For all the personnel changes, not to mention varying standards in musicianship, the great David Thompson of Pere Ubu has abided by an elegant philosophy when recruiting band members over the past two decades. “Unique people”, he claims, “make unique music.”

Though he couldn’t sound less like an avant garde art-punk rocker, one suspects the Pere Ubu frontman would be greatly impressed by the singularity of songsmith James Yorkston. Hailing originally from Fyfe, James’ immediate gene pool might pass for a Celtic Glass family or the basis for a movie by Wes Anderson. His mother was born in Egypt. His uncle played rugby for Scotland. His brother is an ornithologist turned zoologist who is currently researching the transition of rabies between foxes and jackals in Iran. One sister studies brainwaves. Another is writing a book on the influence of the far right in Southern France. No one, it seems, gets to be a black sheep in that household.
We should not, therefore, be surprised that the music of James Yorkston is difficult to pin down. His bittersweet debut offering, 2002’s Moving Up Country, was comfortably dubbed as alt.country but subsequent efforts have proved harder to quantify. And no wonder. He himself cites remarkably disparate musical influences, including ‘60s folk darling Annie Briggs and traditional Malagasy guitarist D’Gary (James’ zoologist brother was researching the migration patterns of storks in Madagascar when he stumbled upon the work of the African recording artist). His primary inspiration however, arises from childhood summers spent in County Cork.
“I don’t want to sound like one of the Americans I’ve been meeting all my life,” he laughs. “You know, the ones that tell you how Scottish they are. But I’m not playing to the Irish gallery because I’m talking to you. My first experience of traditional music really was in Cork. My dad bought a broken down house there. Actually, he claimed to have won it in a poker game so my mother wouldn’t know how much money he spent, but the truth eventually came out. We would go to the pub as a family, as you did back then. I’d sit drinking Cidona and the music just got in my head. I feel cheesy for saying that – but it’s true.”
Still, for all the wealth underlying James’ music, more indolent cultural commentators seem content using such semantically slippery terms as ‘singer-songwriter’ to categorise Just Beyond The River (2004) and current release, The Year Of The Leopard.
“The second album was called folk,” he tells me, “but I’m not too sure what this will be called. I feel a bit of a pedant about the whole folk label. I’m very protective towards folk music. For me, folk means traditional. I just happen to be acoustic. I do perform traditional songs, especially live, but I don’t feel I’m folk. I don’t see myself as part of that scene – though journalists say otherwise. But it seems like every month I get sent a new CD from, say, Domino and there I am on a folk compilation called Folk Off or something like that. So everybody else is thinking it, even if I’m not.”
James may not regard his work as unadulterated enough, but he is, nonetheless, a lynchpin figure within the regrettably named nu-folk movement. The Year Of The Leopard, a delicate commingle of woodwind, double bass and arch lyricism (“My last album peaked at number 173” he sings in ‘Woozy With Cider’ as he attempts to pull a barmaid) is a worthy ambassador for the Fence Collective. A loose collection of artists and musicians based around the Scottish village of Anstruther, the gang includes King Creosote, Pip Dylan, Pictish Trail, Gummi Bako, Unpoc, The Red Well, Lone Pigeon, HMS Ginafore and MC Quake, with cameo support spots from KT Tunstall and The Beta Band. Though many of these artists are East Nuek locals operating under imaginative stage names, the Fence is now a global phenomenon, making Anstruther an essential holiday destination for creative types.
“It’s funny,” says James. “It started with Kenny (Anderson) from King Creosote. He did gigs once a month in St. Andrews, which is mainly a tourist and golf town, but there’s a big student population there. It started attracting anyone who was into music, especially folk. So you had people looking to hear a cover of ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ for the millionth time and people like myself who were looking for something different. We realised over time what was expected by tourists, and we weren’t playing what they wanted. But the owner of the local bar (The Ship Tavern) realised this was a good thing. Suddenly, we were bringing in real music heads and artists.”
Happily, James’ work is closer to Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy than some bloke in a fisherman’s cap, even if Reuben Taylor, his accordion player, has been known to smoke a pipe onstage.
“I do write songs about cows,” he admits, “but mostly I try to be honest. When you do solo shows they have to be real, as the audience can tell straight away. But with this new album I’ve stepped back. I think the lyrics are a bit more abstract. On the last record there were three songs I couldn’t play live because they were just too close to the bone.”
Today, in order to further Hiberno-Scots relations, James and I bravely head off for the Jameson Distillery for a whisky tasting session. Although he’s a vegan who once turned down £10,000 for the use of one of his songs in a butter commercial, as his healthy complexion testifies, he’s a keen connoisseur of whiskey, with or without an ‘e’. Unfortunately, as a gin drinker, I know nothing about spirits that don’t taste like rubbing alcohol flavoured with juniper berries, but I am here to be educated.
“I love the island malts and Tasker,” James tells me, while I nod in an unsuccessful attempt to look like somebody who knows what they’re supposed to be doing. “But I prefer Irish whiskey when I’m here. It’s a lot better than bourbon.”
The nice lady from Irish Distillers explains the differences between the two whiskey making traditions, carefully explaining why Scotch tastes and smells like peat and heather and medicine, while Irish equivalents are smoother. No wonder cool people quaff Jameson with cranberry juice at swish ligs – something you can’t imagine ever happening with Scotch. But Paddy and John Powers also feature in the Irish Distillers portfolio, ranking up there among Ireland’s best known tipples.
After a blind tasting that proves to be a real test of the taste buds, James sings the praises of John Power in particular – a drink that conjures up salty barflies with a hefty Woodbine intake. Who knows, maybe we’ll convert him from Scotch to Irish yet!
Either way, to commendable individuality.