If you want the real blues – and I’m not talkin about some long-haired hippy beatin’ on a National Resonator guitar or a mustachiod, Italian-suited slickster blowin’ on a chromatic harmonica – baby, you’d better call Little Freddie King, Normally only seen once a month at BJ’s Lounge located in the lowest bowels of the mighty Ninth Ward, where he shares floor space with a pool table and various carpet remnants, don’t think for a second that his band won’t be able to create the proper mood without their usual scrappy surroundings. The minute Freddie straps on his guitar and strikes up his gnarled chord and drummer “Wacko” Wade makes his presence known with a definitive cymbal crash, this lean, mean, swampy aggregation of gut-bucket wild men transforms the poshest of venues into a back-of-town beer joint.
