Buddy Guy @ The Roots 'N Blues 'N BBQ Festival, 10/04/08

This is neither the time nor the place for a colloquium on The Blues - the supernatural power it wields over people of all color and class, the long and undignified death it's suffered at the hands of Eric Clapton and his legion of guitar mag wankers and affluent white men who both enjoy and cause the blues (link), or its equally disheartening re-re-rebirth in the calloused, work-hardened hands of such innovative minds as John Mayer, Jonny Lang, and The Black Keys - but it would be foolish to neglect a chance to reflect on the synapses-scorching spectacle that was Buddy Guy at last weekend's Roots 'N Blues 'N BBQ Festival.

Despite skipping the show's first half to hear an ever disdainful Jon Miller describe yet another epic meltdown by the Cubs, I nonetheless managed to catch a qualifiable masterclass on the blues unfold in the middle of 8th Street. Between half-heartedly plugging his most recent album, Skin Deep, the 72 year-old Chicago blues legend channeled the likes of Albert King ("Drowning On Dry Land"), John Lee Hooker ("Boom Boom"), Eric Clapton ("Strange Brew"), and Jimi Hendrix ("Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)," as he explained, "Just so y'all know I can play it"), while playing behind his head, with his teeth, with a drumstick, and occasionally in the normal, relatively uninspiring way that everyone else plays the guitar. "Drowning On Dry Land," the indisputable highlight, stretched past the ten minute mark as Buddy walked through the crowd like some kind of deity, all the while ripping out an unearthly solo in that mind-melting style that bridged the gap between blues and rock half a century ago and reinvented popular music forever (an especially colorful rumor had it that Buddy made it all the way to the nearby parking garage before driving away in a random vehicle, all the while continuing to solo). The critic in me delightfully noted the uncanny resemblance to Ira Kaplan's flailing thrash solos, à la "Sugarcube" and "Attack On Love," while the world-weary white boy in me tried not to cry inexplicable tears next to a middle-aged white man in a Titleist hat high-fiving a middle-aged black man in a pleather jacket.

So what's the message here? The blues is dead - a living legend like Buddy Guy is nothing more than a museum piece. What does an artifact of a bygone era offer a young music fan? I don't know. I came for the blues, but I stayed for the soul.

[Zach Noland]