The genre of blues is so deeply rooted in Americana that a Canadian bluesman is a bit like an Englishman taking the lead role in Riverdance. In the case of Jeff Healey, though, it is a musical shallowness rather than nationality which proves to be his undoing.
There is no doubting his virtuosity. Playing his guitar with strings face-up, making it into a sort of rapid-fire pedal steel, Healey manages some fairly nifty solos. But guitar pyrotechnics is not what blues is about; whatever shade this up-tempo music is, there is very little blues about it. Rather, it is closer to that sort of comfortable Eric Clapton - or, heaven forbid, Joe Satriani - mush. All long hair and shiny shirts, there is too much emphasis on appearance and too little on substance. This made a tedious, winding solo obligatory in every song, and it made the sad songs sound the same as the desperate ones.
When you play under a blues banner, there is a burden of expectation; if you cannot muster a particular intensity of emotion, you just look as if you're messing about.