so in the last three nights, at semi-legal speakeasies here in southern york county, pa, i've seen john hammond and paul rishell and annnie raines. do you know, the treasures of our era, the repositories of our traditions, our mississippi john hurts and muddy waterses are middle aged white folkd. these shows were awe-inspiring both as creative acts and as archives of american song. hammond played with incredible intensity and great chops simultaneously on guitar and harp. he told stories throughout about howlin wolf, sonny boy williamson, lowell fulsom, hoyt axton, etc. made you wonder how he could never mention his father; something must be weird there. paul and annie: he is a singer of extreme power who only dawns on you slowly; she is a treasure, both a stunning technical harp player blowing chromatic jazz on a diatonic harp and as strong as any straight blues  player i've ever heard, and i've heard, let me see: kim wilson, james cotton, carey bell, to start with. she threw down a solo that was at once an original performance and an anthology of historical harp solos, including cotton's creeper and little walter's rollercoaster. seeing these people in little barns in the middle of nowhere is also an extremely good idea.

paul and annie: blues for tampa red: