A Redneck Romance

I met my future wife 20 years ago in a rather unsavoury club called 'Son of Redneck'. It was in a basement bar close to Selfridges in London's West End and the playlist was full of cajun and honky tonk, western swing and bluegrass. The DJs were Joe Hagan from Nigeria and Steve England , a local fella. My missus was dressed as a saloon girl and was posing with her art college pals. I was rocking the trucker look with a favourite cap advertising the Milwaukee Brewers.

A few of the Pogues were there, and so was Elvis Costello. Several mates from Zodiac Mindwarp's Love Reaction were dancing the two step when they weren't dodging the bottles and fists. Alan McGee held court in the toilets and the following mornings were painful.

There's a fun playlist that takes me back there. Nathan Abshire's 'Hee Haw Breakdown' was a stomper, as was Johnny Allen's 'South To Louisiana'. You couldn't do wrong with 'All My Exes Live In Texas', even 'Orange Blossom Special' or some Los Lobos.

A got a Redneck flashback earlier this evening in the downstairs bar of McHugh's Bar in Belfast. The reliably great Open House Festival was revving up and The Samsonites were slapping the bass, screeching the fiddle and hollering plenty. And like I sometimes do, I gave my feet an involuntary shuffle, like an arthritic old boy from the Appalachians. Nobody ever taught me how to do this, but the music is somehow in the DNA, heel to heel and toe to toe.