Someone I knew once remarked that they couldn’t go to the US on holiday. ‘Why?’ we asked.
They then went to cast the US as people as all to some variations of Ronald Reagan. Surely, we countered, they could imagine us all extensions of the personality of Mrs Thatcher? I think the point was made.

Let’s get this very clear. I love the USA. I love the landscape, I love the music and I love people. I don’t begin to like the policies of their government – but then I rarely agree with my own…that’s usually the way things are!

There are many reasons why I like the America but the main gist of it is this. I grew up enthralled by music. I loved the names. Raleigh, Memphis, Birmingham, Houston…..all the way to the promised land. I learned the geography from Chuck Berry. More than that I didn’t know. One day in 1975 or 76 an important political awakening happened to me. I had a geography teacher who had grown up in Poland. A very bright man he clearly knew a thing or two about life under Soviet rule and contrasted that with his experience of Scotland. At the time the US political system was hanging its head in shame. Ford was the president who had been sworn in to help the country recover from the shame of Nixon and Watergate. The geography man loved it all. What did he like most? He loved the fact that we all knew, that there was endless debate in public and that ultimately there was system (a constitutional system at that) of sorting it out. I often tell this story to people who tell me this country doesn’t need a written constitution – it’s good to know people like Gordon Brown are finally listening! He also knew what many of the left in this country liked to pretend they didn’t: that similar corruption could never have been exposed in the East.

The second thing that happened to me was going to America. I had to wait until I was thirty – but boy did I appreciate it more. New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Boston, Denver, Chicago, Washington were the only places I really got to know at all but they have all been amazing places to visit. The biggest impression that has been made upon me however has been the people I’ve met on these journeys. They have always been so generous, kind and welcoming and, call me very old fashioned here but it’s true, always so polite.

I say all this because I’m looking forward to seeing some of my oldest friends there in a couple of weeks time when we go on holiday. People we first met on a beach in Santa Cruz will all gather for a wee soiree with our old best pals and we’ll enjoy catching up over a glass or two of California wine. Roll on the holidays. In the meantime, to all of you stateside having a holiday, Happy 4th of July.

It’s school holidays here. You could probably guess that if you didn’t already know. Yesterday enough rain fell in Glasgow to test the faith of Noah. This morning I was suggesting to my little boy that it might be a good idea to go over to the tennis club and hit a ball or two when I looked out the window. I couldn’t get a really good view of the window because the gutter above our kitchen was overflowing and a torrent the size of Victoria Falls was cascading down the building.

It was probably always thus. Every year we get a couple of lovely summer days and ask ourselves why we go abroad It’s so beautiful here, we say, best country in the world. Then it rains for a week. I’m not very good with wet weather activities and the net result is you end up with too many people in one house.

I have one wet weatherish activity which I suggested to my little boy. A few months ago we succumbed to pressure and bought him a games thingy. I say this because I’m still not sure what you call these things. His is a Nintendo (I think.) He’s been in here 5 times to get the Cars game going. He seems to be deluded enough to imagine I might know how that kind of thing works. Listen pal your dad may be a good for nothing rock dude but he drew the limits at playing computer games. If I got bored on the bus I gambled or slept.

The reason he got the thingy was simple. We were all round at pals one night and he was intent on playing their boys’ games. We were acting responsibly. Eating, drinking and ignoring all our offspring big time. It was only when he came through to ask us how he could beat up a cop or shoot some hooker that we figured we needed to divert him on to other games. He was only 5. I think it was AA Milne who said the cop killing starts at 6.

I went to a games shop to buy the thingy. The bloke behind me looked at me like the cool dudes used to look at Bruces records in Dundee. With disdain. I came clean. It was actually quite refreshing to admit I knew nothing about their infernal thingys and the thingys that went inside them. I could tell the cool guy saw me as an interesting social experiment, a species, the likes of which, had not crossed his threshold in many a long year. He took me through it, showed me how to put a small thingy in a big thingy and outlined how to avoid the more violent/adult/pure-mad-mental games. This wasn’t hard to do. It seems to mean ignoring 95% of his stock and concentrating on games where you remember it was first a U film. The thing is, now that it’s raining and the young chap’s got nothing to do he seems to expect me to remember what the bloke in the shop taught me and he must surely know by now the rule of all dads: they know nothing.

You don’t need me to tell you what kind of weekend it’s been in Glasgow. For the reasons we most dreaded we’ve become the centre of attention from around the world. In all the important questions asked there has been the glaring absence of two key questions: 1. Where were the highly trained bobbies that usually scare you to hell with their sub machine guns? 2. How come a couple of loonies in a jeep can roll up to the front door when the rest of us aren’t even allowed on the road that leads to the entrance?

I guess the reason no one fancies the questions is because the answer is simple. The rapid response polis weren’t there and anyone can drive up to the front door as longs as they drive unsafely and it looks like their vehicle will combust; told ladies in Morris travellers should be kept at a safe distance.

Sorry to sound cynical but for those of us who have the misfortune to use British airports with regularity it’s hard not to be. My firm belief is the public are far too long suffering in this country. There is nothing worse that queuing for hours only to discover a wide variation in the rules when you go through security. We were going through Glasgow recently when one of my esteemed musical colleagues asked politely, ‘Do we take our shoes off?’ As we watched the masses all go ahead of us without taking theirs off the security guy shook himself awake and quickly said, ‘Yes, shoes off.’ You can only imagine the look I gave to Jim.

The thrust of all this is pretty simple. It’s a real pain in the arse doing security checks. But no one minds because they feel, ultimately, they are helping keep everyone alive. What’s harder to stomach is meaningless drivel that’s put there to look efficient when everyone knows it’s a complete waste of time. Then to crown it all it ends up with passengers at the airport trying to land knock out punches on terrorists.

This is not saying the policemen at the airport were hopeless. They were quite the opposite – incredibly heroic. One of the most shocking photographs is of an off duty policeman hosing down a terrorist while clearly he must have been aware his only life was in real danger. God bless you sir.

However the reality which those in authority never give us the credit for realising is the glaring reality that if someone wants to blow something up there’s not too much any of can do. On Saturday the only bit of good news was the the terorists plan was only marginally more useless than BAA’s security strategy. Cold comfort.

I was having a chat with someone last night. He then began to wax lyrical about an album by a band that I’d never heard of whose music heralded the era of The Band. He loved it so much he said it had never been off the turntable. We shared a moment. I know how that feels. Then as I went off he said, “The old ones are always the best.”

I was annoyed at myself. I should have said, No. But instead I quietly nodded and smiled. It’s not true. It’s never been less true. On the way up the stair I thought about this and considered ten things I might have said. The French have a name for this feeling – L’Esprit d’Escalier. The quick one liner you wished you’d said to some smart Alec who has just given you a cheap put down. The smart quip you never thought of as you squirmed awkwardly at some second rate joke by someone you don’t even respect. Literally, the wit of the staircase. Aah regret.

But the old ones are not the best. I could easily play lots of new music and only new music. There are great new things being constantly created all the time and many of them quickly become modern classics – that’s the magic of pop music. Last night on the way home from the show I played Ray LaMontagne’s new album for the first time. It’s stunning. I’m bringing it in next week and you’ll get a chance to hear it. Believe me – the new ones are every bit as good as the best.

There’s two things about music which I refrain from: the video and the interview. For that reason I probably couldn’t tell if I ran into someone who’s music I’ve played and loved. I’ve no idea what Sigur Ros or Damien Rice look like. I only saw a picture (not on the artwork) of Scott Matthews yesterday and for years I’d only the vaguest idea of what Becker and Fagen looked like. (thank God!)

There’s a recent exception to this: Beth Ditto from The Gossip. My favourite single of the last few months has been “Standing in the way of control.” It sounds like all records you really love; a wonderful stew of familiar component parts rounded off with a vocal to die for. Do I know what The Gossip look like? Oh yeah, baby…well I certainly know what Beth looks like. She’s all over papers that have no idea what her music sounds like but know that she’s dead trendy. I know a little more than this thanks to the BBC. Someone in the music dept leaves a few-weeks-old copy of NME on their desk which feature Beth in the buff on the front cover; oh I feel I know her so well.

I suppose that’s what I’ve always loved about the radio. You, some words and music and your imagination. The video is finally dying and it’s not before time. Bruce Springsteen famously said it was like painting a moustache on the mona lisa and he was dead right. Now music channels can only survive if they make up daft youth programmes …nothing wrong with that – Jackass was one of my favourites….but 24 hour music tv is a gonner.

I like this because I’m now old enough to see trends come and go. I’m delighted that so many predictions have been proved wrong. Video didn’t kill the radio star, bingo lost to the cinema and also the most basic form of music entertainment the live gig survives stronger than it ever was and more popular than ever.

I know from your great blogs, texts and e mails that the warm glow that draws us together round the magic of the wireless still burns away. Sometimes it’s just enough to do no more than listen.

Thanks for all your thoughts on gigs. Clearly touched some kind of nerve there. I take some of your points about pricing……I must admit I feel I have served my rock n roll dues long enough to allow myself a guest list place. The other main reason for not buying tickets is simple: No sooner have we bought them than plans change and we’re not available that night. For that reason it’s usually a couple of days before an event that I’ll know if I’m certainly going. Occasionally this confidence can be a little misplaced.

A couple of months ago Dolly Parton appeared in the city. As usual I’d done nothing about securing myself a couple of briefs for the show. However we’d blagged our way in to the Armadillo on her last visit and were shocked at how great it was. We had to return. I had to get the serious crawling plan out. Agents, promoters, tour managers….her producer at one point were all phoned. No joy. We sat at home watching something on the telly and regretting not buying the tickets early.

However despite that experience (possibly because of it) the first Dolly show has a golden halo around it in my memory. Seldom do I see things which I want to tell everyone about but Dolly Parton that night was the best. She had with her an 8 piece blue grass band who played at the highest level but in the middle of the show they left her alone with a guitar and a mic and we all realised we’d have been as happy if she’d just turned up with that. What a star.

The other great thing about Dolly, and a lot of great roots artists, is her ability to write a brilliant song on the first few chords you’d ever learn. Any old fool can put a load of diminished 6ths together but only the alchemists know how to turn 1, 4 and 5 into pop gold. Bob Dylan is the master and Bruce Springsteen and Van Morrison too are masters but James Brown and Smokey Robinson are in the top league too.

Talking about James. Our great friend The Captain has steered the front of house sound ship on our tours for twenty odd years. A couple of years ago we did a show up in Crathes Castle in Deeside. The night before we played James Brown had been in da house. (or da castle gardens in this case.) The Captain had also been responsible for mixing the sound for the hardest working man. He’d been told by the JB manager that there were to be two DAT tapes made of the show and to save any possibility of anyone bootlegging the show The Captain was to come round to the dressing room after the show and ‘personally put the DATs in Mr Brown’s hand.’ The Captain liked this story and, needless to say, regaled it to the assorted members of our band the next night. We loved it too and wanted to know what happened when the Captain met James Brown. At this point you probably need to know that the Captain is one of the gentlest and most fastidious of sound guys. Never one to leave the poop deck in a state of chaos, after JB had left the stage he tidied up the desk and eventually located the DATs ready for delivery to the main man. If this had been you or me we would have been rushing round to the dressing room with the vain hope that we’d have the bonus of a wee photo opportunity along the way. Not the Captain. He spent so long tidying up he nearly forgot to go round so that when he did turn up the greatest living soul man had left the building, crossed the moat and was winging it back do whatever soul men do when they’ve gone done entertaining you. I guess the Captain must still have the DATs in his house.

OK…this is going to prove controversial so have your righteous indignation at the ready. For quite a long time I haven’t really liked going to rock festivals. In all honesty I haven’t really haven’t liked going to any kind of gigs at all.

I thought about this as I watched these poor deluded thousands who convinced themselves they were having a good time at Glastonbury. It’s not just festivals though, it’s so many live events. I know what you’re saying – I shouldn’t be saying this – but I’m afraid it’s true. I have to go to more gigs than I really would care for. Often it’s to see acts that I may or may not end up working with. occasionally I’ll see something remarkable but very often it’s roughly what I’d half expected it would be and very very often I know I’ve missed two good hours when I could have been watching re runs of Bilko.

As I write this an email has just popped into my in box inviting me to a a gig by an artist I admire a lot. Will I go? Will I cocoa. It’s in Edinburgh. It involves travel and parking and not having a drink as I have to drive and if I do have a drink I have to queue at a bar and I know very well (as my pal Gary Clark once correctly observed) there is a very nice rider in the dressing room which I am not getting access to. If you think this is being a little over fastidious you should know that I’ve been quoted I wouldn’t go to see David Bowie (an artist I hold in the highest of esteem) if he were playing free in the park across the road if there was something decent on the telly.

People often say to me to tell them if we’re doing a gig near their town. I never do. If you phoned me to tell me you were doing a gig in my town I’d be most annoyed. Going to gigs I want to go to is difficult enough. I’m not going to start going to gigs I don’t want to attend. Some naive person recently emailed me to encourage me to see his offspring playing…..I think not me old mate.

Why do you say all this, Rick old pal, I hear you mutter. You who likes Jonny Punter to shell out his hard earned drinking vouchers to buy tickets to see your own beloved rock n soul gatherings. It’s because I’m experiencing that nagging thing that got old St Paul into all sorts of soup – a conversion. Not, you understand, an undiluted desire to get my soles sticky in Nice n Sleazy, but definitely a stirring in the old shoes to move out of the door.

It happened a few months ago when I decided to go to see Kris Kristofferson. I realised that a) he was one of the greatest living song writers and b) There are gigs which can totally change your mind about everything you ever thought you knew.

So I am thinking – against all my better judgement – of going to T in the Park? Am I mad? Probably, but for once there are one or two acts I really want to see and doing the radio show every night means I now can’t see something even if I desperately want to. I really would like to see Al Green, but what’s the point if I have to leave early? The other reason I’m going to T in the Park (or thinking about it…I’ll probably change my mind) is I can take my daughter who is keen to go. My brother in law and I are planning to take the weans who will go off to see some ghastly band or other while we have a quiet beer and get ready for Brian Wilson.

Going to see Sir Brian made me review my line about gigs. He’s 65 now so I can’t imagine he’s going to be touring too much more so I think I need to make a bit of an effort. His show (and his brilliant band) are the main thing that made me change my mind. So when I look at the list of acts on at T in the Park I also note that Rufus Wainwright is playing and so are Arcade Fire……wait a minute this festival thing is good, you can see a lot of acts all in the one day. I know, I’m getting carried away again. I’ll let you know if I ever make it

This week in Scotland is National Refugee week. The theme is, Different Pasts, Shared Future. It’s a good title. People now live in Scotland who have come away from some horrible situations. Many are happy just to be alive and many more have left close friends and relatives who are still struggling to get themselves out of some very dangerous places.

I know all this because our pal Rachel was getting a choir together for the launch of the week. She was a little short on numbers so Lorraine agreed to join in. They helped launch the week last week at Kelvingrove Art Gallery here in Glasgow. Tonight at the Tron Theatre I’m heading down with our tribe to see their mum in action as the choir do a wee reprise of their set at the Tron theatre. We can’t wait. Lorraine’s been going around singing African songs for a week so we want to find out what happens when all the chanters get together.

Our pal Rachel runs a place called The Village Story Telling Centre. They encourage people to tell stories and share them. Knowing that I like a wee story they invited me to come and tell a few myself one night. Rachel’s the only person that’s ever said to me. “more stories less music,” so for that, I’m very grateful to her. It’s a great place and in the few years that Rachel’s been there it’s taken on a much bigger role in the life of the people of Pollok. If you’d like to find out more about them you can here.

http://www.thevillageonline.org.uk/

If you are in Scotland remember it’s refugee week. Remember that there are people who you may be passing every day who have amazing stories. Remember to that these stories will become our stories in generations to come. All countries are made up of people moving from one place to make a new life together. The best countries are places where all these people make it happen together.

Rachel’s centre is in a Church of Scotland building in Pollok. It reminds me of the old apocryphal tale of the preacher who arrived at a church event to speak under the heading, “Who is my neighbour?” Before he got a word in a man heckled from the back pew, “Why don’t you chap his door and ask him?” We could do a lot worse.

One of my old pals Jacqui wrote to me via the show yesterday. She suggested we play some Henry Thomas. Pleasing Jacqui and playing Henry Thomas is pushing at an open door with me.

I met a guy many years ago who told me the story of Henry Thomas. It seems that, well after he’d recorded the 22 songs or so which made up his catalogue, he’d been forgotten about. (as so many of the delta blues men were) years later two guys had gone down to the delta to make a documentary about the blues and realised that the busker they’d heard in some southern town must have been Henry Thomas.

There are many such stories. I’m reading a few others like that in Robert Gordon’s book, ‘It Came from Memphis.’ It tells the stories which run parallel to the famous Memphis names. It illustrates how the desire to reacquaint the modern world with the music of the delta led to some of the great music which we now associate with that Tennessee city. One of the stories I like a lot is about the first country blues festival which was put on to showcase many of these old blues performers. The venue they chose had been used a week earlier to host a Klu Klux Klan rally but the significant part of the story was that there were more people there to see the music. From these tensions grew the music we now love so dearly.

Sometimes people will wonder why we play such a broad selection of stuff on the lounge. I, however, only see connections. One of the great things I learned recently – and this is self evident from the recent album by Solomon Burke called Nashville – is that many African American artists knew an enormous amount about country music. The reason? In the 40s and 50s black radio stations were closed over the weekend and everyone spent Saturday nights gathered round the radio. What did they listen to? ……The Grand Old Opry.

Uh-huh. What is that? ‘Thanks very much,’ you say ‘Uh- huh,’ comes back the response.

You haven’t had it? Then you’ve have never been to the wonderful country that Borat calls U S and A. Because when in America you say, ‘There you go’ or ‘After you’ they will give you a uh-huh. It seems to me to mean -that I have recognised your kind gesture and recognise that many men such as yourself wouldn’t dream of holding that door open for me and I’d love to say all those things to you but I really cannae be arsed so I’ll just say…..uh-huh.

I love America…..the places, people and the music (could take a different president or two but in time they’ll go) but I have never got the uh-huh. I can see where it comes from but it belongs in the same recycle pile as the expression….’you’ve got an accent!’ You don’t know that one? Oh that will happen too my friend. You engage with one of the many lovely locals and you give your consonants an exrta rasp or use a little Scottish patois and they will stand back in shocked excitement and exclaim, “YOU’VE GOT AN ACCENT!” – Yes, yes I do and believe it or not there are millions of them out there. And what’s more, if you think I sound daft, wait till you meet my cousin who lives in Peterculter. (actually I don’t have any cousins in Peterculter but they’re not to know that.)

Having said all this the reason I’m on top of the uh-huh is that I was on a plane from Italy back to old Jocko land yesterday and as I said thank you to the geezer beside me for letting me past me and he quietly said…uh-huh. This guy wasn’t American – I don’t believe he looked Canadian either (whatever that might be). I think he was one of our European brothers and sisters and there he was, brazen as you like, boldly uh-huhing with the best of them. I tell you friends….and especially you US bloggers….let’s nip this in the bud. The huh stops here.