It’s not every day that a guitar solo can bring me to tears. But that’s what happened the other night in Atlanta after we finished up an epic wine dinner and headed over to one of the city’s mainstay blues and rock clubs, the Northside Tavern.
I had never met the amazing Andrew Black, above, or heard his music. I just happened to walk into the bar where he was playing that night.
During the first set I watched, our group had a great time rocking out to the 80s adult classics and yacht rock he was jamming.
But when he opened his next set, he went straight into the blues. And when I say the blues, I mean that kind that stirs and stews your soul.
An Albert King track was followed by Albert Collins jam, and even though Andrew was rocking a Les Paul custom, I could swear the Ice Man — the Master of the Telecaster — was in the room with us. And me and my eyes were goners.
Andrew and I got to talking before the night was over and he’s the nicest, sweetest guy.
It occurred to me as I drifted off to sleep that evening: a dude from Houston and a dude from Atlanta connected thanks to a musical genre — I would go as far as a saying, a medium — that is uniquely American in origin and spirit and a reflection of our country’s history, culture, and ethos.
The blues are an idiom that you can speak in Los Angeles, New York, Houston, Atlanta, and nearly every corner of the world.
I may not be the American that the incoming government wants me to be. But I’m still an American. And the blues are part of my cultural birthright, just like American jazz, American dance, American literature, American post-modernism, etc.
Our country and our variegated people have given the world so much in terms of the arts. And the world has often loved us back for it.
Thank you, Andrew, for helping me bare my soul and remember why I love to be an American. And thanks, man, for the great music and friendship. It was a wonderful night to rejoice in what is truly great about this country.











