Al Smyth--who is this man? Is he the Robert Plant, Keith Richards, Dr. John he conjures up on his balls-out new album of blues, moves and misty hops? Or is he simply the most talented white boy in Columbus to rechannel his blue-hearted influences? Yes, yes--I think I know now: he's that guy I saw at the 'Blues Garage' at the Community Festival, riveting my beer-fogged mind with a country-blues yowl worthy of Son House sittin' on a front porch in the Piedmont. This in the middle of the afternoon. And yes, he's that guy I saw in the bar on a weeknight go from the south London blues of five thin British boys to a Johnny Winter growlin'-at-the-moon ode to rotten eggs with hot legs. And he was definitely the guy keeping all those boogie-hungry working men and women entertained enough they stayed out too late on a work night. No easy feat. In the end, this shy phenomenon is just a guy named Al Smyth. He'll polka-dot your blues with enough personality to make you love the genre all over again. Welcome to the continuing story of Al Smyth, an evolution in progress. - John Petric Music Critic, Other Paper.