Editor Paul Morris left the dust of the building sites behind and headed as far north-east as you can get and still be in Brussels: to Haren and the Toogenblik, where AJ Roach and Trio were performing.

I must confess that I hadn't heard of Haren until last week. And to discover that it was part of Brussels surprised me. In fact it has been part of the greater Brussels region since 1921 and folks out there still talk about it as if it was yesterday. Sandwiched between Evere and Machelen, locals claim that they are ignored by the central powers. So what’s new?

I headed out there and discovered a one-horse town where even the horse had bolted. It was quiet - too quiet. There was only one saloon as far as I could see, the Old Time, no doubt full of the eponymous old-timers, spitting long-chewed tabaca into spittoons by the bar. These guys and gals could no doubt tell me a tale or two of life before Bruxellisation, when the north-east was still wild (In fact, the President‘s Challenge for the local darts team was held there that night - and they could all play; they were not the usual drunks hurling their darts like spears, capable only of striking the wall, splitting the ceiling or piercing some unfortunate bystander.)

You’re asking yourself what was a townie like me doing way out there, tumble-weed striking at my boots, watching a purple sky threaten one Hell of a storm and wondering Are We Still in Kansas, Toto?

I had heard The Virginian was coming to town.

I had been drawn to the occasional musical venue that is the Toogenblik. It isn’t easy to find, tucked at the back of a modern block. There is room for around fifty souls, and the tables and chairs are scattered haphazardly around the room, providing a homely feel. The stage is so close that you can smell the basswood, lacewood or swamp ash of the guitar. Behind the stage the windows offered a view of a purpled sky fit to burst. The excellent bar provided refreshing relief from the stifling heat.

When the Virginian took the stage, he was no Man in Black, he wore no shiny waistcoat and there wasn’t a holster in sight. He was clad in a light summer suit, his weapon of choice was the guitar and he had a name: AJ Roach.

They all had their glad rags on. The very talented remainder of AJ Roach’s Trio is made up from: Adam "Roscoe" Roszkiewicz (vocal, mandolin, guitar, banjo) - in a nifty black suit - who earned his undergraduate and graduate diplomas in music performance from the San Francisco Conservatory of Music.

In March 2005, he made his Carnegie Hall debut, performing guitar duets with Santiago Gutierrez. And last but by no means least Alisa Rose (vocal, fiddle) who holds a Masters degree in Chamber Music Performance at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music and is the master-mind behind many of the live and recorded arrangements of AJ's songs. Elegance personified in a black evening dress, her violin offers a graceful mountain harmony.

AJ’s voice is an echo of the Appalachians, with powerful gospel undertones. He is preaching to the converted as far as I am concerned. I love bluegrass and AJ is a fine proponent of the genre. There’s an honesty in the lyrics and in the unusual slightly strained delivery; a voice that is uniquely his own.

His version of Brel’s The Port of Amsterdam was a highlight for me. Breathless by the end, he wondered aloud how old Jacques managed to belt out those numbers night after night.

Other songs were of family, such as Grandfather and the only song he finally plucked up the courage to write about his father, Sears & Roebuck Suit (Listen Here). When his father first heard it he said, "How’s that about me?" Parents, eh, as my daughter says.

Singer-songwriters wear their hearts on their sleeves and AJ is no different, his is music pared down to the essentials, appealing to us because it has direct access to the soul. Pop Matters said, « Roach is a deep woods troubadour with a cunning wit and a southern gothic spiritualism that sounds older than voodoo. His music is parochial and far flung at the same time, witchy and unabashedly romantic ..."

AJ was ably supported by Matthew Barber, a young Canadian who writes and sings beautifully elliptical songs, with clever use of language, the words joining smoothly as if in a lyrical relay; just a young man pouring out his soul on stage. At one point he wished us all a good Saturday night. The sober guy at the front pointed out that it was Friday, a fact the majority of the room could neither confirm not deny.

There were two Virginians behind me, on holiday on the Old Continent. They had come a long way to feel back at home and they were surely not disappointed. AJ sang all their favourites and they muttered the lyrics contently to themselves.

The club is run by aficionados of the singer-songwriter, wordsmiths ploughing a lone furrow at times across the musical landscape. Luc Gheldof told me that "the fun part is the programming." And he positively glows with pride at the reputation the Toogenblik has achieved over the years, with so little money. "We get about 2000 euros in subsidies but we usually have to wait 2 years for it to hit the bank account. We love doing what we’re doing and we’re always excited when new singers arrive, whether there’s fifteen people in the room or fifty."

The road is long for these troubadours, travelling light through Europe. They were heading for Amsterdam at two in the morning. England awaits then a long-promised trip to Inverness in Scotland, where they have allowed themselves a day off. AJ’s eyes lit up at the prospect. "I am a big fan of Scotland and Scotch! I always have a great time when I’m up there. We’re playing at the Fallen Angels Club in The Annexe in Glasgow, then we head north to the Mad Hatters."

The sky didn’t fall, the weather gods reserving their weapons for the following morning, and AJ finished the set - a capella - with a stirring gospel mountain-chant, a song perhaps to which Mr Brel himself would have been happy to apply his lungs. Keep the faith, AJ.