Clear Creek Blues

This is the first year I will appear on stage at the Clear Creek Ranch Blues Festival as a performer. My internet harmonica lessons are going well, although musician friends warn me there is a difference between "virtual" and "reality" when it comes to live audiences.
I am sure my new "blues guy" wardrobe will more than offset my musical shortcomings. I've studied the sartorial content on old blues album covers and I have the "look" down. Somewhere between Lightnin' Hopkins, the Blues Brothers, and the Harmoni-Cats.
The harmonica is part of my genetic heritage. The diatonic harmonica (aka the harp) was developed to accompany Bavarian folk tunes, and while my ancestors aren't 100% German, genetically I am only a few steins short of an Oktoberfest pitcher when it comes to qualifying.
I have a custom-built twelve pocket vest to hold a complete set of harps in every key. The vest doesn't really go with the lederhosen, but my little tyrolean hat, when worn with wrap-around shades, comes close to duplicating the "blues guy" look in those grainy old photos from the Mississippi delta or Chicago or where ever.
I am working on my stage name. Blues musicians have nicknames that describe a physical attribute, like Slim, Fats, Shakey, or Big Mama. When my wife caught my act, just as I caught my moustache in the harmonica and almost tore my own lip off, she suggested Howlin' Tone-Deaf White Boy. I like it.
This wasn't my first altercation with a harmonica. In high school, during folksinging's 1960's heyday, I got one hooked on my braces for a week. Didn't need one of those goofy bent-coathanger things around my neck to simultaneously strum my guitar, toot my harmonica and bleat an excellent imitation of Bob Dylan. Peanut butter sandwiches, however, were a big problem.
Anyway, the internet music lessons are going great -- although my teacher can't actually hear my efforts. But I've learned all about tremolo, bending notes, and more than necessary about scales. Yesterday I discovered that vibrato is not just a marital aid, it has its place right there on stage as well.
My harmonicas work no matter which direction the hot air is flowing -- out or in. Here is some harp terminology for you. "Out" is called blowing, but "in," I learned, is not called sucking. The proper gerund is "drawing."
I once relegated the harmonica to the musical backwater next to the kazoos, but I now think it has more in common, tonally, with gargling next to a microphone, and/or amplifier feedback.
My harmonicas are certainly more portable than the average tuba or piano. Many is the time I've sidled up to a street corner jam session, whipped out one (or more) of my ten-holed Hohners, and literally stopped the show. One stunned musician asked to see my concealed musical instrument permit. He looked awfully serious.
On another occasion, a street musician asked if I could define "perfect pitch". "No," I shrugged. By way of an answer, my interrogator grabbed the harmonica from my hand, and in a single fluid motion lobbed it across four lanes of traffic where it landed dead center in a trash can.
Instead of becoming angry and saying something like, "Hey man, that draws!", I stayed positive. He did have impressive technique. I emptied nine of my vest pockets before I hit a ringer myself. My dark glasses may have been a handicap.
Which way is Chicago, anyway? Tell 'em "Tone-Deaf" is coming to their town. Or better yet, don't. Let me surprise them.