OKAY, so it wasn't exactly a balmy day by the banks of the Mississippi, but it came pretty close. Dublin doesn't have a delta, but it does have a genuine, jumpin' Blues Festival, and this year's bash took place in the kind of weather you'd normally associate with New Orleans on a hot summer's day.
This is the way the blues should be heard: in hot, humid air with the sun glinting off the steel body of the guitar. That lazy, twanging rhythm, those slurred, half spoken lyrics, that thick, swampy aura which surrounds the songs: it's music for dog days and heatwaves, and Dublin obliged with one of its hottest weekends ever, tempered only by some fresh, unswamplike sea breezes.
The Guinness Temple Bar Blues Festival began its fifth year with an open air concert in College Green last Friday, featuring Buddy Guy, and ended last night with a gig by Otis Rush in the Temple Bar Music Centre. In between there were pub gigs, outdoor concerts, workshops, masterclasses, talks, competitions and even a bartenders' race. This year, the organisers boosted the total number of gigs over the weekend to 80, and it would be a very dedicated blues buff who could manage to get to even a quarter of these.
Thankfully, there wasn't much blues trainspotting in evidence over the weekend; most people were simply there to enjoy a bit of music in a relaxed, high mercury level atmosphere. The real blues bores lurked in the shadows, hiding indoors at the blues talks, workshops and masterclasses, while the rest of us sat in the afternoon sun, untroubled by the mechanics and methods of the blues, and only concerned with its entertainment value.
Headliner Buddy Guy has gone from obscure session man to extrovert entertainer in only 40 years, and his opening concert at College Green on Friday was a blues circus which pulled out all the tricks. Forget the songs they were only there as springboards for Guy's acrobatic displays of guitar trapeze. He could have shouted "look, folks, no hands", except he had his guitar in his mouth at the time.
After all these slick, sexagenarian displays, it was nice to sit back on Saturday afternoon in Meeting House Square, basking in some sunny country blues. It was the second open air concert of the festival, and the small crowd was spread evenly around the square, just kicking back in the heat and soaking up the rays. This was a million miles away from the moshpit at a Smashing Pumpkins gig, and the only danger here was the possibility of getting sunburn on the back of your neck, or a sore bum from sitting on the slabs.
The Slightly Bewildered String Band opened the proceedings with some very unblues like traditional, folksy sounds, but the harmonica playing gave the music a bit of boxcar authenticity. Paul Geremia was the real thing, however, and his "de-sanctified" sound was the perfect thing for the supine souls in the audience.
"Nice to be in Ireland - it reminds me of New England," he told the crowd. Dammit, we were hoping he'd say New Orleans.
The headlining act in this laid back revue was named Keb' Mo', which is blues speak for Kevin Moore. This sharp young black operator wears some natty threads and a snazzy fedora, and has a rich, soulful voice which he puts to great use on the spicy flavoured Come On In My Kitchen. Unfortunately, he also uses it to create bland concoctions like Just Like You, sounding uncomfortably like a Louisiana Lionel Richie.
As early evening set in, it was time to stand up, stretch the stiff limbs and await the arrival of Reverend Charlie Jackson & The El Dorados, who purvey a sort of doo wop gospel blues while harmonising in bright blue tuxedos. Intriguing, but not enough to keep me there past the first couple of songs. The hour was getting late, the sun was starting to sink, and soon it would be time to hit the Guinness Blues Trail and join the crowd in the rush to get a drink at the bar.
As it turned out, you'd be lucky to reach even the door of the pub, because the streets of Temple Bar were thronged with blues lovers and booze guzzlers, here to (literally) drink up the atmosphere. You had to fight your way into a licensed premises, wrestle your drink back outside, and then find some section of the footpath where there was still enough elbow room to lift your pint. At least you could still hear the music wafting out from inside the pub, and if you stood in certain strategic spots on the pavement, you could hear three bands going at the one time. Now that's really getting the blues.
