The Line-Dance Lifer, the Vinyl Vigilante and Ten More: A Field Guide to the UK Americana Crowd

It is a wet Tuesday in November, the doors were at eight, and the room above the pub holds two hundred at a squeeze. By quarter past, it is full. Somebody's coat is on the floor. Somebody else is asking the merch table whether they take card.

Every scene has its regulars, but the UK country and Americana circuit has something better: a whole ecology of them. Here is our entirely unscientific field guide, compiled with love, to the twelve species you will meet at any UK Americana night.

1. The Line-Dance Lifer

Owns the boots, owns the shirt, knows the steps to three songs the band has not even released yet. Arrives early to secure the floor space, traditionally somewhere near the front-left speaker, and will patiently teach a stranger the grapevine during the interval. Has an opinion about every version of a Dolly Parton classic and will share it warmly.

Put them on the stereo: something with a proper backbeat and a chorus built for a room with a wooden floor.

2. The Barbour Balladeer

Came for the stories, stayed for the slide guitar. Owns a waterproof jacket of considerable expense and one acoustic guitar he plays very badly and very sincerely. Can be found in the corner discussing the narrative structure of a Jason Isbell song with someone who only came out to deliver a message to the bar staff.

Put them on the stereo: Gillian Welch's Revelator, for the mood.

3. The Reluctant Partner

Brought along under mild protest. Stands near the back with a pint and the expression of a man at a wedding he did not organise. By the encore, he is gently tapping his foot and has asked, suspiciously, who the support act were. He will be back in three weeks and he will pretend it was not his idea.

Put them on the stereo: something he can pretend not to like, ideally Colter Wall.

4. The Vinyl Vigilante

Has strong views about pressing plants. Will tell you, unprompted, that the first pressing sounds warmer, and that the reissue has been mixed badly. Brings a tote bag specifically for purchases and treats the merch table like a record shop that might disappear tomorrow, which, in fairness, it might.

Put them on the stereo: whatever the artist is selling on vinyl, obviously.

5. The Setlist Scribe

Sits in the middle, phone down, small notebook out, writing down every song. Updates a spreadsheet afterwards. You could argue that a notebook is a distraction from the gig, but this is the person who can tell you exactly when a certain song entered the set and precisely what changed in the arrangement.

Put them on the stereo: the live album. They will correct the tracklist.

6. The Nashville Pilgrim

Has been to Tennessee once and will not let anyone forget it. Wears the shirt. Mentions the Bluebird Café at least once an hour. Underneath the nostalgia, though, they are the best cheerleader the British scene has: nobody buys as many tickets, shakes as many hands or stands as close at the front.

Put them on the stereo: Margo Price's Midwest Farmer's Daughter.

7. The Merch Table Philanthropist

Does not need another T-shirt. Buys one anyway. Knows that a tour is paid for by the cost of a hoodie, and treats every purchase as a small act of patronage. Will also buy you a coffee if you are on the door and the promoter has forgotten to feed anyone.

Put them on the stereo: whatever is in the tote bag by ten past eleven.

8. The Folk Refugee

Came over from the folk club circuit for the fiddle and stayed for everything else. Reliably spotted near the speakers during any instrumental break. Uses the word proper to describe good songs. Knows six ways to tune a guitar on a cold stage and will share every one of them.

Put them on the stereo: The Handsome Family's Through the Trees, for the storytelling.

9. The Beer and Ballad Bloke

Arrives at soundcheck. Leaves at last orders. His enthusiasm is enormous and his timing is occasionally off. On the odd night when the room is half empty, he is the one who fills it, singing back every word with the commitment of a man who has interpreted the lyrics in a completely unique way.

Put them on the stereo: Tyler Childers' Purgatory, loud.

10. The Teenage Convert

Dragged along by a parent, mildly horrified by the hat, quietly converted by the second chorus. Within a year they will have their own record collection, their own opinions on songwriting and a slightly better claim to the scene than anyone who arrived before them. Every scene should be so lucky.

Put them on the stereo: Brandi Carlile, because it works every time.

11. The Soundcheck Sitter

In the room forty minutes before doors, sitting down, absolutely still. Has a spooky knowledge of which desk cables fail and which mic squeals. Willing to fetch the band a cup of tea during a line check. The most reliable barometer of whether a night is going to be good.

Put them on the stereo: Lucinda Williams' Car Wheels on a Gravel Road, quietly, before anyone arrives.

12. The Last-Train Leaver

Hears the set, loves the set, and knows exactly which train to catch. Watches from a spot with a clear line to the exit door. Has sadly never seen an encore in her life and has made her peace with it. If a promoter ever schedules a gig to finish early, she will be eternally grateful.

Put them on the stereo: anything under four minutes, on the way to the platform.

What the twelve have in common

Look around the room and you will notice the obvious: nobody is trying to be cool. The hats are sincere. The dancing is committed. The average age of the audience is considerably higher than the average age at a similarly sized indie show, and the average number of conversations struck up with a stranger is about nine.

This is a scene built on £180 fees, pub back rooms, borrowed amps and the willingness of two hundred people to come out on a rainy Tuesday. It is easy to be sniffy about the line-dance lifers and the Nashville pilgrims from the safety of a different scene, but the truth is this: they are the ones buying the records, filling the rooms and bringing a new person along every few months.

So the next time you are standing in a cold function room with a warm pint and a brilliant band from somewhere up the road, have a look at who is beside you. You are probably one of the twelve yourself. There is no shame in it. Some of us have been faithful fan number two for years.