Erik Lindahl fell in love with the blues when the American Folk Blues Festival of 1970 hit his Swedish hometown. Since then he has visited juke joints all over America to document the men and women of the blues. The 147 pages of this beautifully produced book contain the gloriously monochromatic results.
Albert King nonchalantly smoking a pipe while playing his Flying V? T-Model Ford whippin’ ’em up at the insalubrious Keyhole Inn, Indianola? James “Tail Dragger” Jones cradling a massive, vicious-looking fish as part of his day job? Erik Lindahl has seen it all and taken the pictures to prove it. This is not the blues of Eric Clapton (though his mate Buddy Guy is here), nor even Robert Cray. This is the blues of low-ceilinged dives where people go to celebrate (or forget) life; it’s not pretty or romantic, unless you think a racoon barbecue is romantic, but it looks as real as any mediated reality can get.
How did this white man from northern Europe insinuate himself and his camera into these many scenes so well that he seems to be invisible? The text hints at an answer but the pictures tell the real story. Lindahl loves the blues and the blues love him right back.
