Jake Brennan

On stage, his Gibson Flying V guitar looked like a toothpick in his hands.

Albert King was a lefty, so he played the guitar on the opposite side of his body, just as Jimi Hendrix did.

But unlike Jimi, he also played it upside down, with the high strings on the top of the neck and the low strings on the bottom.

Albert King had managed to survive three decades in this business because he did everything himself.

He didn't trust his career to anybody.

He drove his own tour bus.

Because while other people used house bands, Albert didn't trust whatever half-assed collection of local players that a club owner at a place like Antone's might cobble together.

So it didn't matter that the house band in question tonight was Jimmy Vaughn's group, the Fabulous Thunderbirds.

They weren't even going to sniff the stage when Albert King got up there.

What Albert King hated even more than those house bands was the wannabe white boy lead guitar players who were always sniffing around his sets, always trying to sit in, always talking about how great they were.

And they could run their mouths, but none of them could ever hang with Albert King.

Stevie Ray Vaughan knew all that.

But he also knew how many thousands of times he dropped the needle on an Albert King riff and played along until it got every detail perfect.

So he begged Clifford Antone, the club's owner, to try to get him on stage with Albert.

And then he saw the first set.

And when the band kicked in, Albert played sweet.

And then he played hard.

He made the guitar swing.

He made the guitar scream.

And he absolutely tore the roof off of Antone's.