Barefoot
and twirling under the opaque blue lights, a young woman swayed to a familiar
jazz tune. Just behind her was a small stage ornamented with two large amps, an
oriental rug, and a single squatted stool. A large black banner on the wall
read “Mojo,” the name of the Danish blues bar my classmates and I decided to
casually peruse at one in the morning on a Wednesday. We voyaged to the smoky,
mustard-walled venue to see Marco og Laust, a local blues musician who was
performing the late night shift.
Upon
arriving at Mojo, we were approached by a friendly gentleman (whose chronic
overuse of alcohol might lead the Danes to call a “Beer Drinker”). In three or
more languages, he informed us that Marco was “the jam.” Frankly, I was
excited. The mood was set—shadowy strangers in the corner, smoke in my eyes,
and old jazz posters peeling off the walls next to pictures of the greats. I
had just spent hours researching the history of the blues; getting to know
Muddy Waters, Elmore James, and Willie Dixon; analyzing the different
structures and chord progressions; attempting to train my ears to identify true
blue. "Hoochie Coochie Man”—16 bars, got it. I even tried a few chord
progressions on my ukulele to do some kinesthetic learning. I was ready to go
full Rob Christgau on this performance, or at least try.
Rowdy
applause echoed from all corners of the room as Marco og Laust stepped on
stage. Dressed in cutoff jeans, wife beater, and black sneakers, his appearance
could have been the permutation of the hipster garb found on the Danish main
street, Strøget, or conversely, on an old country back road. Would this fashion
mash-up foreshadow his performance of an American-born genre?
Well,
kind of. He began with a warm introduction and strong acoustic strum that made
the barefoot lady jump out of her seat and onto the dance floor again. At
first, his confidence and control with the guitar greatly overshadowed his
vocal abilities. His voice was soulful, coming from deep within his chest, yet
the tune was lost in the garble of English. I couldn’t identify what song was
being performed and it didn’t sound like the blues that I had researched so
thoroughly. From what I could gather, it sounded like country music.
As
it turns out, Marco was actually performing Robert Johnson’s “Cross Road
Blues,” but the singularity of the acoustic guitar combined with his strong
strumming and chummy hometown vibe gave his performance palpable country flair.
Between songs—and even within them—Marco would bellow cheers, thereby eliciting
a strong response from the room (primarily from the area designated as the
bar). Aside from these spontaneous interjections and his pair of remarkably
emotive eyebrows, there was not much improvisation on Marco’s behalf. For the
most part, it seemed like a pretty standard, albeit overly country rendition of
the delta blues.
My
interest peaked when a young harmonica player unexpectedly jumped on stage to
join on a verse or two of “Hoochie Coochie Man.” Not only was his out of the
blue improvisation exceptional, but the harmonica player also handled his
instrument with a fluidity and ease that I had been craving the whole night.
As
he jumped back down into the shadows, I realized that I might have missed an
important piece of the performance. As one of the only outsiders in the bar, I
had confused the chumminess and cheers of the singer matched with the
excitement and involvement of the crowd as attributions to this country music
vibe. Although I knew that Danish Blues would vary from Blues performed in the
United States, I wasn’t sure what the transmogrification would be. Instead of
watering down the American Blues, Marco added something much more illuminating
and warm to it—a sense of hygge.
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