Home at last. Feet up, a cold beer within arm's reach and a chicken kebab that is not going to eat itself. This, dear reader, is how a rock star unwinds after conquering a festival. Well, a rock star, or a semi-ordinary bloke from West Central Scotland doing a very committed impression of one. Either way, what a Beautiful Day it has been.
This was our first ever festival, which meant the usual pre-gig cocktail of excitement, adrenaline and the quiet internal question of what on earth have we signed up for. It was also the very first year of The Ultimate Festival in Dumfries, and for a debut it was frankly show-off levels of organised. Slick, smooth, and run like a well oiled machine by staff who clearly never got the memo that first-year festivals are supposed to be gloriously chaotic. Not a hitch in sight. Almost suspicious.
First up in front of us was Simply Rod Stewart, and here is the thing about tributes: talent comes in wildly different calibres out there. Some acts share a haircut with their hero and hope for the best. But when a festival has the nerve to call itself Ultimate, it is quietly promising you the creme de la creme, and Rod delivered. Rod really was Rod. Uncanny. We spent his set doing that very professional thing of nodding along to the songs while secretly interrogating the front-of-house sound like a pair of anxious meerkats. He got the crowd toasty and warm, and then, gulp, it was our turn.
Adrenaline pumping, we launched into Vertigo, and there was absolutely no holding me back. Now, the nerves can properly mug you in those opening seconds, especially when you have a 30 minute changeover, no soundcheck, and roughly the setup time of a Formula 1 pit crew. But the moment that pressure lifted, we clicked, and off we went. Vertigo had barely stopped ringing when Marty Mullen cracked out that unmistakable drum intro to Sunday Bloody Sunday, and the poor crowd, comfortably installed in their deckchairs, suddenly had a decision to make. A good number of them concluded, quite correctly, that this was far too good for bottoms to remain on seats.
In fairness, with a 3pm slot we were never going to inherit the pleasantly inebriated, gloriously uninhibited freestyle dancers that the later bands would enjoy. That particular species only emerges after a few more hours of sunshine and cider. But we set the tone, and I did what any responsible frontman would do and had a gentle-jest with the locals, announcing how wonderful it was to be in Dum-fries, lovingly mangling that second syllable into something you might order alongside a burger. What can I say. The banter runs deep with these boys from the north side of Dublin.
Then came the moment no amount of rehearsal can script. Seconds into Beautiful Day, as if someone upstairs was quietly working the lighting desk, the sun cracked through the clouds for what turned out to be its only cameo of the entire day. You could not have timed it with a stopwatch. It really was our day to shine, quite literally, and the response afterwards was everything we could have hoped for.
Job done, we handed the baton to the LA Foo Fighters, who grabbed it and drove the energy on into the evening. And can I just say, backstage at one of these things is a beautifully surreal place to be. Everyone is warm, generous and full of mutual respect for the shared daftness of our copy-cat craft. At one point Bono was standing about having a natter with Rod Stewart and Dave Grohl, which is not a sentence I ever expected to write, and yet here we are. Nobody batted an eye.
As the night rolled on and the drinks did their patriotic duty, the crowd finally located their dancing shoes, and every last inhibition about arm-waving and full-volume singing was politely shown the exit. The mighty Queen tribute, fronted by their own Freddie, soaked up a full day's graft from the acts before them and, in the finest Live Aid tradition, held the entire field in the palm of his hand. Spine-tingling stuff.
And if we are being honest with ourselves, this was THE perfect dress rehearsal for next Saturday's main stage appearance at Tribfest. Consider us warmed up.
Maybe next time we will bag one of those later, rowdier slots. But for today we were more than happy to soak it all in, endlessly grateful that four blokes from Scotland got to play their part in what was, start to finish, a Beautiful Day. Right. That kebab is getting cold.