No American music has been misrepresented harder than blues, because the version that reached most people was a guy in a hat playing too many notes for an audience that came to nod politely. The real thing is dirtier and funnier and considerably more about horns than anyone expects. This is somebody young enough that nobody can accuse him of nostalgia, playing the Georgia end of the tradition where soul and blues were never actually separate things. In a small bar on El Cajon Boulevard, with the amp a few feet from your knees, you hear what the genre was for. A Tuesday blues show in a punk bar pulls a stranger mix than a theatre ever would: some people came for the guitar playing, some wandered in off the boulevard and stayed. Seven on Tuesday, around $25. San Diego has an older, quieter blues circuit running in rooms most people never look at, and it has been going a very long time.
No American music has been misrepresented harder than blues, because the version that reached most people was a guy in a hat playing too many notes for an audience that came to nod politely. The real thing is dirtier and funnier and considerably more about horns than anyone expects. This is somebody young enough that nobody can accuse him of nostalgia, playing the Georgia end of the tradition where soul and blues were never actually separate things. In a small bar on El Cajon Boulevard, with the amp a few feet from your knees, you hear what the genre was for. A Tuesday blues show in a punk bar pulls a stranger mix than a theatre ever would: some people came for the guitar playing, some wandered in off the boulevard and stayed. Seven on Tuesday, around $25. San Diego has an older, quieter blues circuit running in rooms most people never look at, and it has been going a very long time.
No American music has been misrepresented harder than blues, because the version that reached most people was a guy in a hat playing too many notes for an audience that came to nod politely. The real thing is dirtier and funnier and considerably more about horns than anyone expects. This is somebody young enough that nobody can accuse him of nostalgia, playing the Georgia end of the tradition where soul and blues were never actually separate things. In a small bar on El Cajon Boulevard, with the amp a few feet from your knees, you hear what the genre was for. A Tuesday blues show in a punk bar pulls a stranger mix than a theatre ever would: some people came for the guitar playing, some wandered in off the boulevard and stayed. Seven on Tuesday, around $25. San Diego has an older, quieter blues circuit running in rooms most people never look at, and it has been going a very long time.