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July 2 Glasgow did not let us down. With very little advertisement time, they nearly packed the Royal Concert Hall, home of Celtic Connections' version of Transatlantic Sessions. I felt right at home. The previous night’s long show left Elvis's voice in shambles, yet he miraculously rallied just before showtime, trouper that he is. Lesser singers would have wimped out and cancelled. We went for some more new songs tonight, "I Want You", and " Girls Talk" are two I remember. We played for more than two hours, giving Glasgow the best shot possible. Our encores are as long as our shows. July 3 Finally. A real day off and no traveling. I can feel my right shoulder tightening up - more likely a result of pulling luggage around than from playing the dobro. The shoulder is where all the stress goes. When playing dobro in the standing position, the right arm is wrapped through the strap, thus transfer all the tension from stabilizing the guitar into the rotator cuff. And mine is letting me know. Acupuncture, anyone? Right, a day off. I started with a good breakfast at our hotel in Devonshire Place then took a taxi to the bottom of Buchanan Street. I met with Mr. Donald Shaw, head of Celtic Connections, to see what he had up his sleeve for next January's month of shows in venues throughout the city, which traditionally ends with a live performance of a version of The Transatlantic Sessions. Donald and I solved all the world's problems and wrote out a huge wish list in The Willows Teahouse, designed circa the turn of the twentieth century by one of Europe’s greatest architects, Glasgow native Rennie MacIntosh. After a bit of shopping I dropped by my friend Cooper Hay’s Rare Bookshop; I befriended Cooper many years ago there in Glasgow while on a search for antique maps. He had a couple nice ones of Scotland which I contemplated, but I ended up purchasing the diary of my ancestor, David Douglas. He was a Scottish botanical traveler of the world who worked for the Royal Botanist Society; the Pseudotsuga menziesii was renamed in his honor in 1820 something (Douglas-fir). My great, great whatever he was ended up dying from a fall into a cattle pit in the Sandwich Islands in 1826, although he did not enter that into his journal. Cooper, since our meeting years ago, has been covering the walls of Jill’s and my home with lovely prints, which we value greatly, as do we his friendship. On my way back to the West End, I ran into StuBob Duncan and we had a beautiful dinner at the Ubiquitous Chip on Ashton Lane. Then I crawled on home, bone tired from walking the hills and streets of Glasgow, to a hot bath and to bed. That is enough for one day. Tomorrow we fly to Copenhagen. Happy July the 4th everyone! They do not really talk about much over here, but the Scots seemed to enjoy it the most. They never really have liked the English anyway.
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