I returned to the United States from Korean in July 1990. During my two years in Korea I had stopped playing guitar all together. Due to the lack of blues available in Korea, I had also stopped listening to blues.

Once I was back home, I made a few half-hearted attempts to pick up the guitar and start playing again. However, I had become occupied with college life and didn’t take playing the guitar seriously. I would play for a few days or a week on my classical or electric guitar, but I would become dismayed at the lack of instant progress and the pain of blisters on all of my fingers. Eventually, I gave up the pretense of playing and let my guitars collect dust.

During that time, and shortly after my return from Korea, I felt the urge to do some volunteer work. I drifted into the Helpline crisis intervention hotline at Utah State University. It was there that I met Jaynan Chancellor, the Helpline Director. At then end of that summer, I began my second year of university. It was during my sophomore year that I had the opportunity to return to Korea as an exchange student for a little more than one year. I went to Korea in June of 1991 and returned in August 1992.

During my second time in Korea I accidentally stumbled onto a few Johnny Winter albums in a local department store. I asked the clerk to make a copy of the albums onto cassettes (You could do that back then in Korea). When I picked up the tapes, the clerk had thrown in a Gary Moore tape as a bonus. I can’t count the number of times that I listened to those tapes.

When I finished my second time in Korea and went back home, I started volunteering at Helpline again. It was during that Summer, the Summer of 1992 that Jaynan and her husband Russ, an artist and mountain man recreationist, introduced me to other mountain man types such as “Weird Harold” and his wife. One night, Russ and Weird said that there was going to be someone performing at the White Owl bar that I should see. They said he was a good blues musician.

We went down to the Owl, ordered up some killer burgers and pickles made in jalapeno juice. That’s when he came it. A tall, well-built guy with a goatee and a long braided pony tail. He was wearing a buckskin shirt. He laid out several harmonicas and hooked up a microphone. It turned out that he was a friend of Weird Harold’s and an acquaintance of the Chancellors from various mountain man rendezvous. We were sitting the front table nearest where he would perform. He sat down at our table. That is when I was first introduced to:

When it was time to begin his first set, Harry Harpoon opened his guitar case and took out his guitar. Suddenly, the world stood still. I was transfixed. Harry was holding the most incredibly sexy-looking instrument that I had ever seen. It was what appeared to be a guitar made of polished solid steel with a funky inverted dish on the front. I had never seen anything like it.

I was literally left speechless as Harry picked the first notes on that guitar. It is impossible to describe the tone of that thing other than to say it was crisp, clean, metallic, and loud as hell. That was my first introduction to National resonator guitars. I had heard that sound before on some of my blues recordings, but I had no idea what was making that noise. Then I knew. And I knew I was in love.

I listened to a couple of sets including such songs as a particularly devilish tune about Juan Corona and one about a woman of negotiable affections. After the second set, while we were sitting around the table talking, I thought I would throw out a request to Harry and show off a bit of classic blues knowledge to impress him. I reached all the way back to the early blues of Robert Johnson.

“Hey,” I said, “Can you do ‘Hellhounds On My Trail?”

“No. I won’t,” Harry replied.

By the time the final set finished, I was taken by Harry Harpoon’s music. His deep, resonant baritone sang everything from scratchy, gut-bucket blues, to “She’ll be Comin’ Round the Mountain.” He played an incredibly mean guitar. However, when he began blowing harp, he was absolutely mesmerizing. He reached an altogether different plane when during one song he simultaneously played guitar, sang, played harmonica, and played a drum.

When it was made known to people at the table that Harry needed a place to sleep for the evening, my roommate, Courtney, and I jumped at the chance to have Harry over to our apartment. I wanted to hear more about the music he was playing. Courtney wanted him over because he was a rugged, rakishly handsome guy.

After getting to the apartment, Harry settled into a bottle of Meyer’s Dark Jamaican Rum. I put an old Lonnie Johnson tape, one that I had copied from Carl Hart. As we talked, Harry talked about some of the frustrating experiences he has had with guests. At one point, he talked about an experience he had earlier that evening.

“Some jerk,” Harry bemoaned, “actually asked me to play ‘Hellhounds on My Trail’. That loser just had no clue. Some people just don’t get it.”

“yeah. Some people just don’t get it,” I echoed.

I never to Harry that the loser that night was me. Harry was right. I just didn’t get the blues. I knew the emotions that the blues could create in me. I knew how the blues could make me feel when I listened to the music. What I came to understand much later was that I was clueless when it came to the feelings that could be raised while playing the blues. I didn’t know where playing the blues came from. I thought I was clever and knowledgeable. I didn’t know anything.

In addition to introducing me to resonator guitars, and rekindling my desire to listen to the blues. Harry taught me so much with just a few sentences. Unfortunately, it took me about 12 years to learn the lessons.