“Not bad for an old man, eh?” he croaks. He looks like he’s made of American redwood, with hard bitten baby blue eyes like an astronaut, a beard dredged from the bottom of the Atlantic, tattoos on those great tree trunk arms, exposed by his wife-beater and dungarees. He’s played with Modest Mouse, though he’s easily at least twice Isaac Brock’s age. The assembled audience, younger than you might expect, lean in close to Seasick Steve, to breathe in the perfume of the zillion down-home joints where he’s played his home-made slide guitars, much as he does tonight.
It’s a low, wise talking blues Steve plays, lean lone licks ringing out, guitar strings yelping as his metal slide presses down on ‘em. He’s not the only one talking tonight, and he stops the show for a moment to listen to the wankers babbling at the bar, seemingly shook. Maybe they didn’t talk all those years he spent as a hobo, travelling