The billing was Ray Bonneville [1] with Tim O'Reagan [2]: Blues for a Good Friday or Good Blues for a Friday. Good grief, anyway you phrase it, the show covered goods and grooved my soles.

A flock of roughly 200 audience members braved a spring snowstorm to hear Tim O'Reagan [3], former drummer for the Jayhawks [4], morph into a solo guitarist as the opening act at the Cedar on Friday, March 21^st. O'Reagan took his seat on stage. He picked up his flossy red electric guitar and struck the strings. His amp sounded disgruntled, coughing back some congested noise. "The amp's cooking up," O'Reagan said. (The imagery of a gleaming guitar and a finicky/rickety amp would even bring a grimace to Oscar the Grouch's [5] face.)

Out of nowhere, a second later, the opening rock guitar notes pounded atop the audience, like random diagonal snowflakes. Then O'Reagan squinted and laid down a high puissant pop vocal, holding the last word of the phrase — "time" — as a temperamental youth would after a fierce argument about toys. No clowning around, O'Reagan's rendition of "Tinseltown" blended elements of rock and pop, fusing it into a masterful opening song.

O'Reagan simply said of the second song, "This one's written by a friend in Topeka." The harmonica droned, adding a calming Neil Young [8]-ish texture to the music. Again, the vocals were sung in a carefree fluttery fashion, perfect pop for the shower (more commonly known as the poor man's recording studio).

O'Reagan, decked in dark blue jeans and a chunky block striped shirt, had that special quality; he looked like a regular guy. Yes, he played plenty of good music, but he seemed like he could play a stand-up comic routine just as well. For instance, before the third tune, O'Reagan said, "I'm going to do a song I've wanted to do for awhile, a cover song. I'll bet you someone out there remembers Tim Harden [9]." The middle-aged audience responded, "Yeah."

While most nodded, my thirty-year old mind thought Who?

The song started with a strong emphasis on the first word "gone" before fading out. O'Reagan stopped playing and singing altogether. "This is a John Sebastian [10] song. I was going to do a Tim Harden song, but I wussed out. Well, we all know John Sebastian has done a lot of good songs." The audience laughed politely. "Go ahead. Yuk it up," O'Reagan said before diving into an era of decades past.

While his self-titled Lost Highway [11] album has gained critical acclaim, one couldn't help but wonder why O'Reagan didn't cover his own songs. A couple covers later, he said, "I've got a CD here, and..."

"Why don't you play some?" a man's voice puled.

"Bored. I'm tired of playing them. There were so many good pop songs before 1980," answered O'Reagan before breaking out into a Badfinger [12] song.

The set of covers wound to a close. O'Reagan finished the night by inviting his friend Mike to the stage. Sadly, Mike lost a whole song to a pick "incident." With his pick stuck underneath the strings of his banjo, he fumbling wildly, like ex-Viking Troy Williamson [13] fumbling a perfect pass. Fortunately, he made up for it by skillfully plucking the hell out of the last song for a home run.

On with the Show

Whenever Dylan's [14] name is uttered, especially in Minnesota, you must pay attention. Like an amber alert, it's the law. Ray Bonneville, blues poet, draws the Dylan comparison based on wordsmithing: one line ends a chapter, and the next line begins one. On this note, the comparison rings true. (Bonneville has no odd phonetics or speech abnormalities, so Dana Carvey [15] won't be salivating with an over-the-top impersonation opportunity.)

Fresh off his latest CD, Goin' by Feel [16], on Red House Records [17], Bonneville has put his foot down and left his mark as the tremendous God of Groove. I don't know if the roughly 275 audience members could feel it, but I felt something hit me in my fourth-row seat that night. It started from the moment Bonneville took the stage and lasted throughout his performance. The man's kinetic blues is something you feel. It clamors, and if you care to notice, it tinges your toes. A moment later, another jolt hits your feet, traveling slowly into your soul. Again, the vibrations ripple your feet, and your head bobs with the groove, making you smile. Over and over, until you realize you're heeding the beat of Bonneville's foot pounding the amplified plywood floor. Yes, it resonates. (By the third song, "Goin' by Feel," an empty beer bottle tips itself over and rattles onto the floor.)

Most mainstream artists' songs let themselves be heard, then quickly fade into the air. It's a slippery slope to be musically political and achieve class, rather than something crass. But when it is done right, you're left with substance. Not one to shy away from the present day influences in the media, and having been a New Orleans resident in the '80s, Bonneville touched on the Katrina travesty and evoked a sense of forgotten pride. "I was born in the levy, centuries ago. My daddy was French. My mother Creole," said Bonneville.

The passion behind his new CD made for a spellbinding performance. Bonneville blew every ounce of breath he could muster into his harmonica, almost swallowing and consuming it in the process.

His cause doesn't end in New Orleans, however. "Carry Them Home" has blatant imagery of the Iraq conflict. "It's been five years, now," said Bonneville. Excited onlookers tried to provoke more from him, calling out, "Bush. Bush."

Bonneville simply played the song.

In an age of bullhorns and blaming, what more do you want? Bonneville wrote a whole song about boxes with flags coming home.

He is the hope from the sun. Enough said.