Son Seals, 62

Son Seals, 62 The passing of a figure on the level of Frank "Son" Seals brings out the Alan Lomax in all of us. Hentoff, Goldstein, even Norman Granz of Jazz at the Philharmonic fame-we do what urban Jews do best. We emcee. We introduce. We popularize. We consecrate precious column space to that other American minority we want to understand, but rarely do. Here we go again.

In our post-electric, post-acoustic and post-electric-again blues world, an era rife with guitar heroes from the relatively traditional Buddy Guy to the softcore muzak of Eric Clapton, Son Seals stood out. His voice was hard, almost metallic-Charlie Patton with Gulf War Syndrome. His pickless guitar style-famously characterized by Alligator Records founder Bruce Iglauer as "all kill, no fill"-was undoubtedly the most laser-trained, no-fucking-around sound that America has heard from six strings since Hubert Sumlin began sucking a few decades ago. Son Seals, in the end, was the last gasp of the blues before the Jonny Lang/Stevie Ray Vaughn revival of the 80s and 90s, and the coopting of traditional black music by people like Moby, suburban-hippies Phish and the aural abortion that was Clapton Unplugged.

The youngest of 13 children, Frank Seals grew up in his father Jim's jukejoint in Osceola, AR. He was called "Little Son" to tell him apart from his father, who just went by the name of "Son." From the age of 13, Seals toured on drums and guitar, receiving wisdom at the feet of Earl Hooker and Albert King.

In 1971 he moved to Chicago, the city with which he was to be associated for the rest of his life. Seals, now full time on the guitar, assumed Hound Dog Taylor's regular spot at the Expressway Lounge on the South Side when Taylor went big and hit the road.

Albums followed, most notably The Son Seals Blues Band and Midnight Son, and all on Alligator Records. Trouble followed too. Besides having to deal with 14 children, Seals lost his left leg to diabetes in 1999; two years earlier, he was shot in the face by an ex-wife. And then only two years ago, Seals' mobile home was destroyed in a fire, and his custom-made guitar stolen.

But did any of this hard living and hard luck make him play the blues any better? No. Seals was beyond all that. I caught him one night at Town Hall, and in the middle of a guitar solo I heard this sound, like someone sawing off an ear with a chainsaw purring sweet. I closed my eyes, expecting the apocalypse. I opened them a second later, and there was just this black man with the beard of a prophet.