Somewhere South of Wonder, a man is playing a foreign, yet universal music. Like some of the artists he reveres, he’s a humble man, known only by a few. Yet his sound belongs to us in a way we do not understand and wherever he plays, he leaves more than just words and music in his trail. He’s like a whirlwind, a gush of howling wind for those who care to listen, his sound belongs to us in a way we do not totally comprehend. Yet, you do not have to be a blues buff to understand or to embrace his music as your own. It is more than just one man stepping onto the stage with his resonator, it’s like an aura and we, the people, can feel it. So when he starts playing and singing, perched like an owl on his stool-drum, people just dig him. The audience identifies with him, not even wanting to understand what’s pounding inside its wholesome heart. For there’s something unique and magical about him: he sings what he is. And he is us.

There are not many reasons for a musician to live into this world, but there are many reasons for one to want to leave it. The man nearly did the latter but hung in there, blues as his only lifeline. Just like many of us, he is a survivor and he has paid his dues. He became a living legend that way. Thanks to his simple, no-nonsense approach of the blues, ordinary life story-telling, he has built his own lore, a naïve and yet unfinished tale. He’s half-disciple, half-master of a very stern yet beautiful art called The Blues. And in that sense, Magic Buck is a legend because if you care to listen, you’ll never forget the man.