I arrive at the Point blasted by wind and rain, and with a rapidly developing cold that has caused me to sneeze at least 20 times in the short taxi ride to the bay. Drummer Roscoe refers to the unwelcoming Cardiff weather as he gees up the crowd in readiness for the arrival of the Doctor. "But we're used to that", he chuckles, "y'know, coming from N'Orleans".

Dr John's arrival is preceded not just by the charismatic Lower 911's drummer's pep talk, but by a heady body of myth. Originally a session guitarist, Mac Rebennack was shot in the finger in a motel "incident", prompting a rather pragmatic switch to the piano. Borrowing the name "Dr John" from a 19th century voodoo priest, his 1968 debut album Gris-Gris, a gumbo-pot of voodoo incantations, jazz and blues, announced in a narcotic growl, "They call me Dr John, known as the Night Tripper, got my satchel of gris gris in my hand". Since then he's steered an exotic course between jazz, blues, funk and boogie-woogie, mainlining a deep vein of his beloved New Orleans' rich musical heritage, shorn up by "gris gris" and god knows what else.

As he dances/shuffles on to the stage mid-song, and plonks himself at the grand piano, it appears the myth is as potent as ever. Bedecked in a sharply cut lilac suit, fedora with a feather in its purple ribbon, black sunglasses, an assortment of teeth and beads strung round his neck and a flowing, grey pontytail, Dr John is growing old gracefully, or at least as gracefully as someone dressed as a voodoo-pimp is able to.

From his first chord and drawled, N'Orleans inflected vocal Dr John has the partisan crowd eating out of the palm of his hand. He exudes an understated charm, seemingly growing ever more into his role of boogie-woogie witch doctor with the passing years. His piano playing and singing are an exercise in effortless cool, doing both without so much as a bead of sweat threatening the integrity of his outfit. Several times he stands up from his piano and does a faltering, solipsistic dance a la Thelonious Monk, and the crowd hyperventilate with pleasure.

Tonight's set largely bypasses the voodoo-psychedelia of Gris-Gris in favour of the jazz, blues, funk and boogie-woogie of his later material, the latter being dragged out of Jools Holland's TV studio, and back to the New Orleans backstreets where it belongs. The Lower 911 provide muscular and tasteful backing: as the obligatory "meet the band" section demonstrates, they all have virtuoso command of their instruments. Throughout this is harnessed to the song, and used to cook up an admirably rich musical gumbo with a four-piece band.

"I got me dis problem", Dr John informs us between songs, "whenever ah go out driving, ah drive on da wrong side of da road. It gets me in all sorts ah problems. Dat's why I love being over in your country".

He chuckles, and hammers out the strident opening chords of "Right Place, Wrong Time", his biggest hit and perhaps a musical warning of the hazards of driving under the influence of too much gumbo. This and his other most famous song, "Such a Night" - as featured on The Band's "Last Waltz" concert movie - get the most energetic response from the crowd, though they remain rapt throughout.

After a well-earned encore, Roscoe informs us that he'll be heading to the Bute Dock Hotel, where we are invited to join him. Doctor John, on the other hand, leaves to do whatever a 68 year old voodoo priest of boogie-woogie does on a wet Thursday night in Cardiff. A miraculous thing has happened. My cold appears to have disappeared. Doctor John and the Lower 911's voodoo prescription is clearly a more potent force than Lemsip.

words and pictures by Robin Wilkinson