Tab is homegrown, but his dexterity on guitar is needle-sharp, and his rapport with an audience likewise in need of musical therapy was nothing less impressive than what I’d expect from an Apollo Theater crowd on a hot Saturday night in Harlem.

Everyone returned from the bathrooms, ready to revel in these messy healings in a fever pitch so loud, so shrill like only Chicago crowds can do

“I’m the whole story, and that’s why the album is called ‘Americana.'”

Jackson’s voice is low and powerful, and his rhythm section is tighter than a Georgia tick on a coonhound. When combined they make for a brilliant blues album.