Two years ago tonight I stood pressed against the foot of the stage at The Catalyst, breathless with some kind of spiritual awe, close enough to see the lines in his hands and the dust on his shoes. Two short months later, at the age of 83, he was gone.

I wrote a review of that concert for City on a Hill, and took 20 some odd pictures (the one above being my favorite). The review itself wasn't all that great. It was the first one I'd ever written and it's hard to review someone you reviere without going over the top. Still, there are pieces of it that I wouldn't change even if I could:

Decked out like the coolest cat , in a loose gray suit, a white hat with a curled brim, and dark sunglasses, Hooker was ushered to the front of the stage where he settled into a wooden chair and lifted his beloved 1964 Sheraton into his lap.

There was such reverence in the room that it felt somehow sacred, as if god himself had sanctioned this moment and this place.

As the vocals became merely rhythmic mumbles and moans, a hush blanketed the room. We were no longer just listening to the blues. We felt them in the marrow of our bones. When the last note faded away and he removed his shades, we escorted him off the stage with a round of deafening applause. We'd finally gotten what we came for: a preacher, a healer, a medicine man. In the words of the nephew who introduced him that night, "My dad and your dad, Mr. John Lee Hooker.

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