BBKing@86

B.B. King At 86

by Charlie Sawyer

Photos by Cherie Hoyt

September 1, 2011. I came to hear the King of the Blues at the North Shore Music Theater knotted up with concern. When someone dear to you is about to turn 86, concern is bound to infect your mood. But more than the mere fact of his age, I had heard reports that the indestructible master of the genre that he, more than anyone else, had forged was slipping. Mutual friends who had seen him perform and visited with him reported observing mental lapses and, even more worrisome, what looked confusion on stage.

Then there was that damned article in the Sunday Boston Globe. It ran on the front of the Arts Section, in anticipation of his appearance in the area. The page-2 photo, taken in June in Spain, was mildly shocking. It showed a withered man with great wattles hanging in a loose-fitting collar, with white fur atop a sagging, pinched face.

The article bothered me because it inferred that his image is fading and that B.B. will soon be forgotten. This was supported by an informal survey the author conducted at a downtown Boston music venue where 20-somethings congregate. Would you go to see B.B. King? was the survey question. The answers ranged from "No" to "Who's B.B. King?" to "I thought he was dead." Also the author noted unlike Ray Charles and Johnny Cash, B.B. King has no biopic to tell his redemption story.

The North Shore Music Theater is a special venue, seating around 1,000 spectators gathered around a circular stage. During shows the stage rotates slowly. This layout means that even the back rows are not very far from the edge of the stage. Our seats were six rows back. Our fellow comp-tix neighbors were two Boston blues celebrities, blues radio show host Holly Harris, and blues guitar ace Ronnie Earl.

B.B. was pushed in a wheelchair to the edge of the stage, which stopped rotating for his entrance. The crowd was already on its feet as sax player Melvin Jackson called out "Mr...B...B...King." B.B. rose to his feet and walked slowly the 20 feet to his chair and turned to wave to the crowd, shouting, whistling and calling his name.

How steady is his stride? How erect is his posture?

Before he even sat down we had all taken the first measure of his condition. So far, so good. A little less erect, perhaps, a bit slower, maybe. The band churndc through the chords as he played his first short burst of notes. Is Lucille strong? Does she sing sweet? Is she on pitch? Well, yes. Yes!

Now the band strikes up the slow crawl that always backs B.B.'s verbal patter. He begins to introduce the band. When he gets to cornetist Stanley Abarnathy he begins a long, rambling homily, extoling Abarnathy's prowess as a ladies man. Here we go...The long narrative, the discursive reflection, the chain of stories that spawn stories.

At this point I have to answer nature's call and I slide over two seats and up the aisle. In the men's room I hear B.B.'s voice over hidden speakers. A man is washing his hands while I attend to business. "I heard him two years ago," he says, "and he talked more than he played."

Back in my seat. B.B. is well into his second number when he lets out a long, loud, note in full voice, strong and sonorous, full of feeling. He's still got it, he's still in full possession of his powers. As the song ends Ronnie reaches across, extending his hand to me. We clasp hands acknowledging our hero is still intact.

B.B. played and sang for over an hour and his legendary gabbing was in remission. All the familiar marks of greatness were present—his impeccable timing, the soulful arpeggios. However, new element has appeared: clearly identifiable mistakes, wrong-way turns on the scale, a single high note that is one fret off. But he acknowledges the goofs with a shout or a shake of his head, then corrects them on the spot. He's still with it.

B.B. ends his shows with a long, extended departure. He stands, waves, and tosses souvenirs to the audience-guitar picks, lapel pins and necklaces-supplied by his longtime road companions, who steady him and keep him from losing his balance as he chucks them out, one by one and by the handful. But tonight he moves to the edge of the stage and I leave my seat to join others in the throng.

A jumble of arms and hands reach out from below the stage and he works the apron methodically, shaking hands, handing out souvenir pins and picks. When he spots me he grabs my hand and calls my name. "How is the lady?" he shouts, meaning my wife, Cherie. "Fine, she's here," I reply. [In this photo, mine is the straw hat at the bottom edge.]

Then I see something that is pure magic. B.B. stretches out his hand, cupping a pile of B.B. King guitar picks. "Take one," he says, thrusting his hand forward. A hand extends, tentatively, and takes a pick, then one by one the fans accept his invitation.

The symbolism is manifest. This is B.B. offering the Eucharist of the Blues to the faithful. He makes this personal connection with his fans as he holds out his hand and urges, "Take one, go ahead." The intimacy of the gesture is pure genius. Every person who took his invitation will have a relic to show and a story to tell, the story of how B.B. King gave me this guitar pick that night in Beverly.

We spend the next hour waiting beside B.B.'s bus in the parking lot. Where's BB? we keep wondering. Still on stage we keep on hearing. He sits on stage long after the musicians have left, long after the ushers are gone, signing autographs, chatting with fans. When, finally, he wis wheeled up to the bus door, he insists that we board the bus ahead of him.

At first it is just B.B., Tina France (his manager), and us (Cherie, Sam and me), but B.B. is distracted because a woman he wants to include hasn't made it on the bus. He sends someone to look for a "young, black woman." When she is located, she boards the bus. "Did you come alone," he asks her? She has two friends waiting in the car. "Would you like them to join us?" he asks. She nods and he sends her to fetch her friends, two middle aged black women. I asks where they have come from. "Queens, we drove," answers one. And they will drive back after the visit.

B.B. gives special attention to my son Sam. He asks about his music, if he still plays guitar. "A lot of young guitar players grab the neck of their guitar like this," he says, squeezing Sam's knee. "You don't have to hold it tight, you can be gentle with it. Look at my hand."

B.B. holds his hands out, palms up. "Look," he says to me. I take his fretting hand in mine and examine it, as you would a tool. His fingers are long and lean. I rub my fingers over the tips of his, one by one. They are soft and supple. There are no heavy calluses as I expected, just soft flesh.

These are the fingers that have made 6 decades of great American music and I am rubbing them with mine, fingertip on fingertip. This simple act of offering his fingertips for my examination shows BB's unique genius for achieving intimacy across the gulf of time, race and celebrity.

"The parking lot is about to close, they need to lock the gate," one of his staff reports. It is time to go. But still time for a photo.

As we are leaving B.B. tells Sam "You'll do well in life with parents like yours." B.B. always knows what to say to make people feel good.

Click to see all Cherie photos from Beverley. http://flic.kr/s/aHsjwahCZ6