Just imagine that the last fifty years of rock 'n' roll remaking and remodelling had never taken place, that the blues had never migrated to the city, and all you were left with were raw, gut-bucket field hollering and a backbeat so fiery and insistent you could cook chitlin on it.
I estimate there were only around 150 punters to see a mixed bill at North London's Dirty Water Club, and only about 30 paying attention to Jawbone, a one-man band of fractious harp, stone-age bass-drum, and the rawest of slide guitar. As well as your faithful correspondent, one of those lucky 30 was the editor of a well-known retro music magazine (for lovers of print media).
The late (and the term great has rarely seemed so lacking a superlative) John Peel thought this Detroit 21-st century bluesman so vital that he played virtually every track from Jawbone's Dang Blues album on his already-missed show, as well as recording a session.
It's impossible to guess Jawbone's (real name Bob Zabor) age, though estimations of between 40 and 55 would seem astute, so instinctive did the grasp of the primal aspirations of the original Blues seem on those recordings. In the flesh though, the late-twenty something Jawbone resembles Hank Marvin's long-lost hick nephew, yet one that's made a special effort to dress up for Friday night in hallowed smart-but-casual style. It's a sartorial option at odds with the Phil Lynott fan convention choice of duds for the disciples of ROCK in the crowd.
But once he starts blowing that train-round-the-bend harmonica through hardcore shuffles like And Wine and Ready Or Not, there's no doubt that this is clearly a performer who's in possession of boogie demons. And in a consistent state of exorcism.
I would be thrown out of the music writer's union if I failed to mention blues revivalism without mentioning the White Stripes. And it's true that the White Types have done more than anyone to rescue the Blues from beer commercial hell (tho' Nas is doing his bit), Jawbone brings it all back down home.
There's only a half-hour or so of prime Jawbone at this stop-off on a mini-UK tour, and consequently not enough to do justice to this electric music. And Wine, a paean to the thrills of getting completely juiced ("Baby, there's just us three / just you and me / And Wine!") is the spirit of Saturday night juke joints. Johnny Cash's Get Rhythm is stripped down to its bare essentials. It's a process of devolution where it becomes impossible to tell which came first.
It's unlikely that Bob Zabor has ever picked cotton. He can also be secure in the knowledge that he'll never be the target of even the most zealous white supremacist. But those who dislike artifice have no business listening to any kind of popular music of the last century. As Jawbone, Zabor is in possession of a funk so ferocious and carnal that a wider audience is surely just around the corner.
