She was a stranger in town, a gypsy heart with no-one to call. I must find somewhere warm, she thought, where the bright souls are. On and on through rain, another bar another cafe and all the same. Finally she saw it, she pressed her hand to glass and opened the door. Inside, beneath densely patterned walls, cocooned in the warm glow of chandeliers, she drank fine coffee and watched the strange and beautiful community. So happy was she that day turned to night and coffee to wine, olives, cheese and bread were offered. Old records turned, gypsy music, Coltrane, The Clash, Steely Dan, and soon she was dancing on old floorboards, lost in the sad and lovely eyes of a northern man. Folk, she thought, my folk. She had arrived.
All music is folk music. I ain't never heard a horse sing a song.