The Blues is a spare framework on which to build a structure of sound. The Blues is a sheet of canvas for painting soul-pictures. The Blues is a lifeline across a fault-line. The Blues is Robert Johnson sitting in the dust with an old acoustic guitar with a broken string. The Blues is Stevie Ray wailing on a Strat in front of a bank of Marshalls, and taking a helicopter ride to eternity. The Blues is the main street of Metairie, Louisiana, and the East end of London. The Blues is an echo, and a forecast. The Blues dies and is reborn every day.