“A hunting intoxication” are not words usually associated with blues music, especially, when it’s house-rockin’ blues, blues with a feeling, intense, filled with enthusiasm and hypnotic energy, played out and delivered by a big man with a deep fat full throated voice, a voice that comes at you from a different time and space, from Chicago, from the early 70’s, emancipated and understanding of the pillars on which his sound sat.That man is Magic Slim, though I called him Morris, always stretching out the [/i]’o’[/i] when saying his name as deeply as I possibly could. I’ve seen him many times, he knew my name, knew by cat’s name, always greeted me with a bearhug that took my breath away. Slim died in 2013, leaving a hole in my heart, knowing that I’d never be on the receiving end of one of those hugs again. Slim had a deep spirit as well, and that spirit spilled out through his music, filled with passion and grace, though most importantly, always with a smile on his face and a chuckle in his voice. Recorded live in Austria back in the mid 90’s, Slim is joined on stage by the legendary Teardrops, Earl Howell on drums, Slim’s brother Nick Holt holding down those amazing bass lines, guitarist John Primer who matched Slim note for note, always waiting for Slim to wonder, as John loved riding out there on the edge of the stage before they strolled back together, as if they’d just shared an inside joke no one else was privy to. Recordings of live shows can be iffy at best, but not here, all fourteen of the tracks are clean and crisp, songs that roll and tumble, delivered with a sense of immediately and a sweetness that came from beginning born so long ago. I don’t think it was Morris’ intentions, but he carved out his own space in the blues world, carved out his own sound when it came to the Chicago blues sound as well, sincere, evocative and slow burning, presented delicately, with seamless precision, contouring up ghosts in his head, memories that I’ll never understand, though he did share many with me, leaving me feeling forever indebted to have sat and laughed at the bar with him while an anonymous opening band was trying a bit too hard, where no matter what the song, Morris would pick up his guitar, invite himself on stage and finish the set with those young guns … and if that doesn’t say it all, I don’t know what does.Review by Jenell Kesler