Two decades ago, The Saw Doctors decided to take on the world with their uniquely Irish brand of unmetropolitan pop. Contrary to popular belief, they won, and today are one of our most successful musical exports, writes Siobhán Long

Twenty-two years worth of road miles tucked beneath their collective belt, and the Saw Doctors show few signs of flagging. They burst onto the live scene back in 1986 with I Useta Love Her, the cheekiest hit single that was both an ode to the delights of posterior ponderings in ecclesiastical settings and a razor-sharp snapshot of that fleeting state of psychosis known as a teenage crush.

Back in the dark days of the 1980s, in pre-Celtic Tiger Ireland, the Saw Doctors had an accent, a blas that had never previously been privy to the delights of pop stardom. Founding members Davy Carton and Leo Moran had used their Tuam roots to finger something essential in rural Ireland's sense of itself: a boyish humour cross-stitched with a canny instinct for spot-checking the cornerstones of rural life, from Concern fasts to school prefabs and single-sex secondary schools.

What initially screamed novelty act went on to plough deep furrows through a wide audience base in the UK and the US, mostly through dint of hard graft and word of mouth. Basking in the glory of their Lifetime Achievement Award at this year's Meteors, the release of a 23-track compilation of B sides and outtakes, That Takes The Biscuit, and a 16-date US tour starting this week which includes two concerts at the Nokia Theatre in New York's Times Square, The Saw Doctors are understandably scratching their heads in delight at their unexpected longevity, and newfound laurels from the Irish music industry.

Leo Moran is a Saw Doctor who's always had a ready canyon-wide smile on his face. A guitarist and backing vocalist who's been comfortable to leave the limelight to frontman Davy Carton, Moran's been pivotal in the band's steady-as-she-goes progress through the past 22 years. Lengthy stints touring the UK and US are a regular feature of their touring calendar, and contrary to some people's perception, their audience stretches well beyond the ex-pat communities of Boston or Birmingham.

"Very few Irish acts would get to play the venues we play," Moran declares, reeling off venues with capacity of 2,000 to 3,500. "Places like the Manchester Apollo and the Shepherd's Bush Empire, where we played two nights recently. We started out touring, supporting The Waterboys in 1989, and then we just kept building our audience: playing on festival bills like Glastonbury and the London Fleadhs. That's built a fan base for us over the years. There's a perception that we just play in Irish pubs to an ex-pat audience, but the Manchester Apollo is far from an Irish pub!"

Bagging a Lifetime Achievement Award at the Meteors means a lot to the band, who've ploughed a furrow long removed from the eye of the media over the years. It's an acknowledgement that Moran relishes. "Often we feel as if we're operating in a peripheral universe in the music industry," he asserts. "To get that kind of recognition from the mainstream media at home is very satisfying, so we're enjoying it alright."

THE SAW DOCTORS' fan base at home is heavily populated by a student audience. Leo is surprised that more bands don't tap into this hugely fertile ground. College gigs might not have the kind of cool that comes from playing venues such as Vicar Street, but they lure a considerable audience all over the country: of fresh-faced punters with a lifetime of music listening ahead of them.

"I can't understand why more bands don't do it," says Moran, scratching his head. "I suppose if you're a regular reader of the music press and you're a teenager, you're sold the idea that all you need is to have a few good songs, you rehearse really well and then you get a record deal and the world opens up to you. It's like the people who win a million dollars on the slot machines in Vegas. When that happens, the story is huge, and people believe it, but I think that kind of thinking can make young bands lazy and neglect the fact that they must go off and build their own audience."

They've never made any secret of their provincial roots. In fact, it was a source of both pride and celebration to them, a rich reservoir they happily tapped into in their songwriting. Songs such as Stars Over Cloughanover, the location of that great venue in the west, Campbell's Tavern, Going Home, Green And Red Of Mayo and Clare Island articulated a world far removed from that of contemporaries such as Something Happens, A House and Light a Big Fire, all of whom they've outlived.

"There was a certain accent and a certain vocabulary that hadn't really been in the pop/rock'n'roll domain before, and that's probably one of the greatest assets of the band, I think," declares Moran with a conviction born of hard-won experience. "I hate the thought that accents are disappearing, but they are. I hear kids talking today and I'd hardly know where they're from, whereas in my generation, you would know whether someone was from Tuam or Shantalla.

"But that said, there are lots of other things to write about now too. When we were young, everybody had lots of time but no money and now it's the other way around. There's definitely an element of daftness and fun that's disappearing, which is a pity, I think.

"When we started out, we thought we'd write songs for other bands to sing, but they were such distinctive songs, that we had to sing them ourselves," Moran continues. "Another thing we learned was that you have to build your audience from the ground up, if you want them to stay with you. "There's nothing like doing 20 or 30 gigs in a row for a band. You can rehearse for years and not reach what you do on stage. When you're starting off any enterprise, you have to put 110 per cent into it, because you're up against everyone else putting in 100 per cent. The other thing is that you can't blame anyone or anything else but yourself. You have to keep ploughing away, even if things go against you."

The Saw Doctors are contemplating recording their next album in Louisiana this summer. The bayous are calling, and Moran's listening. After all, theirs is a sound that might sit very well in the sultry swamps of Baton Rouge or New Orleans with a washboard and a few stray spices lurking in the shadows.

RIGHT NOW THOUGH, they're satisfying their travel-lust with their US tour, which includes a trip to the governor's mansion in Maryland, where they're being hosted by Governor Martin O'Malley, a man whose political manoeuvring includes a gig playing support to the band.

"He was the first ever support act we had in Baltimore," says Moran, recalling that soon afterwards, O'Malley became the city's mayor.' These days, his political star is on the rise, but he's retained his friendship with the Doctors, inviting them to play at his inaugural ball, with Kool and the Gang playing on another stage on the same evening, O'Malley's musical taste being nothing if not eclectic.

Leo Moran's latest wheeze is to pursue his lifelong heroes and record a song with each of them. John Fogarty, Tom Waits and Bob Dylan are his quarry, though he's pragmatic about the chances of tracking them down. The delight is in the pursuit though, he reckons, as he ponders whether the band might benefit from the latest developments in the world of physics, a topic close to Moran's own heart these days.

"Who knows? But with modern advances in string theory, we're hoping to track them down," Leo grins. "The physicists now know that there are seven dimensions - this has been mathematically proven - even though they haven't managed to find them yet. So we're hoping to do a concert video in at least four dimensions - just as soon as the technology catches up!"

That Takes the Biscuit, The Saw Doctors' most recent compilation CD is now out on Shamtown Records. www.sawdoctors.com