As we drove all night, across the great Florida panhandle and deepest of southern states, our pilgrimage from DeLand Florida to the heart of the blues was almost complete. It was February 1993, and we were about to arrive at Fat Tuesday, or Mardi Gras, as our French Acadian (that's A'Cajun) brothers would say. Making the big slow slide off Interstate 10 onto the great causeway that would eventually dump us into the heaving city of New Orleans, even at 5:30 in the morning, the local radio was chattering up a blues storm.

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