In the bowels of The Jazz Bar, John Hunt perches on his stool clutching a guitar, his ageless face cast in red shadows. Sporting a white trilby and jeans, he swigs casually from his beer bottle, keeping up his friendly patter while the audience find their seats. He warns us that he can't overrun because there's another act on straight afterwards, 'like a conveyor belt of music. And you can't get stuck on a conveyor belt,' he mutters, 'there'd be a pile up of musicians. That would be terrible.' He plucks the strings of his guitar with sardonic glee.
So it begins. He strums a few notes and the room falls to silent attention.
Like a charismatic cross between a British John Lee Hooker and Charles Bukowski, Hunt drawls with a voice deep enough to vibrate your bones. All original songs (except for a guttural rendition of Sinatra), the lyrics are witty and the blues guitar raunchy. With a list of 100 potential songs to choose from, Hunt's spontaneity keeps the audience on their toes and tapping their feet.
Following this, he pulls out a hand-built guitar. He couldn't afford the ones he actually wanted, he tells us. The audience crane to get a look at it, and it sounds incredible. Hunt keeps up a lively pace throughout, full of self-assured energy. Despite not being American, he is an epitome of southern blues, with the added bonus of some of his own lovable zaniness.
This is a fantastic gig; it’s understated and cool. Hunt punctuates the set with amusing anecdotes, bending notes on the slide guitar so nonchalantly he makes it look easy. A sell-out show at last year's festival, Hunt deserves your attention.
