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Over decades spent abroad, I’ve witnessed interesting contrasts in how various Anglophone artists react and play to crowds across the continents. Rod Stewart brought on an interpreter just to say “Hola Santiago” in Chile, but Coldplay’s Chris Martin had a Bern crowd eating out of the palm of his hand over the summer when he addressed them in Swiss German. At a concert in Glasgow he even told the audience he was partial to Tunnock’s teacakes (a Scottish culinary legend). I’m sure whether he is in Warsaw or Wisconsin he learns a few words of the lingo and does his homework on local culture. It’s slick of course, but it does pay off.

Other groups have been less in tune with the crowd. In the ’90s, Michael Jackson was on a global tour and due to perform in the River Plate Stadium in Buenos Aires. Although I was living in Uruguay and it meant a four-hour drive to see him, I was looking forward to the concert. However, it turned out to be rather a bizarre one. Michael kept disappearing for endless costume changes, losing the show’s momentum and the crowd’s interest. They had cheered loudly enough when he moonwalked onto the stage, but it paled to the sheer roar when Maradona entered the stadium as a VIP guest. Jackson may have been the King of Pop but football is royalty in Argentina.

Music can also be a powerful elixir, bringing out many emotions of expat life—sometimes when you least expect them. Every now and again, no matter how settled you are, you can get a whiff of homesickness. Living in Indonesia I played back-to-back Bowie when the gamelan music just got to be too much and I wanted a taste of“home.”

And on other occasions, I’ve found myself feeling unexpectedly patriotic. In 1989, I was living in Santiago, Chile, when a rumour went around the city that a concert would be held in the national stadium after many years of musical isolation under dictatorship. There was much discussion as to who would be headlining. Most thought it would be a salsa band or Inti Illimani, a Chilean group back from exile. When it was announced it would be Rod Stewart, I was distinctly underwhelmed, but I still bought tickets for the night.

It arrived after a perfect summer’s day with a clear, cloudless sky. There was a palpable feeling of excitement in the air. The sun set, tinting the tips of the Andes pink, and it gave the stadium the most spectacular backdrop. Once it was dark everyone brought out candles and thousands of tiny lights lit up the arena. The band started up and the warm-up guy shouted, “Santiago, a warm welcome please for Meester…Rod Stewart!” He leapt on stage with the first few words of Hot Legs blasting out to every corner of the stadium, and the crowd loved it. It was a special night and to my surprise I suddenly felt so very proud that it was a Brit from my country who was singing at this historic occasion.

There have been many other wonderful concerts across the world since then. As I’m more the mother hen amongst a lot of spring chickens here at WRS, I can remember when world music was just that, a world away from my village life, but living abroad changed it all.

—Catherine Nelson-Pollard