In the intimate space of The Ark in Ann Arbor, the salty dog appeared fashionably late and thrilled his cult audience with his period numbers all with one guitar, an occasional harmonica and a blues piano man shrouded at the back . He brings alive the aching of the past, speaks longingly of the genius of the forgotten and his vibrant memories scattered across the people he loves (Valentino, Leon Morris), the places he haunts (story about his travails in Vienna, Austria) and the music he longs for and reconstructs (Fats Waller, Jelly Roll Morton). His songs are apparitions; his workings of his equipment (guitar, harmonica) and voice (whistles, scats, whispers, jokes, teases, growls) feel like the construction of a period record player playing haunting and beautiful music from a bygone era. His on stage presence is more like a magician and he looks like a pastiche of Dali, Dylan and George Harrison blended for interesting reasons accentuated with a walking stick in tow for his signature mystique.
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