Saturday night.
Charleston dark.
Cumberlands ... an old brick square the size of a classroom.
Ray's Used Hubcaps, the warm-up band,
gets much better as the set progresses.
Good Lord, they have Pabst.

Some time after eleven,
the skirl of the pipes approaches from the right.
Two pipers, a drummer, a bass guitarist, and a fiddler march in.
Seven Nations has arrived,
and a night of Celtic rock is before us.
Like nothing you've ever heard.

The small black stage is full.
Kirk trades his pipes for a guitar.
Ashton's drums pop.
Scott's pipes drone.
And Struby's bass, rock's locomotive,
keeps us rolling down the line.

And then there's the fiddle player, Dan Stacey.
If you think duelin banjos was sometin,
try a fiddle and an electric guitar.
Or a fiddler face to face with a piper.
Good Lord! Put on the blue paint.
The clans are comin!

Master Dan step dances too.
As his feet skip and his face drips, the audience rises.
Only the dead could stay still.
At last, a party!
As much as I love this lazy coast,
shagging can't compare with this.

I recognize the strains of Amazing Grace
and instinctively know the end is near.
But I have just begun to fly,
so I'm ever so grateful for both encores.
Soaring Celtic soul: Scotland the Brave laced with Dixie.
Good Lord! Get some soon.

Rod Welch
James Island, SC