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Monday, 27 June 2011

Homesick Aldo

It's dark, and the moisture in the air is still unsure on whether it should metamorphosize into rain or just continue to lazily swirl as a mist in the pools of light cast down from the street lamps.
I'm a hundred yards from the sanctuary that Jolly's/Dirty Martinis offers the live music scene, and I can hear the howl of the blues.
Not the tired old white man approximation of the tradition sound of the Delta, but the primal dirt under the nails blues of an unsure century.
Something being born, something dying.
A cyclic bastardization that has set up camp in that moment when the past is gasping its last breath and the unsure present feels the presence of the future pressing in.
I push on the door and the sound pushes against my chest.
Scarecrow thin Homesick Aldo leans into his mic.
Sweat drips from his nose.
His lips slide from his harmonica.
He drawls a Shangri-Las laced with Thunder promise that you best believe in love L....U....V, and then the starting gates are behind him as he hurtles along breathing hard into his harp and rattling the bones of punk, sixties R&B and the blues.
Smokestack lighting indeed mother fucker.
Intensely good. Intensely real feeling and refreshingly gut wrenching. (Does anyone go here anymore?)

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