America is like the band of the same name said, a Big Country. It really shouldn’t be surprising given it’s name after all - the United States of America - it is almost like a series of countries in many ways, yet one nation, indivisible as dictated in the mantra they made us say to the flag before school.
In England it takes a long time to get anywhere as it’s old. It wasn’t designed for travel. Country roads are nothing more than paved farmers tracks, and if you believe the folklore - most often laid out when drunk on the way home, the wilds of the land so, well… WILD that even the Romans couldn’t be bothered to attempt to iron them out. See what they did with Scotland, for instance; just walled it off and marked it as unfriendly.
In America it takes a long time to get anywhere as it’s huge. The interstates may be straight and true, but really, even the on balance compared to european journeys veritable commute from DC to Philly - seemed torturous. Going was ok, done in the daytime, coming back always at night. You knew when you were in Baltimore as it stank of poisonous gas, of industry, of hell. I am still amazed people live there, or there is a city filled with living things beyond the interstate.
The thing was this was one of those times you had nothing to do but listen to the radio, and in some perverse way I liked it. I’d sprawl in the back seat, one of those rare moments in parental company that I could relax, the car being distracting enough that whatever I was up to would not be an issue. Well, apart from the time I got punched in the mouth that is.
Anyway, before distraction, the point is…I was in love with radio. We didn’t actually have one in the house, even, and this was the only time you got to have it. Everything else was utter shit, bar this. And along the way, I learned what sounded great, what sounded good, and what sounded okay. It didn’t matter about style, genre, anything, there’s a thing to what is right. Some people criticise some of the old American radio tunes but I can assure you, over the airwaves there was a kind of perfection sometimes, and that, that is what I chase. Backseat, passing through Baltimore, FM when available but we’ll deal with AM if we must - perfection from the aged, cracked vinyl interior of a Sebring Satellite in brown-slash-rust, dials aglow, orange needle pinned at the inhumanly slow 55 miles per hour, rare familial peace at hand as a kids imagination runs wild, lost in music. If we get near that - I know your record will sound pretty damn good on radio.