Iā€™m writing this from my desk at my home studio window. Itā€™s all change here round here. For years weā€™ve let the trees round our house grow until realising recently that ā€˜something needs to be done.ā€™ Old Conifers planted well before our arrival here 19 years ago have now come so close to the house and grown so high that my working environment began to feel a little too like a walk in the woods. Nice for occasional atmosphere but my room was freezing even in that July heatwave. So the tree surgeons are in and clearing things out and this morning my view includes parts of Glasgow I didnā€™t know were there.

As I listened to a little WSM (Nashvilleā€™s Legend) online this morning they were talking about a cool wind coming down from the Great Lakes and giving a sense of ā€˜early fall.ā€™ The trees here have certainly had that. As Scottish children return to school this week at the ā€˜end of the summerā€™ then it seems a good time to be coming back to Another Country and this blog. I hope youā€™ve had a great time enjoying this amazing summer. Iā€™m old enough to realise this is not how things often are so itā€™s good to celebrate the outdoors as long as we can. Iā€™m hugely indebted to for keeping things alive on Fridays for a few weeks there and I hear Southern Fried was a real blast (albeit a warm one) for everyone who managed to get there.

Like the onward march of the seasons new music keeps coming and Iā€™m delighted to flag up some significant returns of some of our favourite artists. Over the next few weeks weā€™ll have new albums from , , and Ģż may not be performing live but there are new recordings available.

Sometimes I think my own musical career ā€“ however shambolically it may be hurtling down the line as the days fly past ā€“ has happened in reverse.Ģż Whilst I was always drawn to the work of singer/songwriters like a fervent moth might be to a particularly alluring flame, I had grown up convinced that such a destination was the preserve of the older gentleman.Ģż I was content with the fact that I would get to this more serious of plateaus eventually, once my youthful and exuberant face-down-in-a-toilet-bowl-phase as the frontman of a blistering rock nā€™ roll band was well and truly over.Ģż In short, I didnā€™t want to be a solo artist quite so early.

I tried my hardest to form a band at school, but for some reason my fellow pupils saw better than to join musical forces with a nervous young man who had opted to learn two seemingly incompatible instruments in the classical guitar and saxophone (this was before Bon Iver made the honk of a conical-bore woodwind contraption cool, kids).Ģż Undaunted I arrived at University brimming with optimism, hopeful that I might meet the to my (James) , only to discover a bunch of law students who thought ā€œBig Starā€ was something that required a telescope rather than a pair of headphones.Ģż It wasnā€™t until my friend told me of an advert pinned to the notice board of the Queen Margaret Union seeking a guitarist (ā€œMust like and ā€ it read) that my faith in humanity was restored.Ģż I auditioned and subsequently joined this merry band of players from the North of Scotland: we wrote songs and gigged; got offered a record deal and got hastily dropped; and then suffered the horrendously tragic death of one of our members (a story for another time, perhaps).

I was naturally scarred by the whole experience.Ģż But after a significant amount of time away the bug returned and I decided to push on by myself, boat against the current.Ģż I took on a residency in a local bar and began to enjoy the freedom that writing and performing alone afforded me.Ģż No sniping! No creative differences! No logistical nightmares booking rehearsals!Ģż Just me, myself and I, and I loved it.Ģż I released three records, toured mostly solo acoustic in some far off corners of the globe and answered to no one.Ģż In my head, I got to be Dylan, or , or .Ģż But the days grew long, dear listener, and I grew weary.Ģż Far from the idyllic existence of my favourite troubadours, my reality soon became a series of service station stops in a beat up old Mazda with only Terry Wogan for company.Ģż And so I began to hanker after the companionship and bon moments that being in a band could bring.Ģż After all, what use is a bad review if you donā€™t have somebody to hold the newspaper while you dropkick it?Ģż And so, Iā€™m happy to report, at the time of writing I currently belong to a band of 7 members with a new record due out imminently.

The reason Iā€™ve been thinking about all of this is because Justin Currie is our Record of Note on the show this week with the beautiful Lower Reaches.Ģż Itā€™s another articulately beguiling record, and a possible fitting end to what could be a pretty special trilogy of solo albums if rumours are to be believed that a reunion is on the cards for the band he made his name with: Del Amitri.Ģż Yā€™see, he earned his corn, enjoying great critical and commercial success (with the odd testing period too, of course) with his band before he tried out a career as a solo musician.Ģż And in some ways solo records are so much more fascinating when you know the history of what went before.Ģż Think the triumphs: after Paul Buchanan after , . And then the disasters: step forward, .Ģż Whatever their respective merits, they allow you to put into context the life and the work of the writer with the added knowledge that he or she might just be breaking free from the confines of band living.Ģż Good or bad, itā€™s always interesting.

When I started on the Roddy Hart Show in April of 2012 as a mere radio wildling, I was nervous about what the future might hold.Ģż Having a radio show is an immense honour and privilege ā€“ beaming musical offerings into the homes of the canniest of individuals (i.e. you, my dear Radio Scotland devotee) quite the thrill ā€“ and when firing on all cylinders, itā€™s a hell of a lot of fun too.Ģż But with great (FM, MW online and on digital) power comes great responsibility, and I was all too aware that the show shouldnā€™t purely reflect my own personal tastes and preferences.Ģż How would it develop as the Thursdays galloped by?Ģż Working as a team ā€“ producer, presenter and listener ā€“ my hope was simply that we would craft a show about nothing more than great songs and great songwriters.Ģż From any geographical location, from any genre of music.Ģż But however the show might change and adapt as it spread its wings, I knew one immutable truth: Californian music had to written through it like a stick of rock.Ģż

And so it was with some trepidation that I first sat in a meeting with the showā€™s producers and nervously offered up a number of suggestions for features and tracks.Ģż Dylan would be there, yes; Sam Cooke, sure; no shying away from the classics; a definite devotion to all that was new and good in the Scottish music scene (from LAU to Frightened Rabbit and beyond); great cover versions and live performances; English folk (The Staves, Laura Marling); exotic offerings (Agnes Obel, Jonas Alaska) and so much more.Ģż In fact, wherever our nose would take us on the hunt for sublime music we would follow.Ģż We hussled and tussled over the minutiae, but it was clear we were on the same page.Ģż And then I offered up my thoughts on my love for Californian music, explaining just why it had been so important to my own life and career.Ģż I talked passionately about attending my first Jackson Browne concert as a 16 year old; about reading the lyrics for Joni Mitchellā€™s quite devastating ā€œA Case of Youā€ ā€“ after years of being subjected to terribly lazy chart music ā€“ with something approaching awe; about hearing Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young for the first time and realising just how important (and difficult) the art of harmony singing was.Ģż In short, I wanted them to know my love was a deal breaker.

Turns out I neednā€™t have worried.Ģż My passion for The Golden State and all its musical inhabitants was reciprocated with no questions asked, my producers regaling me with tales of the legends of Laurel Canyon as if they were mythical creatures.Ģż I knew the show was in safe hands.Ģż Yā€™see, music at its best is all about escapism, and in the Californian hills and hangouts, valleys and venues I had found my dreamland.Ģż To this day the mystery and intrigue remains, so far removed from my own existence that to try and put a finger on its heavenly allure would be almost impossible.Ģż And I know better than to question its otherworldliness.

So this week on the show, we have something of a mini Californian special.Ģż Record of Note comes from , who ā€“ along with and ā€“ are heading the Laurel Canyon revival, our Undercover Writer is the aforementioned Ms Mitchell, and we are Live on Arrival with a rare performance from LAā€™s .Ģż We will of course have the usual new and good from all corners of the musical globe too, but weā€™re in a Californian state of mind, so expect some laid back goings on.Ģż The place to be is

Footnote: talking of other musical worlds, Iā€™ll be in the chair for the final time this Friday night on Ricky Rossā€™ Another Country.Ģż Itā€™s been great fun, and I intend to go out with a hiccup or two.Ģż Our theme is great country drinking songs, so expect a lock in of quite dizzying proportions (Iā€™ll be on the water, mind you).Ģż .

ā€œA three legged dog is still a dog,ā€ said Michael Stipe, with some panache, after the departure of founding . member (and drummer) in 1997.Ģż At the time of Berryā€™s unexpected retreat from the heady world of show business, the quartet ā€“ completed by guitarist Peter Buck and bassist Mike Mills ā€“ were at the top of their game. Having enjoyed years of critical success ā€“ building from relatively humble beginnings as a college rock band straight out of Athens, Georgia ā€“ they were finally fulfilling the commercial promise that almost no one (other than themselves perhaps) had predicted, becoming an all-conquering globe-trotting stadium-filling outfit of quite gargantuan proportions.Ģż Their achievement as musicians and songwriters was all the more remarkable too, given the fact they had rarely pandered to the masses even as their big musical spaceship ā€“ powered by the albums ā€œOut of Timeā€ and ā€œAutomatic For The Peopleā€ ā€“ soared majestically into the stratosphere.

At the risk of sounding like a broken blog, I love Jackson Browne.Ģż

It was 1996, and I was in my final year at school.Ģż My own musical ambitions as a songwriter were practically embryonic; content as I was to be ā€œthat guyā€ at the party who could play the songs my own generation was listening to.Ģż Iā€™d studied classical guitar for four years ā€“ primarily so I could one day learn to play Cavatina, the theme tune from the movie ā€œThe Deerhunterā€ (duly scaled and conquered) ā€“ and eventually graduated to modern pop music, determined to impress a girl I fancied who only had eyes for Damon Albarn.

Always make time for music. When youā€™re young ā€“ and I mean in your teens or early twenties (I confess those days are beyond even me now) ā€“ the road seems endless: a constant stretch of musical landmarks laid out before you, in the buildings and on the side streets, down the main pathways and off the beaten track, all ripe for discovery. Hours and days are lost to adventure. For me, it feels like whole weeks and infinite summers were spent as a young man in the company of travelling companions like , , , and . When you get older, however, things start to get in the way; the road gets busier.ĢżThereā€™s more traffic. You lose sight of what it is to be curious about what might exist around you, and instead start to think about the horizon ahead.ĢżTo quote bartender Benny in Francis Ford Coppolaā€™s Rumblefish, ā€œtime is a very peculiar item.ā€

Ģż

I havenā€™t had much time to listen to music over the last few weeks, and itā€™s been getting to me. Itā€™s peculiar too, because although life can be understandably hectic for all of us, my life revolves around music and all its heavenly pursuits. Iā€™m lucky enough to have my , and in my other job Iā€™m in a band, and so we are constantly rehearsing and gigging. But the past few weeks have been pretty chaotic for a number of reasons, and although I have been keeping up to date with all the new music filtering in to the radio show (such is my sworn oath and duty to you, my dear listener), I havenā€™t had a chance to pause and catch my breath.ĢżIt made me wonder: sure, Iā€™ve heard music of late, but have I really been listening? Music is all around us after all, and I suppose sometimes this can be the problem: so bombarded are we by TV shows, adverts, and Internet postings, that what we hear can become a sort of white noise. Itā€™s no damn good for your wellbeing if you donā€™t take the time to stop and listen.

Ģż

This general malaise was cured recently, and in stunning fashion, by the songwriter and her new record ā€œAbout Farewellā€. The album was sent to me last week, and although I had a cursory listen (and indeed played a track on last weekā€™s show), I got distracted by other matters and didnā€™t have time to make it through the whole thing. More fool me. This week whilst working on bits and pieces ā€“ including prep for some delightful depping on over the next four Fridays ā€“ I put the album on, and it stopped me in my tracks. Delicate, refined, articulate, sparse, raw and emotive, it is an album that deserves your full attention.

Ģż

So on the show this week, is my Record Of Note, and weā€™ll be talking the great break up albums and tracks of all time. Add to that as our Undercover Writer and some Live on Arrival from the

I went to Fife this week. I went to see one of my oldest friends be inducted as a Church of Scotland minister in the beautiful old church of St Monans. Itā€™s the nearest church to the sea in Scotland ā€“ apparently ā€“ and as if to emphasise the point it has two miniature vessels suspended above the pews to remind everyone of the link. After that I went further along the coast to visit some of my family holidaying in Crail. It was one of the loveliest evenings I have spent in a long time. I nosed my way along the coast ā€“ still half remembering directions from the days I used to deliver things for my dad. My summer job was driving his van and making sure vital supplies were there for the newsagents of Angus, Fife and Perth. The parcels were full of fishing nets, balls and whatever the craze was that year. Hula hoopsā€¦frisbees? There were always plenty of buckets and spades as, in that part of Scotland, you can still have lots of fun on a beach on a cold day.

Whatā€™s in a name? There can exist a natural predilection for forming an opinion on a band (or solo artist hiding behind a particular nom de plume) before clapping ears on what matters most: the music.ĢżFirst impressions count after all, but we also know that we mustnā€™t judge a book by its cover.Ģż I always remember seeing the nameĢż in print before hearing a single note, and wondering just what the head of a radio might look like, or why any right thinking band would want to be named after one. Then of course I heard second album The Bends, swiftly followed by a witnessing of the hypnotic video for ā€œFake Plastic Treesā€ on Top of The Pops, and I was hooked ā€“ any issues I might have had about the name disappearing almost instantly. Similarly, might suggest a House of Commons Select Committee ā€“ militant MPs doggedly debating the merits of anti-drug legislation ā€“ but is in fact a band led by Adam Granduciel and specialising in a beautifully realised kind of ambient rock and roll. Lucid, laconic and liberally lovely, it certainly doesnā€™t push any right wing agenda.ĢżĢż

Ģż

Picking band names is a horrible business.ĢżMy very first band was the dubiously monikered ā€œThe Initialsā€ (although in my defence I was 11 years old, so back off right?), the names hurtling steadily downhill from there.Ģż Next came ā€œStarskyā€ (why we didnā€™t opt for ā€œHutchā€ remains a mystery to this day), then ā€œRed Star Belgradeā€ (ā€œItā€™s an obscure Serbian football team, itā€™ll be coolā€ insisted a fellow band member), until finally ā€œThe Dendronsā€ ā€“ a truly terrible play on the name of a particular woody plant being all you need to know before swallowing your own fist in embarrassment ā€“ marked the final nail in the coffin for that particular band incarnation. Itā€™s no wonder I decided to go solo for a number of years, preferring to recite my own Sunday name whenever anyone asked in the pub, ā€œwhatā€™s your band called?ā€.ĢżIn fact only recently did I find myself mired in the painful business of pinging potential band names back and forth with my merry band of players, finally settling on the nomenclature Australian firefighters give to a modest blaze responsible for starting a bush fire: The Lonesome Fire.ĢżNever mind whatever other connotations it might have, something with humble beginnings which grows to be massively fierce was a strong enough metaphor for us.ĢżĢż

Ģż

Love or hate the name, and leaving etymological discussions for another time, the point is you donā€™t truly know what the band is like until you listen to the songs. Some are simple ( , , , , ā€œP³Ü±ō±čā€Ģż) and some excruciatingly ornate ( , , Ģż), but a quick scan of all of these names tells us that there is nothing unifying them stylistically.ĢżThey are simply a banner helping us to identify them; they tell us little about the genre of music each act belongs to. Itā€™s once you start investigating the music that your own prejudices are tested.

Miller and Hartford. Estate agents? The core of the late seventies Scotland side? Keep reading

Itā€™s a late train coming home west to Glasgow and Iā€™m thinking about some of the people Iā€™ve encountered over the last few days. Perhaps the most amazing musical moment was standing on the side of the stage at Glastonburyā€™s Acoustic Tent last Saturday evening with my son, Seamus, Gregor Philp and my manager, Tom Oā€™Rourke. All of us were watching one of my great heroes, put in a quite extraordinary shift with his band for an hour or so. The remarkable bit was the sheer skill of musicianship on show. Stevie was playing hammond, electric guitar and singing. That voice! Where was the bass coming from? None of us could work it out until Gregor stopped us all in our tracks; Steve was doing all of this and playing the bass parts on the hammond foot pedals. Some guy. I think itā€™s really important not to forget about where music came from and who brought it to us. Stevieā€™s one of these men and weā€™re grateful to them, thatā€™s why I want to talk about other great musicians that we overlook at our peril, but still on:

Iā€™ve loved American music for as long as I can remember. Growing up in a household with a worthy record collection is more prized a memory with every passing year, enriching my life and career in a multitude of ways I could barely have recognised when I was a young man. But it could have been so different ā€“ had I not been blessed with parents who not only demonstrated good taste in their already voluminous assortment of vinyl and newly introduced CDs, but also actively sought out the new and the good from their local record store almost weekly, then perhaps I wouldnā€™t be sitting here writing this blog at all. Or perhaps Iā€™d have been on a different musical path altogether, hanging with the headbangers or rapping with the rude boys. Fans of the show will know from the type of music we play each Thursday that fate had something else in mind, and so I was born into a house that ā€“ amongst some pretty diverse records from all over ā€“ seemed to favour music from the other side of the Atlantic.

Ģż

I did rebel for a while during my formative years, every child must, and to my shame even showed signs of embarrassment at times.ĢżBut I eventually came round to my parentsā€™ way of thinking. My mum was a fan of , and (especially , and ), whilst my dad opted for the more rustic of American performers: top of the list was , closely followed by , , and then the harmony-drenched sounds of bands like and .ĢżSunday mornings were particularly redolent round our way ā€“ hearty breakfasts, scattered newspapers, and the exotic strains of some American troubadour or other drifiting through the rooms of my childhood home.ĢżIt was this otherworldly-ness that grabbed my attention at first ā€“ so far from my own normal existence that it seemed almost a different planet ā€“ and so I found myself eager to find out more about the rag-tag bunch of musos who inhabited Laurel Canyon, California, or the man they called who frequented the boardwalks of Ashbury Park, New Jersey.

Ģż

It was a magical voyage of discovery, criss crossing the American plains uncovering everything from to , to , to and beyond.ĢżI found myself lost in music, as they sang of life, of love, of death, of chasing the American Dream over near mythical landscapes.ĢżThe good ones had the knack of making almost any subject matter sound cool, given the luxury of framing their songs against the backdrop of a country so vast and impressive it could provide for an almost endless stream of invention and inspiration.ĢżAnd it continues to this day in the long line of American artists who continue to impress, from to to and many more, all of whom carry the torch for a great nation of musical mavericks.

As Scotlandā€™s favourite banana-booted Glasgow comedian once sang, ā€œIf it wasnae for your wellies, where would you be?ā€ Well, if you happen to enjoy festival season, which starts in earnest this weekend at Worthy Farm in Pilton, Somerset, then you would be in trouble. Because as all denizens of these musical celebrations can attest, no matter how encouraging the weather forecast may be you would be well advised to leave blind optimism at home in favour of a steely eyed pragmatism that should be part of your very DNA if you happen to live north of the British map.

Yes, after a fallow year, is upon us once again. And besides the obvious, that means another few days of concentrated merry-making, singing and lighter waving, drink, love in confined spaces and arrests (a very microcosm of life itself!). And if the sun doesnā€™t shine then of course it means mud, too. In my days as a student, I spent a summer touring festivals to work behind the bars as a volunteer for a charity organisation dedicated to donating their takings to various social causes. It was certainly charitable of them to allow six University mates though the gates at Glasto, free to roam where we pleased after finishing our obligatory six-hour shifts each day. That year, 2000, I recall seeing perform on the Other Stage (wide-eyed and about to release their first album, seemingly unaware of how huge they were about to become), headlined, as did (before his self-imposed exile), and had me dancing to a type of music I havenā€™t moved to since.

I also remember being struck by the sheer enormity of the land; a city of revellers united in a sense of community no matter their background or musical persuasion, required to travel great lengths to move from stage to stage, field to field. Glastonbury has a certain magic to it that just cannot be denied, and one that makes any trudging through mud or braving of the elements worth the effort. I returned to the festival in 2003 almost by accident, gatecrashing on a friendā€™s guest pass whilst we were on a record store tour at the very infancy of my own musical career, and managed to catch only one day of the weekend on my way to London. But what a day it was, culminating in an incendiary performance from Radiohead that left me wondering if it could ever be bettered. To this day I havenā€™t been able to answer that, preferring to watch the festival from the comfort of my own armchair (the toilets are less terrifying and the beer much cheaper at my place), but I do hope to return one of these days.

Scottish songwriter and lecturer Davie Scott, writes about his live concert as part of the .

Hereā€™s something I bet most of you will be able to relate to. When I was a kid starting to fall in love with music the first thing I noticed was that within moments of putting the needle on the record ā€“ yes, it was the Seventies ā€“ I had the distinct feeling of being transportedā€¦somewhere else. Whether that was sitting behind in his garret on Clinton Street, NYC, as he put pen to paper to write the letter that became Famous Blue Raincoat or looking on in a candlelit room where the unnamed female protagonist hands Dylan a book written by ā€˜an Italian poet from the fifteenth centuryā€™ (Tangled Up In Blue). I also remember a largely unloved McCartney piece, London Town where something of the specific, odd imagery embodied by lines like ā€˜I was arrested by a rozzer, wearing a pink balloon around his footā€™ combined with the chiming width of a Fender Rhodes piano and the entry of a jagged, style instrumental section provided a rich picture of the great metropolis. In my mindā€™s eye/ear that picture was taken on a Sunday, around 10.30 a.m., up near St Pauls, the rain had just stopped and there were families arguing on their way to Church. Actually the song specified that it was afternoon, a purple afternoon at that, but you get my drift. Where the first two examples are clearly about the art of the lyricist in carving out believable spaces both in and in-between the lines, the latter is as much about harmony and melody, and the ways we react to the gaps between the notes. One of the reasons I started MA: Songwriting & Performance at UWS was to help people explore those spaces both in terms of writing and listening.

Many of my favourite songs are examples of the songwriter using melodic and harmonic ideas to paint very specific pictures. The jaunty rhythm of the top line melody of Girl From Ipanema seems perfectly descriptive of the girl we see trotting down towards the morning shimmer of Copacabana beach while the narrow 2-note nee-naw tune of Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars sums up the sleepy end of the same day. Some of Jobimā€™s collaborators went so far as developing lyrics as a concurrent observation of melody, One Note Samba being a famously droll example. Chanteuse-du-Jour is a powerful and economic melodist; her Chasing Pavements, built on the image of an empty Oxford Street in London at 5 a.m. following one of the tiffs that resulted in the multi-million selling album 19, paints a convincing picture of mazy roads and internalised conversation, swooping up and down through most of the notes of one full octave in the verse before changing mood in defiant, positive style with a chorus that hardly strays from 3 repeated notes.Ģż But arrangement and production ideas are also the ally of the impressionist-songwriter; started with the image of a labourer, rigged high on a telegraph pole against the backdrop of the American landscape and developed that lonely image not just in terms of the melody and chording but also in sonic representations of the ā€˜whineā€™ of the wires and the dot-dot-dash of the anonymous messages passing through them.Ģż In the Glen Campbell recording the effect is intoxicating and transporting, built on a mixture of the cream of LAā€™s studio musicians, the sure hand of producer and the gurgling undercurrent of an organ transplanted from Webbā€™s demo. Those visual impressions were woven into the fabric of the song from inception.

For the last few years has arranged his visits to Scotland without consulting me. Now Iā€™m not a big one for turning up to most gigs ā€“ Iā€™m quoted on wanting to see (who I like very much) play in my local park if there was something good on the telly. I would, however, make an exception for Loudon as he is very good indeed. The trouble is each time heā€™s been anywhere near me Iā€™ve been on air or doing a gig myself.The last time I saw Loudon was 15 or so years ago in Edinburgh and it was a great night. What I love about the Loudon show is that thereā€™s no need to have done any homework before you go. Often ā€“ especially with artists of a certain vintage and heritage ā€“ you feel a need to skim a couple of albums to remind you why you bought/asked for/bid-a-fortune-for-on-ebay the tickets in the first place. Maybe we should all be breathalised before we submit credit cards. (Towards the end of show last week I was wondering why Iā€™d made such a heart stopping effort to get there at all when Iā€™d forsaken some excellent home baking at the school parents nightā€¦but thatā€™s another story)

On Friday I am going to present a pretty special two hours in the company of Loudon, his daughters , and occasional musical interludes from his son and Martha and Rufusā€™s late mother . Itā€™s not an overstatement to suggest ā€“ as I will on Friday ā€“ that, outside the Carter-Cashes, this is the most significant musical family in folk/roots music over the last forty years. At the start of it all and still right in the middle of things too is the formidable Loudon. I first met him when he hosted a TV show years ago called Loudon and Co. played that show and I asked Loudon about a song heā€™d performed. He said heā€™d send me the album and, as good as his word, the album popped through the postbox a few days later. Itā€™s called History and itā€™s still one of my favourites of his or anyone elseā€™s output.

What makes Loudon such a special artist is his candid story-telling about himself, his friends and ā€“ most of all ā€“ the other members of his family. Sometimes they respond. Weā€™ll hear two particular responses from Martha and Rufus. Weā€™ll also hear them sing together ā€“ Loudon and Lucy sang a beautiful duet for us ā€“ and weā€™ll hear why music has been the glue that has kept them all together ā€“ even when theyā€™re falling apart. As Loudon sort of says, ā€™Weā€™re the same as every other family and thatā€™s why people dig the songs.ā€™ I think thatā€™s dead right.

Itā€™s been quite the month for live gigs in my hometown of Glasgow. Last week two legends of the music world ā€“ and ā€“ touched down on the city airportā€™s sweltering tarmac (on what was a week of glorious sunshine ā€“ thatā€™s yer summer for another year, folks) to show the young bucks how itā€™s done. And this week ā€“ as deified in my previous blog ā€“ played Hampden Park. Since Iā€™m writing this blog on Monday, the day before he plays, I obviously canā€™t submit a full review as I havenā€™t yet been to the show. But that wonā€™t stop me submitting a short one: it was AWESOME. He opened with a full on band version/stripped back of a classic/new song! He jumped in to the crowd/pulled some audience members on stage! He played for over 3 hours/6 hours!* (*delete where applicable).

Ģż

Whatever I happen to think of the gig when I finally manage push my way through the throng of Boss devotees and take a seat (yes, a seat!) at Scotlandā€™s national stadium on Tuesday night, there is an interesting thought to be had about assumptions and managing the expectations of your ticket buying public when youā€™re an artist of considerable reputation with a back catalogue to boot. What songs to play that will please both audience and artist? Not as easy as it sounds ā€“ the musicians invariably want to concentrate on the new work, the fans want the old stuff. My older sister, not the most fervent of Bruce fans, decided to take a jolly with friends at the weekend and so travelled down to London to see his show at Wembley Stadium. Not overly au fait with his blistering rendition of Jimmy Cliffā€™s ā€œTrappedā€, or the B-side to the 7ā€ Dancing In The Dark single (it was Pink Cadillac, since you ask), what she wanted was simple: the big songs, played as she knew them. And thatā€™s exactly what she got. Whatā€™s more, the euphoric reviews in the broadsheets this week have confirmed that I can rest assured I wonā€™t be at the show in Scotland witnessing a 40-minute experimental jazz medley or David Bowie-esque mime odyssey.Ģż

Ģż

And yet Neil Young is not quite as reliably predictable (and I say that with love for both Neil and Bruce). During our discussions on last weekā€™s show about the boons and perils of growing old disgracefully as a musician, reports started to trickle in about Shakeyā€™s Glasgow gig, which was taking place that night (curse my scheduling conflicts). To say the audience was split right down the middle is a fair assessment of the correspondence we received, given that half thought the show was the work of a maverick non-conformist genius and half thought it was a ā€œchallengingā€ experience. 20-minute guitar solos arenā€™t exactly unheard of at a Neil Young concert but string more than two or three of them together and you might begin to wonder about value for money. Heart of Gold was there in the mix apparently, but his epic versions of Powderfinger, Ramada Inn and Cinammon Girl defied normal songwriting rules of structure and time and not everyone seemed to go home happy. The disappointment is understandable, such is the passion that some fans have when it comes to hearing their favourite songs, but Shakeyā€™s conviction is also strangely admirable. In fact every time I see Dylan live I swear itā€™s the last, so disappointing can he be when heā€™s not right on his game, and yet this week I found myself queuing up for tickets to see him play the Clyde Auditorium just in case itā€™s one of the sacred ā€œspecial nightsā€. Itā€™s this unpredictability of artistry that keeps us coming back for more: you canā€™t please all the people all of the time, but some musicians try their best to please most of the people most of the time. Then there are those who just like to please themselves. These are the artists of a golden generation of music, defiant to the last, and theyā€™ll do it their way. And whether it happens to please them playing the hits or not; Springsteen, The Who, Dylan and Neil Young all have it in common.

When we last carried an interview with I had stolen time from her backstage at The gig in Edinburgh, To get things started weā€™d knocked on her dressing room door. I felt slight trepidation at this point as Iā€™d already encountered and heā€™d rightly wondered what on earth we were all doing there. My nerves, however, were offset by the intrigue of seeing her put down her guitar to come to the interview up the stair. What was she doing in there? (to misquote Tom) Was she writing new songs... would there be an album...was anyone else involved?

The answers didnā€™t come immediately but a few weeks ago I found out everything. Patty Griffin and Robert Plant came in to Studio 1 at AC central to record a session and Patty talked extensively about that writing process, her collaborators and clear up if she was really writing songs in that dressing room. It was made slightly, and I choose this word carefully, surreal by the great presence of Robert. He was such fun; chatted to everyone about music, Scotland, being famousā€¦everything really. It was also clear that he loved being involved and bringing a little more attention to what Patty Griffin was doing. As you well know ā€“ and Iā€™ll reiterate it here again ā€“ I think Patty is my favourite singer. She could sing anything and proved how versatile she was on Downtown Church a couple of years back, but on this new record sheā€™s on sparkling form writing, playing and singing her own songs. Itā€™s a very moving story of loss too as she will explain when she tells us the story of her late father who didnā€™t say very much (he had been a trappist monk at one point) but did say the words, ā€˜Donā€™t Let Me Die In Florida.ā€™ Itā€™s a great session with some brilliant insights from Patty so donā€™t miss it.