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"Not much. But I think I'd like it. I'm a pretty miserable person."

"That's one of the greatest misconceptions going," says Cleo. "That the blues is miserable. I mean, it can be, sure, but it can also be joyous. And anything else in between. Give it a chance, Namen Oberhelm. Try something new. Whaddya say?"

Her mischievous smile is back, and her eyes twinkle as she leans in close. "You wanna go see the man who sold his soul to the Devil?"

Next

His name is Winton Elliot, Cleo explains as you exit the Moses Grill and head out into the muggy New Orleans night—a new player out of Indianola, Mississippi, already making waves among blues aficionados. Local legends say he tried to establish himself as a musician a few years ago, but he was terrible and could barely play. Then he disappeared for eighteen full months, and when he came back, he played the guitar like nobody had ever heard before.

Elliot started claiming he had met the Devil at a crossroads at midnight and traded his soul in exchange for musical brilliance. Now half the audience at his shows is made up of morbid gawpers who just want to get a look at this latter-day Doctor Faustus.

"Bunch of horseshit, of course," says Cleo as you stroll together down the street toward the juke joint where Elliot is booked to play this evening. "He's just a showman trying to make an easy buck off of cheap notoriety."