Park Theater Hudson wasn’t ready. Hell, no one was. On July 26th, Emanuel Casablanca walked on stage and turned this venue into a crime scene. Strings shredded. Ears ringing. Minds blown. This wasn’t a blues show. It was a musical mugging and everyone in the room loved every damn minute of it.
Casablanca doesn’t bend the rules of the blues. He lights them on fire and plays a solo over the ashes. He’s part guitar gangsta, part late-night confessor, part foul-mouthed preacher and 100% outlaw.
Think Jack Black and Jack White with fewer filters. Albert Collins with a dirty mouth. Hendrix raised on hip-hop and heartbreak. That’s the energy. Raw, real and absolutely feral.
From the jump, Casablanca owned the room. No easing in. No warm-up. He launched straight into a brand-new, unreleased track from his upcoming album, Jubilee (dropping November 7th). The song? “Dick in My Hand.”
Yes, you read that right and the crowd didn’t flinch. They leaned in. It’s one of the most honest and definitely the most unconventional blues song you’ll ever hear. When Casablanca throws something wild at you, it doesn’t feel like shock value. It feels earned. The man has lived the blues. He just delivers it without the bowtie and bullshit.
Then came “Dogshit,” a brutal breakup anthem that punches you right in the emotional junk. It’s bitter, messy, and in a class of its own. The kind of song most blues artists wouldn’t play live, let alone dare to record. Casablanca doesn’t just challenge you — he dares you to relate and you truly do.
It’s in that space between chaos and confession, where Casablanca thrives. He writes like a man trying to exorcise the demons living inside his amp, but don’t get it twisted. The man’s got depth, “Like a Pulse” proved that.
A love song by any genre’s standards, it explores the inner workings of romance and connection as he sings: “You’re my soul, you’re my rhythm, like a heartbeat, like a pulse.”
Love, in this world of ours isn’t always soft, but It is a steadying force when everything else is falling apart. “Like a pulse”, is real, it’s tender and the song is full of heart and melody.
His playing shows flashes of the greats: King, White and Prince, but with a sharper, more dangerous edge. The sound of sweet, sweet chaos on six strings. His tone snarls. His solos soar and then crash back to earth like they’re drunk and couldn’t care less who’s watching.
There’s finesse for sure, but it’s the kind you get from someone who’s brawled their way through a thousand gigs and lived to tell the tale. You get dragged through the dirt and somehow come out cleaner on the other side.
Between songs, Casablanca transforms into a magnetic, foul-mouthed raconteur. The crowd hung on every word as he spun stories of misadventures, bad decisions and worse for the wear relationships. That’s Emanuel Casablanca in a nutshell: chaotic, fearless and always in full control of the beautiful mess he creates.
“The bad boy of blues” walks a tightrope somewhere between charismatic cult leader and rock ‘n’ roll arsonist. He doesn’t perform, he disarms you. By the time the final song hits, you’re not only a fan, but a co-conspirator.
This was a show that grabbed you by the collar and dragged you through the blues. Not the polished version hanging in a museum, but the real stuff. The ugly stuff. The sex, the scars, betrayal and a little bit of bliss.
Casablanca doesn’t clean-up for anybody and that unapologetic honesty is what makes him such a rare beast in a genre that too often plays it safe. Dirtier. Louder. Funnier. A hell of a lot more dangerous. If this is the future of the blues, then the genre’s about to get a serious makeover.
Emanuel Casablanca didn’t play Park Theater Hudson. He left a mark on it. The kind that won’t wash off easy. If you missed it? Shame on you. But don’t worry, I guarantee the scars will be waiting next time.
