it is still winter when I fly into Cleveland, with leaden skies, sidewalks cracked by the famous polar vortex, and light rain turning to sleet over the grey river that snakes through this old steel city on the northern rim of the USA.

It is, I realise, a distinctly Glaswegian scene: a down and dirty town with a mighty industrial past, fighting back in the 21st century with good humour, beer, and rock'n'roll.

But the day I stroll from the art deco skyscrapers of Central Square down the hill to the shore of Lake Erie is the first day of spring, and the great glass and steel pyramid of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum is shining brighter than Mark Knopfler's Fender guitar in the dazzle of the melting lake ice. This isn't Glasgow any more, I remember thinking - this is classic all-American showboating pizzazz.

The museum is built here because pioneering DJ Alan Freed first coined the term rock'n'roll on his WJW Cleveland radio show in the early 50s (and incidentally staged the first stadium rock concert just down the road at the Cleveland Arena), giving a voice to a movement that bridged the segregation barrier between black and white youth cultures and kick-starting a revolution.

I guess you could plant that X marks the spot in a hundred places across the state but this is a pretty spectacular one, a stone's throw from the stadium where the Cleveland Browns play American football, and within whistling distance of the mighty railtracks that first made this town the midwest hub it is, still moaning today with that characteristic lonesome woooo-woooo...

So, can you really create a museum of rock? I mean, isn't rock meant to be so alive, so now, it's the antithesis of all that dusty stuff? Aren't museums for - well, The Man?

The first thing that strikes you is the design of the building: somehow fitting seven levels of exhibits and four movie theatres at lopsided and surprising angles into its glassy pyramid, all linked by escalators and completely open from top to bottom - so Bo Diddley could wave to Slash, theoretically, if he spotted him in the foyer from the top floor.

Then there's the noise: the rebellious soundtrack of the last half century pulling you downwards from the springtime light of the foyer, into the dark bowels of the dock below, where they keep 'All The Original Stuff'.

Rock 'n' roll has always bred a gutter-full of physical memorabilia - from concert tickets and posters, through to Jim Morrison's snake belt and One Direction's underpants.

It's this rich seam of fascination, this desire to get close to our idols through collecting their relics -- together with a seemingly unique access to rock'n' roll's wardrobe - that the RockHall mines so successfully.

You could say, well, it's just a load of old stuff. But the point is - what stuff! From Elmore James' acoustic guitar (seemingly constructed from a used orange crate) through to John Lennon's schoolboy swimming certificate; via the travelling glory-box of the Rolling Stones' favourite roadie (with drawers marked "Hardcore", "First Aids", and intriguingly "Fish Man") you descend into a fascinating Aladdin's Cave of all the real, the bizarre, and the unexpected.

In every zone, for every movement, era and vibe, there is fountains of audio and video - much of it available for you to tweak and direct as you wish, diving sideways and backwards in time, thinking 'oooh, I just about remember that', all the while falling under the museum's spell, until eventually you find yourself aged 16 again, nose pressed against the glass in wonder once again at the shades, guitar pick and hotpants of your own heroes and heroines.

For me, it was the wee Specials lapel badges I used to proudly sport at school - and Peter Hook's bass guitar, with its wonky broken strap, next to the original lyrics in magic marker for Love Will Tear US Apart. For you it might be something else entirely. That's OK, man - there's room for all of us.

Because curiosities pop out from every era: Elvis' army fatigues, Howlin' Wolf's battered moneybox (he didn't trust banks - can you blame him?), James Brown's velvet flared jumpsuit (with "SEX" picked out in diamante on the deep-V collar). And also weird shocks and revelations: how much the Supremes must have looked like bridesmaids, in their sparkly salmon pink floorgowns; how Stevie Nicks was never knowingly found onstage without gossamer batwings (all six outfits, underarm webbing - check); how freakin' enormous DJ DMC's Adidas really were, which kind of explains why he made such a fuss about them at the time...

Eventually the Hall of Fame spits you out into its full-height atrium under the scary big puppet guy from Pink Floyd's The Wall in time for a nice cup of tea and a cracking elevated view of the glistening lake. Congratulations - you have completed level one. Now, if you care to, you can ascend to six more levels of exhibits and rolling concert footage on massive digital screens. Phew, I thought it might kill an hour or so - in the end I wished I'd reserved the whole day to tour the myriad galleries.

Cleveland is fun town, full of good cheer, with an international film festival, a wildly tasty Victorian farmers' market (spotted: exotic delicacy "Scotch pies"), fantastic theatre, art and music scenes, and a healthy attitude to beer (when I wondered aloud about what gifts to take home, my hostess suggested: "Do they like IPA?") - but the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum makes it a destination.

PS. There's talk of building a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Glasgow; and I wonder what shape they'll pick for ours? Given that the melon wedge, armadillo and Morton's-roll outlines are all taken? Maybe a huge rolling wave on the banks of the Clyde - to mirror Edwyn Collin's quiff?