The Press popped up to the East Neuk of Fife to sample a selection of music at Fence Records' annual Home Game festival Slow Club Slow Club almost provide the moment of Homegame 2009. Charles and Rebecca drop in among those seated on the floor at the Anstruther Town Hall to serenade us with a stunning final acoustic duet. Sadly, many punters entering the main door happily chat away, unaware they are preventing those of us standing in front of them from hearing. Outwith the magic audio circle, we can only jealously look at the seated masses whose eyes are glued to the magical duo"s practically pristine pawn pop. The Sheffield pair performed a flawless set of songs so sweetly succinct the Press is convinced the smell of fairground candy floss permeated the normally salty sea air. Slow Club are a mass of agreeable contradictions. They strip down their beguiling tunes to the lowest common denominator yet the output is earnest and edifying. The ramshackle guitar retains a stunning clarity, while drummer Rebecca is wholly sentient, in the true meaning of the word.

David Thomas Broughton David Thomas Broughton performs what sounds like the longest sound-check ever. Reverb pedals are clumsily stood on with abandon, causing occasional piercing feeback, an amp is repeatedly fiddled with to dubious effect, and he shares a scarf with a mic stand. You had to be there. Glimpses of true uniqueness are muddled, in the audio equivalent of mental illness. If he meant this cacophony of one-man onanism, he might be one of the truly leftfield performers in Britain. And the Press was an avant garde, high falootin music publication, we"d have had him on the cover and rammed him down your throat. But it"s hard work. A girl with a glow stick, presumably lost, looks like she might cry. A man to my left looks at his watch. The Yorkshireman has an impressively robust timbre which sits unevenly within his stick thin, bearded frame. He looks like he"s from the era of "The Joy of Sex". When Dave finally leaves the stage, it happens. The audience, dazed or dazzled, begin clapping, and they mean it. A solitary boo is subject to nearby frowning. After all, the Home Game audience is terribly polite.

The Pictish Trail The Hall is packed; build it and they will come. Home Game is the brainchild of Johnny Lynch (Pictish Trail), who along with King "Kenny" Creosote have made the annual shindig one of the best small music festivals in Britain. Both are on stage alone. Both are singing to a rapt audience. King Creosote, is on backing vocals, nonchalantly clutching a plastic tumbler of spirit. Johnny is pouring his heart out in a strange mix of musical melancholy and triumphism. The audience is rapt and drunk. It"s like being in the eye of a storm. Then the barman changes beer kegs at the back of the hall and an unseemly noise rips through the hushed venue, halting a tune. Everyone laughs. Eventually, James Yorkston and the rest of the Fence Collective will assemble to fire through the remainder of the set. Later, the Press will share the remains of a luke warm Fish supper from the Anstruther Fish Bar (UK Seafish Fish & Chip Shop of the year 2008/09) and get all emotional. Fish & Pictish�