I liked the music of Tony Joe White from the start and got his first album, Black and White, in 1969. I was drawn by the rhythmic drive and warm tone of his guitar plus his spare but emotional harmonica, played on a rack like Jimmy Reed or Bob Dylan.
His drawling, swampy Louisiana storytelling contained down-home compassion born of his own poor family background in farming. It only added to his appeal to hear that his first inspiration as a child was Texas bluesman Lightnin’ Hopkins.
I saw Tony Joe a couple of times and he could sometimes play his whispering and growling bayou poor-boy persona more than his music but at his best he was still a compelling and mesmerising artist.
In 2008 I saw him at the Bush Hall in Shepherd’s Bush, west London, at a time when I was in low spirits because I had lost sight in one eye and was awaiting an operation. At first Tony Joe and his drummer and keyboards player struggled to get in sync, but slowly the momentum grew and the trio got into an irresistible groove.
I forgot about my bad eye, and immersed myself in the southern nights magnetism of the music. He finished with a magnificent version of Polk Salad Annie, played with restrained power and delicacy, rising to a swooping harmonica solo full of pained tenderness.
The NHS eventually saved my sight, but it felt to me that Tony Joe started the healing process.
