Charleston notebook: following an English country band through the Holy City

My impression of Charleston, a city I’ve been visiting since my late teens, is that it is oddly more European than American. Real Charlestonians, they say, have more in common with their cousins across the pond than with their compatriots in America’s big cities. I’ve found that to be true.

I’m here for the birthday of one such real Charlestonian, my friend Toto. A former White House staffer, Toto now works in the private sector, but he is destined for a return to politics – his great grand uncle was an accomplished South Carolina statesman and Toto, as he puts it, “feels a deep sense of purpose and mission to ensure South Carolina continues to be the greatest state in union”.

As it happens, a dozen European friends are also in town, following an English country band called Alan Power and the Take Twos. Hailing from Frome, Somerset, Alan and the band, known to friends as The Cowboys, have made a name for themselves by commuting to London every Thursday and Friday to play the city’s hottest venue, the Fat Badger. Dressed in Stetsons, boots and western suits, they blaze through country classics and some original numbers for an adoring fanbase that includes Margot Robbie and Olivia Rodrigo. Charleston is the first stop on their debut tour of the American South – what the boys in tow are calling “the Redneck Riviera Tour.” They won’t come across many rednecks in Charleston or their next stop Savannah, but they are sure to run into some trouble further south. 

Toto’s celebrations begin with cake and champagne at an antebellum mansion in Charleston’s historic quarter, known as South of Broad – a delightful maze of cobblestone streets and alleyways hung with Spanish moss and magnolia. Sometimes called the Holy City for the spires that dot its skyline, “Charles Town” (named after the “Merry Monarch,” King Charles II) is also famed for its unholier elements and consistently ranks among America’s drunkest cities. The birthday bar crawl begins at O’Malley’s and ends at The Blind Tiger, with one member of the group being repeatedly ejected for severe inebriation. Having myself made a promising start to the evening by striking up a conversation with four charming College of Charleston seniors, I end my night alone in the parking lot of Southern Belle, a strip club north of town, where, graciously, they don’t serve alcohol past 2 a.m.

“Twixt cup and lip is many a slip” goes the old English proverb. Well, for whatever reason, the band’s first gig the following evening is cancelled at the last minute. But thanks to Toto’s friend Beau, we have a backup venue – his backyard. The invite goes out far and wide: members of the television show Southern Charm, every college girl met the night before, some politicos – even a senior cabinet member. But the response is lukewarm, and in the end, my friend resorts to sending out a sort of severe weather alert message saying BRUNO MARS DOING A SURPRISE SET IN SOMEONE’S BACKYARD. This does the trick with the college girls, though not with the cabinet member.

Neighbors curious about the commotion trickle in as the Cowboys launch into “Dead Flowers” and “Angel From Montgomery.” After thirty minutes, the cops arrive and politely ask them to go acoustic. A crowd of about 50 now huddles around the band making requests, “Country Roads!” “Wagon Wheel!” Elderly couples two-step under a sunken moon. A Charleston dame volunteers her house for the after-party with bottomless supplies of bourbon and cigarettes, proving Southern hospitality is no myth. 

The next day we lunch at Leon’s, the city’s best spot for fried chicken. Here I’m introduced by my friend Byron to the michelada, a spicy beer cocktail which does all the heavy lifting of a Bloody Mary without feeling like a meal. 

That evening, the power cuts while we’re drinking at Henry’s, a favorite college tavern. Candles are lit; beers are on the house; the mood is conspiratorial. This is meant to be an “off-night” for the band but a guitar appears and someone suggests Burns Alley, a watering hole down an alleyway on Meeting Street. There are five people at the bar when we walk in. The bartender, bemused by cowboys with English accents, says, “Sure you can play, just make sure you’re done by 2 a.m.” Within half an hour, the place is heaving.

On Sunday the boys skip town, crossing the Ashley River in a convoy of cars and pickup trucks emblazoned with “Socialism Sucks” stickers. Some don MAGA hats for the full effect. By the time they cross into Georgia, news has already reached Savannah that British are coming. 

I nurse my hangover at Sunday lunch with Toto’s family at the Yacht Club, before returning to my hotel, the Spectator (can you believe it?), to pack my bags. The Spectator is a five-star boutique hotel located right in the heart of town, steps from the French Quarter. It prides itself as the only hotel in the state with butlers. My butler, Chuck, is a real charm, an Anglophile who speaks wistfully of his youth in the “old country.” The hotel’s prohibition style bar is among the city’s best places to sip a cocktail.

I return to New York as the boys plough South; Spinal Tap fast becoming Sherman’s March. Back at my desk in Manhattan, a shell of my former self, I live for updates from the road, like this one from Byron:

Destin, Florida, once fancied itself the “world’s luckiest fishing village.” What began, in the early 20th century, as a genteel fishing outpost has mutated – somewhere between Reagan and Kid Rock – into the so-called Redneck Riviera. It’s Florida as imagined by someone who thought “elegant” meant a ceiling fan and frozen daiquiri. There’s something almost tragic: the Edenic landscape debased by its own popularity. Still, there’s a democratic beauty to Destin’s descent. It’s Florida with the filters off – part paradise, part parking lot, and wholly American in its refusal to be embarrassed by the clash.

“O MAGNET-SOUTH! O glistening perfumed South!” cried Walt Whitman in Leaves of Grass. “O to be a Virginian! O to be a Carolinian!” Here’s hoping Toto accomplishes his mission and South Carolina continues to be the greatest state in the union.

Rooms at The Spectator Hotel begin at $269. For more information, visit: www.thespectatorhotel.com