A hard core blues night. Four weather-beaten dudes who know their
howlin,' lead belly, muddy, Memphis, and pinetop. They have wrinkles. They have
gravel in their voices. They is the blues. The keyboard player is a showman,
bobbing, weaving, throwing his head back in agony. The lead guitarist knows
his guitar like an English teacher knows grammar. He made it bend, howl, and
stab to his bidding. The bass and drums were equally adept. The blues crowd is
less refined than the jazz aficionados. They can be cheap and demanding. As The Doorman, I know. A
short butterball woman and her boyfriend entered. She wears the pants in the
couple and asserted that they should get in at half price. I corrected her
illusion. She drank Cabernet and then bought blended shots for herself and a
woman sitting next to her at the bar. She let out eardrum exploding whistles
every time the band ended a song and stoutly stood gyrating her hips to the
music (at least that appeared to be what she was doing). A blues singer joined
the group for a couple of songs. I've heard her before and she's as exceptional
as the members of the group. She belted out Dr. Feelgood and Gene Allison’s You
Can Make It if You Try, which was matched later in the night by the drummer's
snarling version of Hootchie Cootchie Man. A true blue blues night it was.
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