With a pompadour'd, trap-set luchadore, a long, tall, cool drink of thunder on the bass, and a pumpin' piano cat who practically 86'd the 88s, Steve Grills frosted The Dinosaur BBQ blue last Thursday night. Grills is perfection on the guitar, and he plays with equal parts reverence, accuracy, and guts. He's been a constant on this scene since the Dead Sea was just sick, and I've written about him here and there. But I gotta say, I took him for granted until Thursday night.

It was a late, loose evening with a modest crowd drinking (some a little too much) and eating (some a little too much), crowding the fringes of the dance floor, and digging Grills as he grilled the blues. Pops had a barley pop and I nursed some Joe while it all transpired before us eight bars at a time.

Yes, Grills is a flawless player with sharp licks and beautiful tone, but it's the way he adopts the mood of each song and the demeanor of its character and/or author - right down to the buxom blonde Telecaster he has rigged like the Iceman's - that knocks me out. Grills sticks to the Kings and the Reds and the Slims and the Hookers for the most part, so as to get maximum purchase on the finer points. But last week's show had a raw, almost juke joint element to it.

The band boogied for the crowd in my head as they danced cheek to sweaty cheek grinding into one another. Yes, I said "crowd in my head." Why have a few random voices when you can have a whole audience? They applaud me to sleep every night.

The real crowd was a bit more reserved, except for a few patrons who discovered their dancing shoes right around (I'm guessing) cocktail four or five. Grills is a master of ceremonies and handles everything, including drunks, pedal malfunctions, the smell of BBQ through vegan nostrils, and the occasional shout for SRV, the blues equivalent to shouting "Free Bird" anywhere else.