alan's blues

Walking toward Potts Point from the Cross in Sydney early this morning I was amazed to hear the unmistakable sound of a steel guitar over the bursts of traffic noise. It was coming from the Potts Point market, near the doorstep of the infamous "Bourbon and Beefsteak" bar. There, on a bench between a fruit juice stand and a cluster of potted palms and flowers for sale, was a man playing some Robert Johnson blues on a National steel guitar, providing a wonderful soundtrack to the casual wandering of the customers and the happy nattering of the vendors.

After listening to a couple of songs, I wandered over to him and began chatting about the guitar and his playing, as I've long been a fan of the Delta blues. It turned out that the guitarist, Alan, had quite a story to tell of his life with music, which took a turn from rock to blues when he was walking down a street in Adelaide in the early '60s and heard a unique sound coming from one of the pubs. Backtracking and ducking into the bar to investigate, he found the legendary American blues duo Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee. I was stunned when he mentioned them. There aren't many folks these days know of this incredible blues pair, whose harmonica, guitar, and vocals make your feet tap from the first bar. It was amazing to me Alan had heard these two live, in the 60s, in Adelaide of all places.

"I was playing in a sort of Beatles band," Alan said, "but I'd never heard anything like this." He got hooked when Brownie sang a line recounting a conversation he had with a friend about happiness, something he didn't think he'd be able to recognize if he found it, and that sank in for the young Alan.

Years later, he'd moved to Sydney, played Jazz, rock, and folk but he was still devoted to the blues. He bought his third guitar, a used Martin, and his wife, he says, told him three was enough. "She finally walked out after I got to 17," he chuckled.

Talking about the day he bought the National, he sounded as excited as he must have been the day he laid eyes on it. He had just put down $5,000 on a brand new Martin ("A mate looked at it, and he said 'It just looks like a normal guitar'," Alan said, shaking his head at his friend's ignorance) but when he saw the steel guitar glittering in the store, he momentarily forgot the brand-spanking new guitar of his dreams. Minutes later - and despite the store owner mentioning a 25% discount on all items in a couple of weeks - he walked out with the National. He couldn't risk someone else grabbing it up.

That was in 2004. Now, he appreciates how the gorgeous sound of a steel guitar lent an edge to certain blues guitarists back in the States who needed a distinctive sound, an edge, to ensure the coins came to their street corner rather than to the competition at the other end of the block.

We chatted for so long I began to feel guilty for distracting him and for depriving the market of its astonishingly unusual musical attraction. Alan jumped into Dylan's "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright" and a couple nibbling their bacon and egg sandwiches began dancing away next to him.

Now I'm listening to Sonny and Brownie on my laptop back in the hotel. "Oh honey, take it easy, 'till I make a little money..."