Minneapolis. I don't know about you, but when I think of Minneapolis (and granted, it's not often) I imagine somewhere quite westerly within the whole US of A scheme of things. Today I am finding out quite how wrong I am. It's not in the west. It's not even in the middle. Look at a map. It's in the east.
It's big. It's got tall buildings. It speaks French. It has strange red flashing traffic lights that confuse the hell out of us. It's like a cross between a North American city (which it is), a Scottish city like Aberdeen or Edinburgh (which it isn't), and in some strange way (and I'm really gonna get lambasted for this one) - Sydney. Where am I?
Throughout British rock'n'roll history, the USA has been an elusive, tantalising territory. Rather like an enormous, vertically rock-faced mountain with a finger-lickin' banquet hot and ready at the top, but with a steaming inferno populated by ravenous fire-resistant crocodiles lying in wait at the bottom, it has both lured and repelled practically every half-successful UK act since The Beatles first cheesily waved from the tarmac at JFK in 1964.