Austin, Texas. It's a warm Friday night and a lot of regulars, visitors and plain curious folk have packed into Antone's, the city's famous blues club, to hear sets by the likes of Albert Collins, Luther Tucker, Mel Brown and Angela Strehli. The beer is flowing freely and the sweet smell of Stubbs' Bar-B-Cue hovers over the sweaty crowd as they mill around in front of the stage as up jumps Collins. And although it's only 11.30pm — early for a place where musicians often jam until 4 or 5am and where loyal fans happily keep them company — the joint is already jumping as the guitarist and his band attack a number whose title, "Got That Feeling," perhaps sums up the blues as well as any song.

For blues, as clubowner Clifford Antone is fond of saying, "is a feelin whether it's sad or bad, happy or good. It's love gone bad, love gone good, but mainly it's the music." And six nights a week here at Antone's, the music is the main attraction, whoever's performing. This evening began with a fine set by Strehli, a young good-looking woman whose throaty, sensual voice set the mood as it caressed such tunes as "The Thrill Is Gone" and "Little Too Late." Next up was Luther Tucker, a somewhat shy and formal man in person who, nattily attired in a three-piece suit, calmly lets his guitar do his talking for him on stage. He was followed by Mel Brown sporting his trademark white fedora and a smile to match. All three are given thunderous receptions by the appreciative crowd.

And then came headliner Albert Collins, "The Master of the Stratocaster" as he's fondly known, a wiry, charismatic performer whose intense, stinging leads whip across the crowded dance floor as his seven-piece band punch out a succession of bubbling, tumbling rhythms. The enthusiastic dancing is a big surprise to all those unfamiliar with the Austin blues scene. Other clubs may promote a more consciously lugubrious attitude to the blues, but not Antone's — people come here to enjoy their music rather then stare hopelessly into their drinks and ponder the cruelty of the world or the eternal struggle between men and women that makes up 99% of all blues lyrics.

A natural showman like Collins is a big draw. His favorite trick is to play for a while, and then suddenly jump off the stage during a song and play his way through the audience and back again. The crowd loves it, and tonight is no exception — Collins actually manages to weave his way through the dancers and leave the confines of the club completely thanks to a 100 foot guitar cord. He ends up soloing out in the parking lot, drawing half the audience with him like some latterday, electrified Pied Piper.

It's quite a sight, and such a fanatical following, usually reserved for more fashion-conscious adolescent rockers, is in large part due to the tireless efforts of Clifford Antone to make his club a permanent home-shrine to the blues and its devotees. A bearlike, genial figure who in the flesh uncannily resembles a larger version of Danny DeVito, Antone is a man with a mission — to preserve, propagate and spread the gospel according to blues, and to hear him speak is to hear first and foremost the voice of a true fan.

"Blues is American history and American culture — in fact, the only culture that really belongs here, and it's a crime how it's been ignored and ripped off," he insists earnestly. "How many kids today — or adults for that matter — realize that Elvis' "Hound Dog" was written by Big Mama Thornton? Or that guys like Willie Dixon and Sunnyland Slim had all their licks stolen by bands like The Rolling Stones, The Beatles and Led Zepplin? Sure, those groups make blues and R&B more popular, but they just took and took and never gave anything back. And while they made millions, the real bluesmen couldn't even pay the rent, and to me they were geniuses, just like Shelley or Keats. But for the most part they were also just farmers, struggling to take care of their families, and most of them never learned to read or write, so they'd sell their songs for $50 or $100 — they were taken advantage of and ripped off totally by the whites who owned the record companies."

Strong words, but then Antone has also put his money where his mouth is — into his club, "the only one in the country dedicated entirely to the blues," he claims proudly. "I first opened this place ten years ago out of sheer selfishness, 'cos I simply couldn't find anywhere to go and hear the blues in these parts. I didn't know shit about running it (Antone was in the clothing trade at the time) but I knew I had to do it, and the first artist I approached about appearing was Clifton Chenier, who I knew from back home in Port Arthur. He agreed, and the gig went so well that next, I called up Sunnyland Slim in Chicago, and he came down and brought Big Walter Horton with him, and the whole thing just kinda snowballed after that."

"I guess they helped spread the word," he smiles, "'cos then Eddie Taylor came down from Chicago, and before he left, he called up and asked if there was anyone else I'd like him to bring, and without hesitating I said 'Jimmy Reed'. Well, I knew these two hadn't spoken or played together in over ten years, but they came down together and played and it was..." Antone's face lights up, "truly beautiful and magical... a lotta folks still talk about that night. Anyhow, after that, I got hold of Muddy Waters, who was also in Chicago, and then B.B. King, and that solidified everything. From then on, I didn't have any problems trying to get hold of people, 'cos they already knew about the club and who'd been down."

The list of greats who've since played Antone's reads like a who's who of blues and R&B — Lightnin' Hopkins, Otis Rush, Buddy Guy, Ray Charles, Bobby 'Blue' Bland, Big Joe Turner, Fats Domino, Albert King, Willie Dixon... and at the club's recent 10th annual Blues Festival, you could have seen such legendary performers as Snookie Pryor, Pinetop Perkins, James Cotton, Jr. Wells, Albert Collins and Luther Tucker, all sharing the same stage and fervent applause from the young and significantly white audience.

But despite such an apparent wealth of talent, such gatherings really only serve to underscore the deceptively fragile nature of this native American sound. Many of the greats are now dead and gone (Pee Wee Crayton, a club regular, died a couple of weeks after his last gig here in June), and these dedicated musicians represent a last generation of bluesmen whose musical roots stretch all the way from Mississippi and Tennessee up to Chicago and back down again to the Delta.

All are proud of that heritage, and Luther Tucker's story is typical. Sitting backstage in between sets, nursing a Shiner Bach beer with one hand and idly plucking at his old cherry-red Gibson with the other, he recalls how he left his home town of Memphis, Tennessee, at the tender age of nine - "I headed straight for Chicago 'cos I just wanted to play the blues, and that was the place to go then," making his first stage appearance at 14. By 20 Tucker was a seasoned veteran of the Windy City's thriving blues scene, playing with such giants as Elmore James, Howlin' Wolf, Muddy Walters and Little Walter - "the king of Harp," adds Tucker. "He was my first big gig, and I ended up playing with him for seven years, travellin' all over the place." The guitarist eventually stayed in Chicago for "thirty long years" before moving out to California in the late sixties. "The weather was great, but the music wasn't" he laughs, "so when Antone's and this whole scene got goin' in the seventies, I moved out here and stayed ever since."

Like the other musicians, Tucker is deeply appreciative of Antone's efforts to keep the blues alive and well, although ironically he appears to harbour far less resentment than the white clubowner over past misdeeds to both the music and its black performers. "Sure, white kids like Eric Clapton and Jimmy Page stole guitar riffs and licks, but I don't feel too bad 'cos they also helped the blues survive through some lean times," he points out. "The crazy thing is that a lot of those English kids were for more into blues than any Americans, as I found out when I toured Europe."

Neither does he object to playing for predominantly young white college kids today (even the club's muscular bouncers are fans recruited from the local university football team, it turns out.) "Let's face it, black kids got into Motown and disco and funk — and they don't care about blues or its history," he says. "I guess it reminds 'em of their roots and all the hard times — and they don't want to be reminded. But that's cool, 'cos there's more interest in the blues now than ever before, and I don't care who comes to hear the music as long as they keep coming."

Albert Collins is even more cut and fried. "All that stuff about stealing from the blues? It don't matter to me. Listen, man, I love to listen to Clapton — he's one of my favorite players and he ain't black or nuthin' but he can sure play the blues; Yeah, it used to make me sad that black kids today don't wanna know, 'cos it's our tradition and our history. But the fact is people of my generation don't listen to blues now either. And black kids are hard to please." The guitarist flashes a smile — "White kids aren't, but they also know what's happening — and blues is still happening. So when I see all these white kids out front, dancin' and carryin' on when I play, I'm happy — yeah, it's a different audience, but it's the same music, and they wanna hear it."

Collins, a native Texan who usually takes to the stage backed by some horns as well as the standard rhythm section, is also quick to point out the differences between Texas blues and Chicago blues. "Down here, it's a harder sound, with more emphasis on the guitar, and sax and reed instruments. Back in Chicago, it's softer, with more harp and slide guitar players. But hard or soft, black or white, it's the feelin' that counts in the end," he explains.

It's a sentiment shared by Angela Strehli, another Texan whose heart firmly belongs to the blues. Although relatively young, the singer has been a regular on the Austin circuit for the past ten years or so, and is also an acknowledged expert on the blues and its history. "Me, I'm white and middle-class, but I love the blues," laughs Strehli who played New York's illustrious Carnegie Hall last year (to a SRO house) along with Stevie Ray Vaughan (another local talent who's now making a lot of noise nationally) and Dr. John.

"Austin's always been real heavy talent-wise — I call it the cultural Mecca of Texas — and what's great about Antone's is that apart from showcasing all the greats, it's also given a lot of young, local artists the chance to work and make a name for themselves — like Jimmie Vaughan and The Fabulous Thunderbirds, Stevie Ray, Charlie and Will Sexton, Marcia Ball, Blues Boy Hubbard and Lou Ann Barton. That's pretty important, that young folks keep playing the blues today," she adds. "Sure, it's different from the old 'downhome' blues of Mississippi in the twenties and thirties, but then that all changed when it reached Chicago in the thirties and forties, and it changed again when it came back down here."

She looks around the crowded, smokey backstage office that serves as both dressing-room and meeting place for the musicians, and glances up at the many photographs of blues greats adorning the walls, "Trouble is, when all these guys have gone, it really will be the end of an era — and an important chapter in American music," she sighs. "They're the last of a vanishing breed."

Happily, though, clubowner Clifford Antone and his sister Susan have also mounted a personal crusade to preserve as many of these historic performances as possible by taping both live shows and starting up their own record label. "We filmed the entire week-long 10th Anniversary Celebration back in August, and the tapes are currently being shopped as six one-hour specials for broadcast and home video," he says. Meanwhile, his sister, who appears to record every single performance with batches of photographs, has also put together a book entitled "Antone's — The First Ten Years."

Next on the agenda is their own EP release featuring Angela Strehli — "simply the best white female singer I've ever heard," declares Antone — to be followed by an anthology double-album set featuring many of the greats who've made the club their home, and then an album with Dr. John and Kim Wilson. "If we don't do it, who will?" he asks plaintively. "Time's runnin' out for a lot of these old boys."

Back inside the club, the 2am last call for drinks has long sice passed, but no one seems in any hurry to leave — and why should they when Albert Collins is back on stage again, wailing a refrain that's both sadly familiar and happily comforting - "Sometimes I wonder if a matchbox will hold my clothes/I ain't got so many, but I got a long, long way to go..."