B.B. King: Legends Live
The thing about legends is they never die. The uniqueness they bring to the world, whether in song, science, fashion, philosophy, and . . .—countless others try to emulate. The lives they touch, move others through stories… and stories make stars!
Riley B. King was, in 1925, born into the family of Mississippi sharecroppers. He left this world dubbed B.B. (Blues Boy) King, 89 years later. He was the last remaining bluesman, in a long line of “fabled Mississippi Delta bluesmen,” to be inducted into the Blues Foundation Hall of Fame (1984). This Blues Boy was a rock star as well— in 1987, he was a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee. During his reign, B.B. King garnered fifteen Grammys; regaled audiences from all races and walks of life, including President George W. Bush (who decorated him with the Presidential Medal of Freedom), President Barack Obama (who accompanied him in a White House sing-along of “Sweet Home Chicago”), and Pope John Paul II. King was a licensed pilot, retiring his wings at the age of 70 or so. He was a self-taught guitar innovator who studied the styles of blues guitarists Lonnie Johnson and Blind Lemon Jefferson and mentored Eric Clapton when he was still a fledgling. B.B. credited Archie Fair as being his biggest inspiration for playing the guitar, a sanctified preacher who “wasn’t popular at all, but was kind of a second god on earth to me. A man that I trusted completely and I still do. When he played the guitar— he was our pastor—it made me want to play more than anything else in the world.”
In 1992, I was blessed to see B.B. King perform live at the Nice Jazz Festival on the French Riviera. Christine Melton, a friend, had a special pass that allowed us entry into any of the several stages not sold out in the expansive Jardins de Cimiez. B.B. King was a god in France. It was not uncommon for his performances to be sold out within hours after being announced. So instead of trying to see B.B. King perform, Christine and I headed to a stage featuring the popular All Stars. As was custom, every night whoever wanted to jam could do so with whomever else showed up. The audience wouldn’t know the lineup until the participants appeared on stage—but they always knew there would be star quality performers on hand.
On our way to the All Stars, we passed by the sold out B.B. King pavilion. There must have been more than a hundred wannabe ticket holders dangling off the tall brick wall enclosure or crouched high in the branches of overhanging trees.
We entered the All Stars pavilion through a side stage door only to find ourselves squeezed into a dense swarm of press, performers and other freebie guests. One lively, petite, elder standing next to me, was enthusiastically bopping from side to side in response to the sounds wafting from the stage. After a while, the rhapsodic little lady turned to me and said, “This is nice, ain’t it?” I smiled and agreed, “Yes, it’s very nice”. She continued, “It’s a shame. I’m black, you’re black, and everyone on that stage is black, yet we have to travel all the way to Europe to hear this music!” I thought, I understood something of what she meant and attempted to offer an explanation, “That’s because people all over the world are enamored by this music and are still trying to recreate what the black man has created. But we don’t build monuments to ourselves or linger much on what has already been done. We are too busy working on the next creation that’s going to move the world forward.” She stopped jamming and regarded me with curiosity. Then she declared, “I only like jazz and classical music! I don’t like any of that other stuff.” I said, “It all comes from black folks. We created classical, gospel, jazz, rock and roll, and rap …”She interrupted me, “I don’t like rap! That’s not music!! They’re just talking, I don’t like it!” I countered, “Every rapper is not as accomplished as every other rapper, just like every jazz musician is not equal to every other jazz musician. But I’ll bet if you give Rap a chance, you will find at least one rapper that you’ll like. Not that you’ll buy their CDs, but I’ll bet you’ll find at least one you can listen to and relate to.” That seemed to resonate with her. She took a long moment, once more, to closely regard me before asking, “Do you like B. B. King?” I smiled and said, “Yes, I do.” She tilted her head as if to get a better view of me, “Have you ever heard him play… live?” I said, “No. But I love his records.” She smiled and asked, “Would you like to hear him? He’s playing now, on another stage.” I thought to myself, She must not know that his show sold out early on. But, I kept that to myself and replied, “Yes, I would like to hear him.” Really, I was enjoying the All Star performers, but I wanted to get away from that crammed, side stage area—I’m claustrophobic. I thought this lovely little lady was a good excuse for me to get some air, even if I didn’t think we’d actually catch any of B.B.’s set.
We walked to the padlocked backstage gate of B.B.’s amphitheater. The little lady proceeded to bang on the gate. A security guard appeared and politely, in French, explained something (perhaps that it was sold out) and strolled away. She immediately began, again, to bang on the gate. I said, “I think the show is sold out.” From over her shoulder, she waved my comment away and continued to bang. After some minutes, the guard returned. Without masking his annoyance, he spoke to her in a much harsher voice and pointed to the people hanging on the brick wall and crouching in the trees, then marched away. I tried to make light of his rudeness by suggesting, “Maybe we can catch B.B. King tomorrow.” Again, she waved away my comment and resumed rattling the gate. After what seemed a very long time, the music stopped—making the gate smacking sound even louder. Finally, the guard returned accompanied by another. The triple times returning guard was abruptly pushed aside by his colleague before he could deliver a furious tongue-lashing. Unlocking the gate, the second guard ushered us in and relocked it. He offered our little lady, a warm and welcoming salutation, in French, along with what must have been his heartfelt apology. Our patron thanked him, in fluent French, without chastising his colleague. He led us onto the stage—while his associate found and set up for us folding chairs at the rear, right side of the stage. Regarding the undaunted dynamo now, I wondered, “Who ARE You?”
After the break, as B.B. King led his group back onstage, he spotted the little lady. He looked surprised and very pleased. He bowed in our direction and presented Lucille, his guitar, to our patron before launching into the second set. We enjoyed the remainder the second set from B.B.’s vantage point: watching the adoring audience dancing in the aisles, rocking in their seats, straddling the wall and dangling from the trees. Leaning in the direction of the crowd, B.B. stroked Lucille and soulfully delivered his repertoire. Occasionally, he would turn in our direction and play a special lick or two to our mystery Ms. During the thunderous closing ovation, while the crowd stomped and whistled their frenzied appreciation and adulation, Mr. King smiled and nodded, then turned and bowed low, extending his guitar to our elegant elder. I was aglow from having shared the stage with this international treasure and I thanked our generous hostess. With a twinkle in her eye, she said, “That was nice, wasn’t it?” Then as an afterthought she asked, “What’s your name?” “Perri”, I said. “Well Perri, I’m Joyce. Are you going to be here tomorrow?” “Yes,” I said. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Perri,” she said before walking away.
Christine, for the first time since the All Stars jam, broke her silence. “That’s Joyce Wein, George Wein’s wife. George Wein is the man who founded the JVC Jazz Festivals. He’s the reason we’re all here.”
In a 1993 60 Minutes interview, B.B. King told Ed Bradley, “I would like to be remembered as a person that loved people and wanted to be loved by them… That’s about it.”
In Nature Boy, Nat King Cole croons: “The greatest thing you can ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.” I witnessed B.B. King receiving and returning a Love Supreme, especially to Joyce Wein who assisted in founding a place for his love fests. This is my B.B. King memory. Add this one to all the other B.B. King stories and retell them often to inspire other children born of sharecroppers, or some other humble beginning, so they’ll know their hopes and dreams are possible.
Stories are Legend!
Special Thanks to Carolyn McClair Public Relations for providing us with the photos.