Anyone who knows Bardot would've thought that Diablo Dimes must've played there at least a fistful of time in the few months the joint's been open. It seems like the quasi-cabaret was almost designed for Dimes's throwback swamp blues shuffle. But for some inexplicable reason, the Big Easy transplant hadn't staged there until just last night. But boy was it worth the wait.
Not that Dimes was actually waiting around, mind you. When you're a one-man-band that stands for the best of American roots music, you're literally a cat out of time. And there's not a hot minute to squander. That's probably why the ambidextrous muso seems so omnipresent over the last year. That Dimes happens to swing it as if it was 1929 all over again only adds to the calendar clouding.
But Dimes rings clear as a bell tolling in a back alley of a forgotten parish, where street corner kids strummed and kicked drum while the saints went marching on to whatever fresh hell would become them. And when that six-string strum and that steady, ready drum roils his Jelly Roll slur, you just can't wait to get back to where the juke joints all jumped in earnest.
With artists and poets and other assorted fellow travelers in the house, Dimes played as if he were right at home. And if the hush of the crowd was any indication, this town will never wear out its welcome.