The band sets into it, and the crowd follows them along.
Well, everyone but me and that couple too busy making out to notice anything else.
What I see and hear turns my stomach. Privileged white kids freaking out to other privileged white kids badly covering old blues standards.
I’m done with them before they’re done with their first song.
“Not stickin’ around?” The doorman asks me as I break out into the cold night.
“Newspaper said they were blues. That ain’t blues.” I said with a growl.
“Sounds like it to me.” He replies, then quickly adds, “No refunds.”
I sigh, and turn to him, something inside me snapping.
“The blues is a duet between a man and his pain. A man’s fingers might be on the strings of a guitar, and the voice in his throat, but it’s the pain that’s makin’ the music.” I jab my finger toward the venue. “Those ain’t men, and they sure as hell ain’t never known pain, not any real pain.”
He stares at me blankly, obviously not expecting that kind of response. We shrug at each other as he goes back to checking IDs as I walk off into the dark.
Every few years a group of middle class white kids will discover the blues and get some attention about how they’ve updated the genre for the modern audience. But none of them ever get it quite right, there’s always something missing. Which is why we still revere the name of Robert Johnson, but can’t remember the names of bands like this at all.