and anecdotes of once seeing the venerated Stewart Lee here. But little did we know that what awaited us was an evening filled with nostalgic tunes, uncomfortable praise for your favourite right-wing commentators on Twitter X, and a confusing existential dilemma for many.

The first 30 mins was standard enough. Experimental modular synth accompanied by disembodied chat about mad, wee jellyfish on a massive telly in the back. Like Alan Watts on some heavy Ketamine. An enjoyable, almost meditative single piece that we all collectively felt that we definitely liked because that’s the sorta stuff people who know about music should like.

After a pint and a piss came the main King Creosote bit. Well-crafted pop songs about love and ballads about loss are his vibe – the mince and tatties of the music industry. But tucked in amongst the songs were wee comments and longer anecdotes that unveiled his political views and penchant for a conspiracy theories that I don’t think anyone was expecting.

We knew we were on shaky ground when the climate change chat came out about how the polar ice caps were “growing back” and that wind turbines should be in landfill. At first we couldn’t tell if he was being ironic, or maybe just being a wee bit of an agitator. But once he got onto chemtrails, irony had packed his bags and fucked off on a dirty weekend to Dornoch with his fancy piece.

Sitting in the audience, you could feel the discomfort sweeping through the theatre. KC quickly and mercifully moved on to play a lovely wee song about his now grown-up daughter ‘My Favourite Girl”. The tension lifted and was replaced by sentimentality and a massive lefty sigh of relief. “Maybe that’s it” we all thought…

Then came his soon-to-be hit song ‘I Hope I’m One Of The Good Guys’, in which he lists a rake of perceived bad lads, anointing them all “good guys”. An odd list that included JK Rowling, Right Said Fred, Candace Owens, Alex Jones, Naomi Wolf, Neil Oliver, and good ol’ Mel Gibson, to name just a few dastardly characters from the 21st century.

Politics now firmly nailed to the mast and a silent walkout by a few of the outraged of Inverness brought us to welcome crescendo. An almost Scooby Doo-like ending in reverse where an unveiling of a right-wing devil in sandals would be the enduring memory of the night for many.

But what do we really want from our favourite artists? Must they just dutifully trot out our favourite tunes on stage? When they come out with craic that is opposed to our own current sensibilities are they now consigned to the big wheelie bin of wanks, never to return? Or can we deal with a bit of bad craic and separate the art from the artist?

Do we still fuck with The Smiths now Morrissey (he was mentioned in KC’s list too) now he’s a bit iffy from a left-wing point of view? The thing is they’ve probably had those views all along. The artist chuckling manically as they write another seemingly innocent pop song about sweeties that is actually secretly about Israel’s right to starve Palestinian children.

Take Kneecap’s recent blow up. The right has pure cancelled them, despite the fact they’ve always had the same views and the same craic for years. But thrust that unpalatable view in the face of those who don’t agree, it’s a one way trip to Cancellationville my friend.

Listening to people talk in the foyer afterwards about the gig, they were pretty adamant that was it for them and their long relationship with King Creosote, all because he said what he thought and what he thought was, like, pure wrong. If only he just kept it all locked deep down inside. All us poor wee music fans could enjoy his albums without having to face the reality that our favourite musicians are not the ever-nodding 2D projections we demand them to be. Turns out that some artists are just wee fellas who spend too much time ‘doing their own research’ and not enough time reading whatever-the-fuck-it-is you’re reading.