B.B. King was hospitalized in Las Vegas due
to complications from diabetes on Monday, April 6th.
He’s eighty-nine years old.
Twenty-two years ago.
B. B. and Lucille.
No 128EB processors hooked up.
Not even a wah-wah pedal.
No autotune and this was back when Chris Brown was, like …
The guitar, in ways Mr. Riley’s muse, is merely a tool.
Ol’ B. B. is the instrument.
Music has the charms to soothe the savage beast.
They’ll embrace it, minister to it.
The blues listen to the beast, understand it, remember it all too well
and guide its way into redemptive submission.
Or kick it’s scrawny little ass.
One of the two.
Kinda depends on whatever
factor into the mix.
I’ve been lucky to have seen some of the greatest there ever were:
from The Dead and The Band and The Stones, Dylan and Jimi and Neil & Crazy Horse or Pearl Jam to Van Cliburn and the Russian Philharmonic at the height of the Cold War to Frank Sinatra and Woody Herman’s Thundering Herd.
Nobody can bring it quite like B. B.
People stand up ’cause they want to, ’cause they feel the need.
They’ll get up out of their wheelchairs when the feeling moves them.
And you look at B. B., and you look at every face in the crowd…
… nothing but love flowing back and forth.
With B. B. to keep you company, the worst of times don’t matter.
Without him, the best of them wouldn’t count.