B. B. in My Life
Sarah
Scott
B. B. King's P. O. box number
in Las Vegas is in my address file. I might never delete it. That way, his
inimitable presence on the planet might seem a little less gone.
The
first and best time I had the good fortune to be in B. B.'s company was 1981.
All the reasons his death is mourned around the world now were on display then.
Three
of us with the show PM Magazine on
WHBQ-TV in Memphis, drove our white van with its pink and orange logo down the
historic blues route of Highway 61. Indianola, Mississippi, B. B.'s childhood town, is smack in
the Delta, and we'd come to do a segment on him.
He
came back every year to give his B. B. King Homecoming concert, free. While
back, he also would play for the inmates at Parchman Farm, Mississippi's state penitentiary.
Under a scorching sun at aptly-named Parchman, he played to inmates who looked
forward each long year to those short hours. I remember that when any inmate feeling
the music tried to stand up from the benches in that paltry outdoor arena, a
warden would come along and order him back down.
B.
B. King never charged a cent for those shows either.
In
back of his generosity stood his astounding talent.
Listen
to this 1956 rendition of Crying Won't
Help You from his first LP. The
voice that he could bend as adroitly as he bent the notes on Lucille is
younger, but everything that made him famous is already there.
Our
second day in the Delta, he took us to the plantation where he'd worked,
starting at age seven. From the van's
back seat, he drank white zinfandel from a cup.
As
our camera framed him in front of those cotton fields, he told us how the bell
would ring before dawn to rouse the fieldhands. B. B. and the others chopped
cotton "from can 'til cain't," which he said was "from the time
you could see until you couldn't." Depending on the cotton's season, that long
day might be spent stooped over.
The
blues he heard in those fields came through. 'Cause in my song, every line is for real.
That's
from my favorite of his tunes, I Like to
Live the Love I Sing About. It's one he wrote, and this 1974 performance of
it in Africa captures the sheer felicity of his voice. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F1IruWGGbn4&list=PLB607D39E834C60DE&index=1
B.
B. King's words, even when spoken rather than sung, flowed with melody and
richness. He'd honed that tone as a radio announcer at WDIA in Memphis.
B.
B. had the Southerner's knack for storytelling. He talked to us about
mid-century Beale Street, the stretch of Memphis made famous by the blues.
"The
guys would buy pretty nice clothes, and other people thought, you know, when
you spend lot of money for a pair of shoes, a lot of money for a suit, that you
were just doing that to be well groomed. Not so. You did that so in case you
got broke, you could always go to the pawn shop and get something for it."
Here's
what I want to know: Did any other performer ever rack up as many stage hours
as B. B.? It wasn't unusual for him to do more than 300 concerts a year, and he
did that for decades. We asked him about his habit of almost never cancelling a
single one of those concerts.
"You
have people who are doing everything to make this possible," he said, "and
then there are people who could've gone someplace else who decided to come. So
one me don't show up hurts a lot of people."
B.
B. King grew up singing gospel, and churchgoers disdained blues singers and
their devilment. But he noticed one way the blues rose above gospel. After work
would stop in the cotton fields at noon on Saturdays, he'd play his guitar on
Indianola's street corners. "People wouldn't tip you for a gospel tune,"
he told us with a chuckle, "but they'd tip you for the blues."
My
two later times with him were briefer. His open-hearted way showed up at both. In
the mid-'80s I wrote the script for a couple of years for the Blues Awards, the
annual show where the W. C. Handy honors are given out. True to style, B. B. appeared
on the Orpheum stage in Memphis without charge to emcee and perform. Willie
Nelson joined him as host my first year; Carl Perkins co-emceed the second. My
scripts ran long, stuffed with every whit of fascinating but divergent blues
minutiae I'd researched. I hadn't figured out that people were there to hear
great music, not words about the music. B. B. and his fellow emcees handled my
scripts with undeserved grace.
Our
culture's panting after celebrity fails to parse out the talent, doesn't it? To
my way of thinking, celebrity doesn't mean squat. It's talent I admire,
especially when underscored by devotion to the gift and a beneficence of spirit.
That's worth our esteem.
And
that would be why the world bows goodbye now to the undisputed King of the
Blues.
B.
B., may your music never, ever leave us.