I got to the back pages of the Guardian today and saw

Obituary
Carey Bell
...

In 1986 Carey and his ferociously talented guitar-playing son Lurrie came to England to tour with my band Junkyard Angels. They made an unusual pair - on the one hand Carey, ostensibly a slightly grumpy old man who loved to party, and on the other his quiet introverted offspring. Night after night watching the telepathy between them on stage was a revelation: every nuance of Carey's playing would be echoed by Lurrie's frenetic bursts of guitar, his dad smiling at him with popping bloodshot eyes urging him on.

...

The reason this struck me is that Carey Bell was my claim to fame. It was 1987, we were at the Leadmill in Sheffield on a Sunday lunchtime. He was an astonishing harmonica player. At the interval a couple of the guys I was with (we were all in a blues band at the time) disappeared, coming back to drag me to meet the man himself 'Carey wants words'. Graciously, he let me join him on stage for a harmonica duet of 'Juke' the one tune I could really do justice to at the time. He didn't blow me off the stage too far... but he was orders of magnitude better than I was. After the gig, in the dressing room he told me 'You's a man' high praise, before going on to steal my cigarettes, 'I smoke' he said, point at the empty brandy bottles 'I drink' and smile like he had a guilty secret 'I f**k too'.

According to the obit, he was 70 when he died, which means he was only 50 when I met him. He looked older: bugged, bloodshot eyes and yellowed teeth. He was drunk as a very drunk thing and not a little scary. It was one of my musical high points.  ¶ 8:19 AM