In an interview with TimeOut before this, his first and only New Zealand show, American guitarist Joe Bonamassa said in passing he knew the audience for the blues was small, but that there was an audience out there.
And, as with other touring blues artists whose record sales can be negligibly small in this country, Bonamassa - Grammy-nominated, with a back catalogue of at least a dozen albums but hardly a household name - found blues loyalists turned out for him in their legions.
In a game of two halves - an acoustic then an electric set - Bonamassa proved he was only nominally a blues player because the thrilling first half found him and the small band (which marshalled banjo, the Swedish nyckelharpa, Irish bodhran, jaw harp, keyboards and various percussion) exploring areas akin to Celtic folk-rock, traditional Irish music, North African sounds and furiously rhythmic world music of no fixed cultural abode.
Black Lung Heartache came with references to Indian drones and scraping fiddle, Jockey Full of Bourbon jaunted down to New Orleans courtesy of keyboards by Derek Sherinian, an under-utilised player on the night. If Bonamassa's vocals were somewhat undistinguished (and weak on Happier Times) the attention was always elsewhere in the surging and churning sounds which at times were more like Robert Plant's investigation of similar folk blues-cum-world music than the straight-ahead kiss-the-sky playing Bonamassa is renowned for. It was an exceptional set.
After a short break Bonamassa returned in electrifying style with keyboards, drums, bass and the great Lenny Castro again on percussion.
If the acoustic programme showed him an explorer, this often piercingly loud set revealed him to be the aggregation of influences as he nodded towards Jimi Hendrix (Oh Beautiful), B.B. and Albert King (Blues Deluxe) and Elmore James (Gave Up Everything for You). Jimmy Page might want to call a lawyer to get back his Whole Lotta Love riff from Who's Been Talking.
Borrowing from and acknowledging the past masters is in the nature of blues, but as obviously crowd-pleasing and frequently familiar as this was - Bonamassa a masterful technician capable of punishing Sabbath-like riffery (Ballad of John Henry) and pain-filled beauty (Sloe Gin) - by the end it seemed little more than a detached tour de force with considerably less emotional depth and the unexpected than was evident in the first half.
I just couldn't wait for the encore.
Really, I couldn't. I left. Hate mail follows.
Who: Joe Bonamassa and band
Where and when: Auckland Town Hall, Friday