Blues Society of Western PA - Newsletter

The last vacation that Jonnye planned for us was a cruise of the Mexican Riviera. As always, I put my foot down and refused to go. When she was done laughing, I started to pack. It was a seven day cruise but we left the Burg two days early. You just never know when an ice storm will hit in June. Jonnye was not to let the ship “sail without her.” However, the two days that we spent in Long Beach, California, were a pleasant surprise. We were two blocks from The Blue Café. It was two floors of Blues, twelve hours a day. We saw some good stuff except for the last night when the main band turned out to be an Allman Brothers Cover Band. They were not bad musically but doing two hours note for note got to be very boring.

The ship was average and the entertainment was well below that. Only three ports on this cruise and Cabo San Lucas was by far the best. After the absolutely necessary city tour we disembarked the bus in the downtown area. We did all the tourist traps: Hard Rock Café, Carlos and Charlie’s, etc. Between the town and the tender that was to take us back to the boat there was a mile of continuous restaurants, bars, gift shops and T-shirt stores. They were there just in case you had not spent all of your money in town. About 200-feet short of the dock where we were to catch the tender back to the ship, I stopped dead in my tracks. Jonnye kept walking. After a few steps, she turned and asked what was wrong. Somewhere close, somebody was tearing it up on guitar. Without a word I headed toward the music. Inside was a sixty something, five-foot tall man playing a Mexican Strat. His companion was a lonely-looking keyboard player. We found a seat with a good view. Of the thirty or so people already in the bar, only one man was paying attention to the music. That lone person and I made eye contact. He smiled and said “He good.” I smiled and nodded my agreement.

I asked the Strat man if I could take his picture. He understood nothing that I had said. I could not describe the music very well. It was a cross between Santana and Walter Trout. With time running out, I took a chance and put a five-dollar bill in his tip jar. I simply said, “Blues.” We had connected at last. He smiled and nodded. After he said a few words to the keyboard guy, he started. The next song was Blues at its finest. He started slow and worked up to a feverish pace. This guy was a player. His eyes were closed for most of the ten-minute number. He was wet with sweat by the time he was done. As his eyes opened, he looked at me. The smile on my face told the tale. He smiled back. We had to leave or risk missing the ship. The greatest part of the “experience” was that this man played his heart out and only three people were paying attention. I always appreciate talented guitarists. Isn’t it great, though, when one of them appreciates a fan? It is give and take between a musician and fan. We may not have been able to communicate in speech. However, we sure were able to do so in the international language called the Blues.