Even though I've become friendly with Al over the past few years, I still go ga-ga when I see him perform. It takes me back to 1984, when I first found a copy of the Blues Project's Live at Town Hall LP in the 25˘ bin at the Millburn Public Library and immediately thereafter became known to the DJs on WFMU as "the 16-year-old Al Kooper fan." I guess you never get over the feelings you had when you first heard an artist as a teenager.

What grabbed me about the Blues Project's sound was Al's organ. I had never heard anyone play like him before, combining blues influences with classical and pop, and putting them together in such a fluid, intuitive way. I also adored the group's infernally catchy "No Time Like the Right Time," penned by Al, and, in general, liked their approach to blues-rock. The latter had a loud, garagey, yet tight feel that reminded me more of my favorite contemporary artists, like the Dream Syndicate, than it did other Sixties white bluesmen.

I remember, too, the first time I saw Al perform, in 1986 when I was a 17-year-old NYU freshman interning for WCBS-FM's Bob Shannon. At my request, Bob got me a ticket to see Al in one of Cousin Brucie's "Heroes and Legends" shows at the Bottom Line. I can't remember who the other heroes and legends were on the bill—all I remember is Al Kooper, seeming a bit distant (perhaps because it seemed incongruous for him to be doing a Cousin Brucie concert at that late date), but still playing beautifully.

After the show, a sympathetic Bottom Line guard let me backstage to meet Kooper before any of his friends could enter the small room. He was splayed out on the couch, utterly spent, but still looking resplendent in his polka-dot button-down shirt, black jeans, and exotic cowboy boots—every inch the rock star. I must have been quite a sight myself, all 160 lbs. of me, standing there in my late grandmother's shirt—one of those Sixties mock turtlenecks made from a rug—black bubblegum-stretch jeans, and enough black eyeliner to blind five rabbits.

I remember the night so clearly because, although I've met many of my idols since then, that was my last real juvenile fan experience. I blurted out what a big fan I was, asked for a hug, and Al, being unable to move from his supine position, proffered me his hand instead. In retrospect, it was probably a wise move. I kissed some place in between his rings and ran back to my dorm.

So tonight, 17 years later, having seen several more of Al Kooper's concerts and enjoyed a few years of e-mail friendship with him, I hightailed it from work to Rockefeller Park. As I walked there from the Chambers St. subway stop, I thought about the last time I saw a concert in that area: August 28, 2001, when Mitch Ryder performed at the last concert of the "Summer Hits at the Twin Towers" series, for which I handled the publicity. Just as I could hear the strains of Kooper's band wafting in my direction, my World Trade Center concert recollections were interrupted by a sight that I never saw at the Twin Towers: four policemen bearing automatic weapons and wearing disturbing, "Hogan's Heroes"-like military helmets that I'd never seen on policemen before. It was a stark reminder of how times had changed.

But then I saw the back of the band, and the crowd spread out before them, and it felt like things hadn't changed so much after all. I arrived in time to see him begin "Green Onions." The whole setup was beautiful, Kooper and his band, a bunch of Berklee School of Music professors called the Funky Faculty [Kooper being a former prof there himself] under a quaint stone bandshell, with several hundred people and about 500 feet of bright-green grass between them and a stunning Hudson River view.

The first thing I thought—when I wasn't thrilling over Kooper's typically fantastic, hemidemisemiquavering organ leads—was how great it felt to see New Yorkers out at a free WTC-area concert by a star performer again. There's a line in some movie—I think it's spoken by Peter O'Toole in "My Favorite Year"—where an actor describes how, when he goes onstage, he thinks he loves the audience, but he really doesn't. I felt the opposite. I looked at that crowd—some of whom I recognized from those WTC concerts during the summer of 2001—and I loved them. Well, OK, individually, when I smelled the smoke of a nearby guy's cigarette, or when a well-meaning guy whom I didn't want to know tried to strike up a conversation with me, I got annoyed. But, collectively, I loved them.

I loved Al too. Individually, and with his group. First of all, he's just so amazing to watch on his Hammond B-3. There is a real joy for me in watching a master organist create sounds with his keyboard. I have had the pleasure of watching both Al Kooper and Rod Argent play up close, and, if I had to die now—God forbid I should, but if I had to—I could die happy just for that. Then there was Al's voice, which is every bit as good as or better than I remember from earlier shows. Tonight, I was taken by his use of blue notes. He has a way with them, doing a kind of Nina Simone thing that is all the more appealing because it seems effortless.

Al was more comfortable onstage than I've ever seen him, and much more gregarious as well. In the past, I've seen him engage an audience by introducing his song with stories, but, at this show, he did more than that. At one point, wearing a headset mike, he walked off the stage and towards the back of the audience, to get the crowd to clap at the right rhythm. He seemed happy to be playing not only a hometown gig, but a gig for a wide range of people from all walks of life who might not be able to afford seeing him at the places he usually plays.

The high point of Al's set was his last song before his encore, "I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know," which, as he said in his introduction, has recently gained notoriety from "Late Night With David Letterman." He used the song as a launching pad for a fabulous jam—and regular Dawn Patrol readers know that I never use the words "fabulous" and "jam" in the same sentence. All right, if you press me, I could have done without the Berklee prof guitarist who kept piling on the Hendrix heroics. But none of that seemed to matter as Al segued from "I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know" to the signature riff from "A Whiter Shade of Pale," to the signature riff from "Like a Rolling Stone" (!!!). From there, he went, appropriately, to the Rolling Stones, with a vocal take on another tune on which he originally played the organ: "You Can't Always Get What You Want." Next was his version of "Season of the Witch," which I knew well from Super Session, and, next, the power went out.

Really—it went out right then, and, for one depressing moment, it seemed like the concert was going to end with a whimper rather than a bang. Thankfully, it was restored within a few minutes, and Al and his band returned to the stage to finish their show with Otis Redding's "I Love You More Than Words Can Say," which Al said was a major influence on "I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know."

Afterwards, I went to the side of the table where Al was signing autographs and watched for a couple of minutes. There were about 75 people waiting. It didn't seem like a good time to make conversation with him, and I've outgrown the hug-request stage, so I just called out, "Hi, Al," and he greeted me back.

One pushy guy at the head of the line brought what must have been every single one of Al's solo LPs, plus many of the albums he's done with groups—at least 20 in all. Al signed a whopping eight of them—I counted—before moving on to the next person. Things like that make me proud of my taste as a 16-year-old. I chose the right idol.