By: Richard Harvey

The butterflies in my stomach were doing a frantic jig, even from my perch in the front row. It was Sunday night. I was at Murphy’s, a gritty blues joint on I35 just South of Waco, nursing a beer and clutching my harmonica case on my lap like a good luck charm. The air was thick with the scent of warm beer and faceless ambition, and the mirrors everywhere still reflected the distorted neon glows from its strip club days. A solitary pole at center stage, glinting under the bright lights, seemed to mock my own stage fright. I’d signed up to play tonight, but hadn’t been called yet.

I watched, a quiet relief washing over me that my turn was at the end of the evening, when the club would be empty.

Ed Bergeron, the host, a big, longhaired teddy bear of a man who looked like a blonde furry freak brother, was finishing up a set with his band, a tight unit of seasoned pros. He then gestured to the back of the room. “Alright, folks, we’re getting close to last call. We got a few more jammers to get up… Slim, a friend of mine from out of town, come on up.” I watched, a quiet relief washing over me that my turn was at the end of the evening, when the club would be empty. This Slim fellow looked rough, like he’d seen more road than most folks saw sky. His guitar case looked like it had survived a war. As he ambled towards the stage, I leaned forward, trying to get a better look.

That’s when I heard it – from Ed’s smirk-faced guitarist, loud and clear, just a few feet from me on the stage: “Aw, come on, Ed. Do we have to be in on this train wreck?” A few uncomfortable chuckles rippled through the rest of his band, their disdain obvious. My stomach tightened. It felt like a punch to the gut, not just for Slim, but for every aspiring player who’d ever felt judged before they even played a note. I saw Ed flinch, a flash of genuine regret in his eyes as he heard his own band’s rude comment. Slim’s gaze, veiled and unreadable from my vantage point, seemed to tighten, but he said nothing.

He set his beat-up case down, revealing scuffed tolex with faded stickers, then, with slow, deliberate movements, unlatched it. Inside, nestled on frayed flannel, lay a guitar of such unlikely appearance it was almost comical: a ragged pawn shop Strat, dull and worn, with strings frayed at the headstock and a volume control dial entirely missing, leaving just a stark metal post. A ripple of audible murmurs went through the crowd; not a gasp of awe, but of bewildered amusement. Even the band members exchanged glances. Holy cow, I thought, is he really going to play that thing? Slim picked it up as if it were an extension of his own bones, a natural extension of his very being, completely oblivious to the silent judgment.

He nodded briefly to the band, called out a key, and started an original tune about a place long ago where dreams were born and anything was possible. It began a little rough, a tentative riff, and I could feel the initial judgment from Ed’s band gaining purchase, a small, smug vindication for their snobbery. But then, after the first verse, Slim leaned over and made a few minor tweaks to the knobs on Ed’s ’64 Vibroverb amp. Immediately, the tone shifted. It wasn’t just good; it was glorious, singing with a clarity and warmth that Ed himself rarely achieved, a stunning transformation given the beat-up guitar in his hands. I saw the smirk on that other guitarist’s face falter, replaced by a flicker of pure confusion. Slim’s guitar then found its voice, weaving a head-turning melody that silenced the room.

He started his second song, another original, a story about a poor man stealing the heart of a good woman. I could barely believe the sound he was pulling from that cheap guitar. Again, a quick, almost imperceptible adjustment to the amp, and the tone swelled, reaching an even richer, more resonant quality. The band, once skeptical, now stunned at the realization that they were the weak link, trying to figure out what just happened. The drummer leaned forward, a subtle shift that showed his sudden engagement. Slim played with a raw intensity that was both effortless and profound, commanding the stage as if he’d been born there. He never once made eye contact with the band, that ship having sailed, his focus now within, almost meditative.

For his third and final song, Slim made one last, almost sacred adjustment to the amp. He launched into a slow blues, a mournful, heart-wrenching tale of a beautiful woman he lost long ago. His voice, surprisingly polished and full of gravelly emotion, wrapped around lyrics that painted vivid, aching pictures that echoed around the mirrors, somehow making that old strip club seem important and relevant. Then came the solo. It wasn’t just notes; it was pure, uninhibited passion. His guitar cried, then whispered, telling a tragic story of love and loss that left the entire club breathless, including me. Slim was really sweating at this point, and as I told Steve later in the courtyard, I swear I saw a tear running down his cheek. My hands remained silent on my lap, the only thing I wanted to do was listen. It was the finest slow blues I had ever heard. The house came down in thunderous applause. Slim was instantly my hero.

As the cheers subsided, musicians rushed past me, eager to shake his hand, showering him with compliments. “That was incredible!” one guitarist exclaimed. “Ed, I’ve never heard your amp sound like that!” another shouted, marveling at the performance. Slim met their gazes, but his eyes held a distant, weary look. He said nothing, simply packed his ragged guitar back into its beat-up case, offered a curt nod to Ed, and walked silently out into the Waco night.

I wasn’t surprised when Ed decided that it was a good time to call it quits, apologized to anyone who didn’t get up, and thanked everyone for coming in. He then left his battered band standing on the stage.

You just have to respect the moment, listen with an open mind, feel the energy, and let the music speak from your heart.

I sat there, a silent witness to it all. The weak-link guitarist had looked utterly ashamed and Ed looked truly crestfallen when he stepped from the stage, I imagine feeling the sting of his band’s earlier arrogance.

But me?

I was buzzing. I finally understood what it meant when the old guys said the blues was your chance to testify. Watching Slim transform that cynical stage, hearing how he controlled not just the notes he played, but the will of everyone that witnessed his performance, and doing it with his beat-up guitar. And I understood that at a blues jam, anything is possible. You just have to respect the moment, listen with an open mind, feel the energy, and let the music speak from your heart. My butterflies were suddenly replaced with a quiet, burning resolve, a resolve born from knowing I’d seen something magical that evening, something that transcended guitars, amps, and tone and showed me the true meaning of the blues.