Song 61: St. Patrick

St Patrick - James Yorkston

I never really got Elliott Smith. He seemed to fit perfectly into my realm, that kind of articulate, sad Americana which was my taste then and still is now.

But he just didn't really work for me. As if I was some kind of Take That fan or something, I found his songs boring. Didn't go anywhere. Ambled along.

It's only in recent years I've opened myself a bit more to his songs, still not in great breadth, but whenever one of the few Elliott Smith songs I own comes up, I listen closely and appreciate what I hear.

I suppose I "get" Elliot Smith now. I hear the hushed beauty, the melodies, the charm and sadness. The ... some other word. Some other word which is something I love, not all the time but when I love it I love it a lot.

What's the word? I still can't find it. If I tell you it can be found in Elliott Smith, Kurt Wagner from Lambchop, Leonard Cohen, Paul Buchanan and, high above all in my favour , in James Yorkston, does that help?

It's a kind of dignity, of calm and poise, a lack of desire to please or excite, but extraordinary mastery of the craft. Or, prosaically, perhaps, it's a limited, but perfectly honed, vocal range and a way with words.

What greater compliment have I received than when a brusque and knowledgeable friend of a friend said to that friend suddenly "I've got it! McGaughey IS Yorkston"? Sadly, he was not referring to my songwriting skills, magnificent folk guitar playing, rich, sad voice and quiet charisma, but, I presume, to the big Irish forehead (yes, I know he's Scottish and I'm English) and hairlessness I share with the man. And even that comparison does me some favours ...

But I do feel a certain kinship, I imagine as many as his fans do - there's something recognisable and applicable in his lyrics, something, as the cliche has it, which makes you think it's written especially for you.

This, the first song I heard of his, more than any others. Oh, dear St Patrick. Or, as we say as we watch countless goons in black and white hats roaming the cities in packs, Oh dear, St Patrick's ...

It was a double a-side with a song (I can't even remember which one) by the Lone Pigeon, which I was actually more interested in, and I remember hearing it on Radio 1 late at night, shortly before I was due to go to a little Fence show in London town.

I went to the show with a friend who left fairly early, but it went on and on and I stayed on alone getting more and more entranced and more and more pished. Various highlights from the evening - I walked in on the Lone Pigeon (Gordon Anderson) saying to himself in the mirror in the loos "You're a funny wee man with a funny wee beard", I offered to buy Lou Barlow from Sebadoh a drink (declined gracefully) and I heard Yorkston sing this song - at least, I think I did. Maybe he wasn't even there. I've certainly heard him sing it at least once.

It actually makes me feel rather emotional, this little song, and there's no harm in that. It's nice to imagine one has a patron saint.

It's a song with a certain hopefulness which emerges from a perfectly rendered solitary despair. It has a rich maritime feel, evokes the waves lapping on the shores of the Fife we all know and love. It's effortlessly poised, like everything of Yorkston's really.

This is a man who doesn't leave the stage for the bit between the end of his show and the encore. What's the point?

Perhaps an even greater achievement from this quietly magnificent artist is 'When the Haar Rolls In' from the album of the same name, another seaside song with several lines which you'd give £1000 to have written.

But it's St Patrick which is my favourite.

These aren't always the types of song you want to listen to. Sometimes you want something louder, more vibrant, less delicate, but when the mood to listen to a song like this does take me, I never regret it. Quiet is the new quiet.