It was strange wandering around Bristol this evening on my way to The Fleece. The first day back after a Bank Holiday weekend is always a resentment-filled, depressing occasion and watching the harassed commuters stumbling along, eyes fixed down on the slick pavements didn't fill me with confidence for how this evening might pan out. Wet Tuesday evenings in Bristol aren't known for producing big audiences, and with the local crowd still coming down from the Simple Things festival at the weekend, I was worried it would be a small bunch of us turning out tonight. In the event, I needn't have worried - and this is perhaps testament to just how far tonight's headliners Slow Club have progressed in reaching new ears over the past year or so. However, once again The Fleece's odd talent for picking some incongruous support acts made for a curiously uneven evening of entertainment. Arriving late from what seems to have been a taxing journey from Leeds, Antibang appear to be taking the frustration out on the odd mixture of instruments up on the stage. They trade in a curious - and not always wholly successful - mixture of genuinely enthusiastic, raucously silly pop and deliberately off-the-wall moments of challenge. The band centres on their shouting, ranting vocalist/drummer hybrid, who gestures, moans and howls his way through the cacophony. He is supported by a second drummer, a guitarist in a cape and silver lycra leggings, and perhaps the lynch-pin of the band in the operator of their burbling, warped synthesiser sounds who also adds a female vocal counterpoint to this bewildering brew. This works best at the end of a long composition where both voices work around a theme of 'you're such a loner' and the sound coalesces into dreamy pop. Despite the meandering songs occasional crashing into outbursts of clapping, whistling, and singing in-the-round, the Bristol audience stays characteristically restrained throughout, though the band get a decent end-of-set send off. The dense, busy songs here tonight might fare a little better with considered listening on record. Antibang worked best this evening when their songs wound up into thudding, brassy confused endings. Otherwise I found Antibang a deliberately odd and occasionally uncomfortably contrived proposition. Perhaps I'm just a little bit too jaded tonight for this ranty, agit-jazz thing? Silver lycra and messianic drummer-vocalists aside, I sense there might be complicated and interesting music buried under the gimmicks and the overplayed wackiness.

Given my policy of generally not writing about things I don't completely enjoy, I've struggled with describing my experience of the previous act, and also more surprisingly with watching We Were Evergreen play tonight. On paper at least, they ought to appeal to me but I'll start with the obvious - this band is perfect. Uncomfortably, irritatingly and mind-numbingly so. The three faultlessly pretty people which form We Were Evergreen take to the stage and with an air of studied geek chic, to produce shiny, clean folk-pop which I have to confess the audience in The Fleece appears to adore. The sounds hinges on the electronic backdrops provided by Fabienne who hunches over her kit for long enough to get things going before joining in the twee dancing on stage. Singer and ukelele player Michael croons and strums between his own outbursts of joyful jigging, and it all fits seamlessly together. When they aim for Beatles-like harmonies, they land perfectly. When they add a little hint of europop fizz, it bubbles through the audience just how they wanted it to. The songs begin to blur into one for me mid-set, and I realise that this music has no edges - no peaks and dips to give me a journey to travel with the band, no surprises or twists to make me sit up and listen. Its a long, slick stream of beautifully designed but ultimately anodyne pop. There are elements here which, taken alone are fun and interesting - some of the cheesy beats which underlie the songs are infectious and I spy a little dancing at the front, and occasionally when they harmonise it makes for a pleasantly folky sound. I pick up hints of Even As We Speak but not their knack for writing engaging lyrics sadly. Ultimately I feel like I'm being conned here, and I can't quite put my finger on why. I also feel like I'm being hugely unfair, like I'm kicking a puppy which was only trying to make me happy. But this just wasn't for me. Live music is about the clicks and buzzes, spilled drinks, broken strings and false starts. It loses it's soul when it's this unblemished. We Were Evergreen are talented souls I'm certain, but I feel like they need to have their hearts broken before they'll ever truly reach mine.

I've written a great deal about Slow Club before, and I wondered how I'd add anything to my previous feverish declarations of love for the band's music. But one of the most engaging and endearing things about Charles and Rebecca's take on things is that sometimes it appears to all stumble together quite accidentally, and anything could happen on the way. Augmented tonight by their now practically full-time band comprised of Avvon and Stephen of Sweet Baboo, they take the stage with Rebecca arriving last to a huge reception. It's around now that I realise that Slow Club are reaching a much wider audience, and a glance around the now much increased all-ages audience shows a truly bewildering range of punters. It's here that as someone writing about music I should probably get sniffily elitist and suggest that these people weren't there at all the best gigs. But it genuinely never feels like that with this band - it's just really inspiring to see people listening and loving the music, and I want everyone to see why I bang relentlessly on about them. The band are also in that strange position where they are touring between releases. With last year's "Paradise" figuring heavily in the set, there are also several new songs which will form an as yet unrecorded EP. These songs are a little darker, a little slower perhaps, and interestingly Rebecca's voice is remoulded again when she sings them - switching character to become a wounded, country heroine this time around. Despite her professed "funny tummy" she is completely on form tonight - her voice reaching wonderful high notes and gravelly lows, and her between song jibes at ever-suffering Charles as barbed and witty as ever. It's really encouraging to hear these new songs get a boisterous reception from the audience alongside older material.

The highlight of the set is a truly beguiling "Hackney Marsh" where Rebecca and Charles come forward from their microphones and let their unamplified voices fill the room. The Fleece can be a pretty noisy space at the best of times, but there is pin-drop silence as they strip the song back to its roots. Even a false start and a fit of giggles can't break the spell, and neither the band nor the rapt audience are quite ready for what happens next. As the song moves into the section which is normally adorned on record by a saxophone solo, a bit of a clatter behind us signals Stephen Black clambering onto the bar and blasting out that solo as he crabwalks his way unsteadily towards the stage with a strange echo of Lisa in the opening credits of The Simpsons. Watching the surprise and delight in the room - in the audience, in the normally stoic Fleece bar staff, and up on stage - I realise it's one of those moments that you know you're going to talk about for years, and that you'll never quite do justice to in your description. With audience now hanging on every note, the set closes with "Giving Up On Love" delivered in riotous, triumphant style by the whole band again. Sometimes Bristol gigs feel a bit like a battle of wits, with the band determined to win over an audience who are doing their utmost to repel all boarders. Tonight, Slow Club had won from the moment they struck the first note, and what started as a fairly inauspicious night turned into perhaps my favourite show of the year so far.

I was beginning to feel like I was on a proper holiday. Sleeping uncommonly well, getting up late, lounging around drinking coffee and actually reading and writing are luxuries at the best of times, but to have another day of fantastic music to listen to was of course the clincher. I set out for my morning wander around Anstruther, and found plenty of others doing the same - Homegamers and locals alike seemed keen to stop and chat this morning. Maybe it's because the sun had managed a weak but fairly persistent appearance? In any case, having avoided being too desperately unhealthy so far this weekend, I decided that it was compulsory to visit the Anstruther Fish Bar to find out what the fuss was about. The food was very good indeed, and just like many things which will suffer in comparison after this weekend - it'll be hard to face normal fish and chips again. In fact, in conversation this morning a couple of us had shared the worry that adjusting back to any sort real life after this would be a tricky proposition. I banished these thoughts - after all, I'm a rational creature aren't I? It's just music. Isn't it?

I headed to the Erskine Hall early, because it was clearly going to be a busy session given the acts performing this afternoon. I wasn't wrong and the hall, decked out in children's art projects hung on walls painted a queasy yellow, was soon packed for The Pictish Trail. Johnny entered with his hood pulled tightly around his face, nursing the effects of the previous evening, and leaving the small children in the audience in no doubt about the consequences of making noise. Naturally, almost on cue a little one did just that, forming an unlikely comedy duo with Johnny to kick off the set. Unsurprisingly, from the outset The Pictish Trail had the appreciative Homegame audience hooked. The appreciation shown was as much for his efforts in leading the organisation of the event and spending days running around in a blind panic making final preparations - but Johnny wasn't about to let us forget that he can sing and play wonderfully. What is perhaps most remarkable is how effortless he makes it look - just closing his eyes, opening his mouth and letting that high, clear voice soar - despite the after-effects of sugary cider and sleeplessness. This afternoon was all about singer-songwriters, and this short but accomplished set placed The Pictish Trail chief among them today. Rachel Sermanni followed, an unenviable slot in some ways as the audience shuffled around to get to the various competing sessions today. Having heard snippets of Rachel singing in various sessions and radio spots, I was intrigued to see her perform. Most remarkable though in this age of affected cool among younger musicians, was her disarming frankness when talking about her songs and their inspiration. But then she would start to sing, and none of that stuff mattered. Her frankly amazing Highland voice dipping low then soaring high over the hall. I took a quick look around the audience to gauge opinion and found them sitting rapt, staring at Rachel in disbelief. The recordings I'd heard hadn't quite prepared me for hearing her sing live, and all of those sometimes a bit fawning superlatives heaped on her in the press seemed like perhaps they might be appropriate after all. When the set finished, with Rachel clearly touched and humbled by a fantastic reception, there was a collective sigh of approval. Definitely one of the stars of the weekend.

For a number of reasons, this afternoon's session was one of my most anticipated of the entire weekend, not least because of Iona Marshall. Her recent split 10" on De-Fence Records was a quietly released gem, which seemed to slip out to little fanfare except some enthusiastic backing from Glasgow PodcArt. Iona took the stage in a tangle of leads and equipment, but manage to weave some remarkable tunes around them. Perhaps the most overtly 'Scottish' sounding of the acts today with a strong presence of the sea in many of the songs, her outwardly simple folk tunes were transported by clever use of loops, beats and clever technical tricks. As someone who has insufficient co-ordination to walk and think simultaneously sometimes, I was left dazzled by the way Iona could manipulate her voice to produce the likes of the stunning "Shtoom". Martin John Henry was a much simpler proposition - the ex-De Rosa member and his guitar alone, and blinking out over a near-full hall. He admitted to nerves so bad he couldn't look at us, but this wasn't borne out in his music. Just like his former band, this was heart-rending stuff. Simple songs, sung with passion and commitment. Someone a few seats away whispered "I'm crying! Why am I crying?" - and I'm not sure if it was the strange Homegame atmosphere, Martin's quiet but powerful voice or the aching and transporting lyrics - particularly on the sublime "New Lanark" - but it was one of those moments. There had been a lot of them today already. I wasn't sure how many more I could take. But of course, I'd have to suffer more because next up were King Creosote and Jon Hopkins. Having produced one of the finest records of the year barely weeks into 2011, this was a much anticipated performance - and as we scraped and squeaked our chairs forward to allow more people to crush into the Erskine Hall, I was glad I'd staked my spot early. Not just because of this - but because of the amazing range of talent which had been seen here today. So, the slightly terrified looking Jon Hopkins took his spot stage-left behind a harmonium, and Kenny slipped from behind the sound desk to the stage with his guitar. Low key and simple it might be - but as they quietly began "John Taylor's Month Away" the audience were spellbound. I didn't even dare whisper my aging and overused gag about the song referring to the Duran Duran bassist visiting the Priory Clinic. The duo worked their way through "Diamond Mine", claiming to be unrehearsed but reading each others cues near perfectly. The highlight for me though was "Leslie", Kenny donning his accordion with the warning "two wind instruments together, could be interesting". It was, for all the right reasons. As the audience queued to leave after an afternoon of having their heartstrings well and truly tugged at, their was the strange sight of grown, bearded and serious looking men trying to compose themselves in the late-afternoon sunshine. I had my own preoccupations too - like how to get the copy of King Creosote's new vinyl-only album back to England in one piece on the train. It seemed like such a good idea at the time...

All this distracting music left me with a quick dash back to my digs before heading out to Anstruther Town Hall once again. It seems everyone else was a little behind too, as the hall was a little slow to fill as people drifted back from some pretty special afternoon sessions. I relaxed with a pint, wandered around the hall and chatted before taking my treasured spot near the front for This Is The Kit. I'm ashamed to say that despite being based relatively locally to me, I've never caught Kate Stables performing live before. With a band assembled from bits of Fránçois & The Atlas Mountains and Rozi Plain, she skipped through a short set of fairly upbeat numbers drawn from her two albums to date. Again, this performance will drive me back to listen again to records I've neglected with fresh ears, which is never a bad thing. During this set Josh T. Pearson arrived very late indeed, and to the palpable relief of Johnny Lynch who I thought may hug him at one point. However, he's perhaps not the hugging type I thought, as his towering, shadowy presence loomed large behind me at one point while he peered out from backstage to catch the end of This Is The Kit's set. Thus, taking to the stage with no soundcheck due to some complications around his travel from Dublin, Pearson was in no mood for trifling. He stalked the stage, setting things up to his liking - the soundmen showing incredible patience as he tweaked and twiddled with things. However finally he advanced to the front of the stage and began to strum furiously at his guitar. After a little while, this curious noise resolved into "Woman, When I Raise Hell", and that sonorous pain-tinged voice boomed over the guitar notes, by turns delicate and jarring. Given that few of the songs on his recent "Last of the Country Gentlemen" record clock in much below seven minutes, there were some anxious moments around the timing - but surprisingly as he headed for his last song, Pearson found time to joke with the audience. We laughed, with a strange nervous relief rather than genuine amusement. This man has a truly dominant stage presence - and while it was perhaps the only time in the entire weekend that the sense of commonality between performer and audience disappeared, it was an amazing performance. So, with the atmosphere still heavy with the last lingering notes of Josh T. Pearson's final marathon piece, Randolph's Leap literally leapt onto the stage. It was always going to be incredibly hard to follow the previous act, but they managed it by force of sheer lunacy and exuberance. A rapid-fire cascade of songs underpinned by stomping drums, with flickers of violin and some seriously odd sound effects followed. Soon to be released "Counting Sheep" and "Deep Blue Sea" featured alongside filled-out band versions of older favourites like "Crisps" and "Squeamish". I've loved Randolph's Leap for a long time, and to see them in this setting, with an audience happy to dance like idiots to every note they played was a pretty special way to finally see them perform live. But all too soon it was over and we were only one act away from the end of the evening - but that act was Slow Club. It seems like a long time since their "Yeah, So" album stunned me into silence after happening across the band by chance in Crewe of all places, and I've managed to miss them consistently ever since. Tonight, there was plenty of evidence of what they've been up to all this time, with a whole host of new songs aired. These songs were somehow a little darker, a lot louder and Rebecca seemed to have morphed into a Janis Joplin like character, her always flexible voice focused on belting out these new songs alongside the more familiar older material. Suddenly though, something really special was happening. The guitars were unplugged and Charles and Rebecca were at the edge of the stage, singing the rather lovely "Christmas TV" at the top of their voices, accompanied by the audience. It was one of those Homegame moments again.

As the last notes faded, Johnny Lynch leapt back on to the stage urging us to "Flee, Flee for the night of our lives...". I did, to Legends in time to catch a short but storming set from FOUND performing much of their recent "Factorycraft" album, with some rarities thrown in for good measure. The Legends audience was a jubilant, feisty and roaringly drunk one, but FOUND ended things on a high for me. My lasting memory of the set will be seeing Johnny Lynch being carried aloft around Legends, surfing a crowd who wouldn't dare drop him after what he and his team of helpers had pulled off this weekend. Earlier on today, Rachel Sermanni said something which struck me enough to jot it down straight away..."This is how it should always be. All the time. Everywhere.". I think that's probably the best summation of things, better than I've managed in reams of wittering about Homegame. There had been a lot of talk about how Homegame affects people, how tough it is to get back to reality after this much fun, indeed this much alcohol. I'd doubted it would affect me, because I'm a fairly thick-skinned old character. But I knew it would - because I knew this would be one of the best weekends I was ever going to have, plain and simple.

FOUND - I'll Wake With A Seismic Head No More

The most important thing today was getting up on time! After last week's unnerving catastrophe I was concerned only to be at the station in good time. Having had a fairly weird end to my week with an all-nighter watching Election results trickle in followed by a very strange day trying to rationalise the inconclusive result with colleagues, I was feeling disconnected and jaded. The alarm clock, however, functioned as planned and I made the customary move to Weston-super-Mare on the first train, in order to get 1A06 direct to Paddington. No buffet at first, and despite collecting a member of staff the service didn't begin until well after Bath Spa. Apparently there was some issue with a member of staff working the empty stock down to Weston, which seems odd as we've often found the buffet open and ready for service before departure. Decided to just add this to the whole sense that the world had become confusing lately, and ruminated on the situation over one of FGW's much improved bacon rolls. Things soon felt better.

The next issue was just what to do with the day. As the preview service on the East London Line had yet to extend to weekends (although this was still, apparently, imminent) the original aspiration of doing an all-currently-open-track tour of the new line was scuppered. Still, decided to start with a South London Line service via Crystal Palace to have a look at New Cross Gate. Arrived to find 378's manoeuvring from depot to down platform and back, with some passing through to shadow the route out to Crystal Palace. Spent a little while here before heading in to London Bridge for coffee and some veg-like platform-ending. I don't do this very often, but with London Bridge being fairly friendly to enthusiasts (or at least, completely uninterested in their activities provided they're not leaping on the juice rail!) it was pleasant to hang around, dodge the showers of rain and view the intensive service here.

Next it was in to Cannon Street - cold, dark and empty on a weekend morning. The entire station seems to have disappeared behind blue boards to facilitate rebuilding, and the sparse facilities available to passengers have completely gone. A colleague needed some of the North Kent Lines, so formed a plan to wander out to Charlton, and spent the gap before the next train viewing London Stone and resurrecting my tour guide career. The train out to Charlton were not producing 376's which I'd have preferred, but were quiet and provided an interesting journey into the suburbs. Misjudged a move back to Lewisham and then to Barnehurst where the service terminated rather than trundling around the curve to form a return working. My knowledge of the timetable here is pretty sparse, especially since much of it was recast in connection with the advent of High Speed services. Decided to head north for more required track for my companion on this trip, but did so via a tried and tested move to East Croydon, then onto one of their cross-London services via Balham, Clapham, the West London line and onto the WCML. This provided a fly-past of Willesden and Wembley, before a brief pause at Harrow and Wealdstone. The newsagent here was trying to report a minor crime at the same time as serving customers which provided quite a spectacle as he switched between barking shrilly at the Police switchboard and quietly intoning "that's 45 pence please sir". Not sorry to get the 350 back into Euston and make the short walk to Kings Cross.

The object here was to pick up a service from the Suburban platforms, which we did in the form of a 365 to Finsbury Park for a 313 onwards to Alexandra Palace. Short leaps, but a chance to wander - and perhaps the only reasonable opportunity to get the camera out all day. Spent a little time here providing a tutorial on shutter speeds and fast-moving objects. A little of the blind leading the blind perhaps, but an interesting interlude. Back to The Cross, for a 205 bus move to Paddington and a welcome pint, having covered a fair bit of ground and had a varied and interesting day wandering about the Capital.

Today didn't really work out as planned, but having made the best of it, I think it turned out to be far better than it promised. This provides an interesting analogy with the emerging political situation which seems to have dogged the weekend. There is a sense that we should just "get on with it and see what happens". If it's as diverting as the day I spent wandering today, then perhaps it's a sensible way to approach things and it'll all be fine...

Perhaps...

Arrived in Bristol on the Class 67 hauled service to find the stock for tomorrow's tour had already arrived. A variety of sources on the net had indicated that 50031 was involved, but certainly by the time we arrived, only 50044 and 37676 were in evidence.

Reminisced with a wander around the city centre - which I don't see much of these days - and a Pellegrino's fish supper before retiring in anticipation of tomorrow's early start to proceedings. It almost feels like a proper holiday!