Victorian Trout Conspiracy

     There are few things for which someone with a hangover as bad as this will trudge through the rain, and fewer still which take place in a converted church. But this band, this particular combination of formidable horn section, guitars, drums, orange beanie hats and dual vocalists, has proven itself all over Edinburgh throughout the festival and beyond. The Victorian Trout Conspiracy, a group made up of too many locals to count, begin their set with a wall of sound that dissolves into higher, janglier stabs on that lead guitar. As the beat picks up, its player, Fraser, pumps his legs up and down, bassist Calum becomes a swirl of hair and the whole front line is a blur of moshing, jumping musicians, and suddenly sleep deprivation and the Hive's unidentifiable gunk are things of the past.
     The music is stompable, danceable, chantable, shoutable, and soon the Tron church is full of early drinkers and tourists curious about the noise, all of them smiling by the third song, most bopping by the fourth, especially after trumpeteer Phil has given them some attention. This mouthy Glaswegian has the art of frontmannery perfected, and will get you involved, whether that means dancing through the crowd while not playing or even jumping on tables while he is. Not a faux-American accent in sight, we plough through tunes lilted with ska, rock, blues and skank, all resonating beautifully through this old gothic house of God, and all punctuated by piratey cackles and shouts from the crowd and the band alike.
     From this bigger gig the Victorian Trout Conspiracy can reduce in size, fitting into the smallest of spaces, like at the end of the Pear Tree's brilliant Pressure Valve Open Mic night, where the troupe is reduced to four or five players, lacking not a drop of that infectious energy, that love of performance, that charm that can only be found coming from under the brim of a nice hat.