A letter from America

The Proclaimers were due to play a mere ten minutes walk from where we live. We booked tickets; it would have been rude not to. They are not really a band who I would necessarily have gone to see had we been back at home, but I think that just shows how much of a fool I can be.

They were fantastic. Awesome in fact, in the true sense of the word, and not the lazy Californian adjective way.

The venue was teeny tiny with a more European feel than anywhere I have been to so far in this city. It might have been because the bathrooms were disgusting (by American standards anyway, I've known worse) and the whole place was windowless and in need of a good scrub. I liked it immediately. It was like stepping into a old pair of shoes, falling apart but moulded exactly to the shape of your feet and so comfortable, you wonder why you switched to your newer and more painful shoes.

The crowd was eclectic with a sprinkling of kilts and tartan; the drinks were cheap and strong; the warm up act was hit and miss but sufficiently warming, and before we knew it there they were; Scottish twins in their 40s with guitars on the stage, singing their political tinged, pathos heavy poetry. Women of a certain age swayed misty eyed, but everyone was moved to some extent by the wisdom of the lyrics, or perhaps just a good rhythm. I think it helped that they were so few of us, and that the place had a strong community vibe, and that most of the songs were dedicated to someone. Their last gig on their US tour, they barely paused for breath, belting out song after song after song, with an incredible energy and total awe inspiring professionalism.