Gip still dances, if a little unsteady on his feet and sometimes in need of a helping hand, usually from the prettiest woman nearby. The night I was there, he wandered around amiably, chatting to people or sometimes just sitting listening to the music and letting people come to him, like a king holding court. And this is a place of pilgrimage: blues fans from all over the world have somehow heard of the spot.
It's one thing to know about Gip's; it's another to actually find it. There are no signposts in the dark cluster of streets on the edge of a ravine, though as you get closer, you might hear the music and spot the Christmas lights, which illuminate Gip's all year round.