At the time I became around 22–23 years old and started playing professionally, I got hold of several recordings by the British slide guitar player Sam Mitchell. He played the slide in both traditional and modern ways, he wrote his own songs, and could at the same time create fantastic renditions of old country blues from the 1930s. Over the years he became a true slide guitar master — playing as a solo artist, as a studio musician, and touring with well known artists like Long John Baldry and Dana Gillespie. As a studio musician, he played three songs on Rod Stewart's LP "Every Picture Tells A Story."
Sam Mitchell lived in the UK when he wasn't touring. Eventually, the club scene in London got hit by the disco music bug and he couldn't play live as often as he wanted. In the mid-80s, a Danish musician named Kim Gutman visited the UK, met Sam, and told him how good the Danish rock and blues scene was — inviting Sam to visit. It ended with Sam moving to Copenhagen, hitting the music scene like a hurricane.
He played solo and with a freshly established power trio, but his most significant collaboration was becoming a guitarist for the famous Danish rock band The Sandman. Tours and recordings took most of his time, but he kept a regular stint at the MOJO Blues Club in Copenhagen, playing solo with his famous metal Dobro guitar.
The Phone Call
After The Sandman stopped, Sam was getting back to the trio setup and doing more solo work. At exactly that time, having moved to Scandinavia in 1992 and lived in southern Sweden for three years, I had my first solo CD released in Europe.
A sound engineer and fellow musician, Bo Wilson, who also lived in the area, asked me if I'd heard "this guy from Liverpool" who lived in Copenhagen and often played at Mojo Club. Bo knew him well and said something like: "He's great and plays the very same kind of early acoustic blues as you do — you guys should meet."
I was also playing at Mojo on occasion but had never really looked at the programme to see who else was performing. I asked Bo who "that guy" was.
"Sam Mitchell," Bo said.
The name rang in my ears. I asked: "Wait — that Sam Mitchell? So he lives in Copenhagen?" I realised I had been living only 90 minutes away from one of my early musical heroes for years.
The next day I looked in the Mojo Club schedule for the coming month — no internet yet, they had a printed monthly programme — and found out Sam was playing there very soon. I packed my freshly released CD and took the train to meet my distinguished colleague, not knowing what to expect.
At Mojo Club
The idea was simple: take a moment to introduce myself, thank Sam for all the great influence he'd had on my playing, offer him a copy of the new CD as a sign of respect and appreciation — and then leave him alone and not bother him during the gig. Sam was, on the other hand, thrilled to meet me. We spent the breaks between his sets talking and getting to know each other.
The gig went great, and I returned home pleased to have finally met Sam and heard him live for the very first time. A couple of days later, Sam called on the telephone, thanked me for the visit, and asked some questions about my guitars. The talk went on for a while, and in the end Sam invited me to Copenhagen — also asking me to bring my metal guitar, "if it wasn't too much trouble."
A chance to talk even more with Sam — a "trouble"? No way. We met again and had a wonderful chat about guitars, old blues masters we'd both listened to. We tried out each other's instruments and spent some time just hitting the town. It felt as if we'd never stop talking.
Never Playing, Then Playing Everything
What was interesting — and looking back, says something about both of us — was that we'd spent a lot of time together but never actually played anything while checking out guitars at Sam's place. Sam played various of my guitars across several visits, and vice versa, but we didn't jam as one might expect. Sam didn't encourage it, and I was full of respect and didn't want to push anything.
At one point, Sam invited me to "sit in" on his next gig at Mojo Club — where a fellow musician is a guest and plays one or two songs with the host. It became three songs. Both Sam and I loved it, and so did the audience.
At the end of the evening, Sam shared a part of his fee with me, "for the travel and your time." A noble gesture, and I respected Sam even more after that. I looked at the programme and invited Sam to sit in with me on my next Mojo date.
This was the beginning of sitting in back and forth — until the owner of Mojo Club asked if we'd do a real gig together. Sharing the evening properly, playing whole sets, the real thing. Sam and I agreed, and that first night as a duo was the real beginning of a five-year collaboration.
"Two Long From Home"
My agent and record company at the time — Mafioso Records, with Peter Podlovics from Hungary — heard about the collaboration and offered Sam and me to record together, saying simply: "We'll release anything you do."
The result was a CD called "Two Long From Home." Sam suggested the title — reflecting the fact that we were both displaced from our origins, one from the UK, one from former Yugoslavia. The CD was a collaboration between Mafioso Records and Wolf Records from Austria, with distribution across the world.
The release led to extensive touring in Scandinavia, where Sam and I played in clubs, at festivals, and at blues and jazz associations across the region.
Sam and I played together from 1995 to 1999, until Sam's move to the Netherlands. After that, life circumstances led him to travel between Europe, the USA and Canada. His health deteriorated and he eventually moved back to Liverpool. Sam Mitchell passed away in 2006.
At the time of writing this — May 2026 — it has been twenty years since Sam left us. I honour him on every gig this year by either playing one of his songs or performing songs from our CD, keeping the memory of this amazing musician and wonderful friend.