Whenever I’m presented with the proposition that white guys got no soul, my rebuttal is always the same: What about Dr. John?

While the rest of us go wanting, Dr. John’s got soul in truckloads. I’m not talking about the kind of soul that Plato ponders, the kind of soul that Jesus saves, or even the kind of soul you can get from walkin’ ’round with just the right amount of shuffle in your step. I’m talking about musical soul that comes from deep in the gut, straight up through the heart, and out the throat. Dr. John’s got it.

For starters, he’s got that great voice, a greasy rumble that sounds like a bullfrog and a tomcat making love in a gravel pit. It’s not a voice that will get him into the Met, but it’s all soul. He can also play the tar out of a piano, from boogie to standards to funk, and make it sound sweet and sweaty all at the same time. (Doubters should check out Dr. John Plays Mac Rebennack, then hush up.) He’s got a unique vision, as anyone who has spent a little time with his psychedelic alter-ego the Night Tripper knows. (Check out Gris Gris.) He’s got songwriting chops. He’s got some of the best friends in the business. He’s got sartorial splendor, and thinks nothing of stepping on stage glaring in full Mardi Gras Indian costume. He’s got voodoo. He’s got mojo. He’s got soul.

Compare that to me. Can’t sing worth a lick. No one ever compared my voice to bullfrogs and tomcats, although I have scored a “wounded camel” or two. I play the piano, but even my kindest audience has to admit I do it with more volume than talent. Unique vision? I haven’t had an original thought in 13 years. Songwriting chops? I wrote one good line for a country song once — “aluminum sidin’/ don’t seem so invitin’/ when you’re not inside” — but that hardly qualifies as Hall-of-Fame material.

Friends? Oh, I have friends. But you wouldn’t want them on your album. Sartorial splendor? My wife has taken to begging me not to wear “those pants” out the door. And “those pants” include every pair in my drawer. No voodoo. No mojo. Precious little soul.

Which is why I’ll be at the Orange Peel Saturday night, hoping a little of Dr. John’s voodoo mojo soul rubs off on me. I’m not about to move to New Orleans, gain a couple hundred pounds, and start singing about Marie Leveau, but I may start greasin’ up my voice a little ... ‘cause even wounded camels can use a little bit of soul.

(Jay Hardwig is a writer and teacher. He can be reached at smardwig@charter.net)