Who in their right mind would want to go to Walthamstow on a Sunday night, particularly if they feel as rough as I do? It’s a drive from one end of London to the other, with all the second-home owners making their way back to the City after a weekend in the country, via the King’s Cross Euro-terminal bottle-neck and through Clapton’s famous ‘shooting alley’. And what is there in Walthamstow?

Well, pioneer socialist, typographer and wallpaper designer William Morris (you know, the one they named the car after) lived there, and his home is now a fine museum. The town hall is a testimony to all those design principles cherished dearly by Mussolini. And there’s a dog track, which Serge, is a track where they race dogs, and you bet lots of pounds to see which dog can chase a bunch of rags (known as a rabbit) fastest. But none of that matters, because we’re going on a pilgrimage, to Walthamstow’s worlde famous Ye Olde Rose and Crowne pub. Not that I go into pubyes too often, and at seven o’clock on a dark autumn night this one comes as a bit of a shock.

We’re sitting in the medieval section, all reproduction shields and swords on the wall, suits of armour, faux paintings of flat fat faced monarchs and their cod pieces, and seven TV sets, plus a huge video screen, all showing football matches that none of the dozen or so solitary drinkers in the place wants to watch. On the other side of the bar is the heritage section, which boasts a pool table, and seems to house much of the kit that Scott must have taken with him on The Discovery, or that Shackleton must have loaded onto the Endurance for his ill-fated Trans-Antarctic Expedition. You know, sledges, tennis racquets for walking in the snow on, old suitcases, fishing rods (very useful in the Antarctic I’m sure).

I’d forgotten about folk clubs. Do you have them in France Serge? The last time I was in one must have been fourteen years ago or so in Edinburgh (strangely, to see Michael Marra), and before that, well modesty prevents me from going into detail. But let’s just say, they ain’t changed. De-rigueur, as you say, is: shabby ‘function’ room above or behind pub bar; filthy carpet; lonely ‘Happy 40th Birthday” balloon trapped for eternity on the ceiling; ripped curtains hanging from falling curtain rails; a variety of broken wedding reception chairs; a few tables; improvised stage and sound system with more safety hazards than the Titanic. Oh yes – and the people, trapped, like the balloon, in a time warp. They could have come from Cyril Tawney’s folk club in Lancaster in the 1970s, waistcoats, beards, sandals and all.

Small, wiry, strong eyes, fierce stare – if you met him in a bar in his native Dundee you’d probably carefully move across to the other side and quietly keep yourself to yourself. He’s a Scottish rock veteran, suffers from being too often described as a ‘national treasure’ (just how patronising is that), but is, cutting to the quick, probably one of the best living songwriters in the country. His songs are closely observed pieces, many based on an intriguing mixture of the past and the present, and mostly all firmly rooted in Scotland, and of course in particular the bonnie town of Dundee. I should probably add that I’ve always suspected that Marra is a bit of a fucked-up Roman Catholic, as religion pumps through the veins of many of his creations. Lest you’re getting worried I should assure you that for all this there is nothing parochial about his work (how could there be with song titles like ‘Frida Kahlo’s visit to the Taybridge bar’).

Well you can’t hide in a room with a few dozen people in it, and in fact, with his guitar leaning on a chair and his keyboard propped up on an old ironing board, it’s a bit like having him play in your living room. And talk – he’s not spare of a few humorous words to explain where his songs come from (though we rarely get the whole story, so there’s a bit of a joke going on here too), or to share his views on matters topical, such as Scottish History.

So, for all you Whiskyfun Scotophiles out there, here’s the Michael Marra challenge. Think you know about Scotland from those rubbish whisky books you’ve read? Think you understand this most complex of little countries? Well how many Michael Marra albums have you got? None? Then just bloody think again! Go out and get some, and if you can’t buy them all then join Michael in cyberspace and do that downloading thing instead. It’s well worth the price of a bottle or two of your favourite, and it’ll last a lot longer too! - Nick Morgan (concert photos by Kate)

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