Ry Cooder comes to the stage, his grizzled form battered by years of scouring the planet for roots he can revive. Fingers scarred by the Zydeco wars of the early eighties he nevertheless commands a great deal of stage presence – despite the fact that when he speaks he sounds like a Scottie dog.

“People,” he barks. “The beauty and simplicity of music can often be hidden by the corporate world packaging, buffing and taking the soul out of it. Yet there are still people out there, often hidden by what we in the west would call oppressive regimes, playing and making the most sublime music for the mere pleasure of it. A chance encounter with a battered tape from the fifties has brought me to this undiscovered spot, to see if the music still existed. Certain styles of music are like creatures in rainforests, they are dying out by the minute. However I got lucky – I found this place where master practitioners of this ancient traditional music have been entertaining each other with their virtuosity for years. Despite their poor living conditions and lack of anything we would call social welfare the can still make the most sublime music using home made instruments. They bring joy into their hearts by use of items as simple as tea chests, washboards and the ancient regional instrument known as a kazoo.”

Ry beckons to the side of the stage, whereupon five jaundiced, fag smoking doddery old fools shamble upon the stage carrying items best suited to junk shops. They are obviously in no condition to sign proper contracts for royalties and the like, and most cannot even see the massed media throng and Wim Wenders cameramen.

“Ladies and gentlemen – you will not believe your ears when you hear the sounds these fine people have been peddling for their own enjoyment. They call it skiffle: and with great pleasure I present, and hence take fifty percent of the profits, Lonnie Donnegan and the Bournemouth Darby & Joan Club”

They break into “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavour On the Bedpost Overnight”.

I Hate Music