[Dixielandjazz] Entertainers

[Steve Barbone]

BB King . . . Entertainer as well as Blues Artist. Excerpted from a Times
review. Note especially the reference to BB talking more than the average
concert goer might want. IMO, he does that to rest between songs. At 81, you
can't play continuously and the fans will either have to understand that, or
stop coming to see him. So far, he's still packing them in.

No doubt many of the aged OKOM Bands, mine included, adapt the same
philosophy as Mr. King.  Rest up, talk to the audience a bit, between songs
and you'll just keep on ticking. And code those "blue" jokes. Anyone want to
have supper with me? <grin>

Cheers,
Steve Barbone 

A Patriarch Holds Court at His Own Party

NY TIMES  - By BEN RATLIFF - August 9, 2007

³I got to tell you one more,² B. B. King said from the stage on Tuesday
night, ³and then I¹m going to work.² And he spun another story about how he
secretly loves the way beautiful young women pat old men on the head, and
how he never saw an electric light bulb until he was 16, or how bringing a
pile of paper money back home to your sweetheart isn¹t as effective as it
used to be.

He pantomimed. He rucked up his shoulders so they nearly touched his ears,
like a kid confronted with a perfect birthday present; he covered his face
with one hand, opening a peek hole between two fingers; crossed his arms
over his chest in ecstasy; made bug eyes in mock surprise; squinted at his
sidemen in mock suspicion.

Mr. King was headlining his own tour, the B. B. King Blues Festival, which
made a local stop at the WaMu Theater at Madison Square Garden (formerly
known as the Theater at Madison Square Garden). So it¹s his party, but he
makes a lot more of these in-between monologues than the average concert
goer might want. Maybe it¹s just that he knows his physical limits. (It¹s no
joke to be 81, with diabetes and one-nighters scheduled into the foreseeable
future.) 

Anyway, he copped to it. ³The papers will kill me tomorrow,² he said.
³They¹ll say ŒOld B. B. was pretty good, but he talked all night.¹ ²

When he wasn¹t talking, he played tunes that have been lodged in his sets
for quite a while: ³Key to the Highway,² ³Ain¹t That Just Like a Woman,²
³You Are My Sunshine,² ³Nobody Loves Me but My Mother.² They were worn but
deep, as was the humor. (He told a story about a plow mule. How many mule
stories have you heard a famous performer tell lately?) And a lot of jokes
and stories can render his guitar playing more precious in small doses. As
soon as he took his seat in front of his eight-piece band, he made his
instrument roar. 

The first meaty thunderclap from Lucille, his matte-black guitar, is always
rougher than you expect from a man who prides himself on family-friendly
entertainment. (Blue jokes were coded: Sex was ³supper.²) Then, not to be
too easily defined, he scaled his sound down quickly into delicate lines,
each note beautifully formed. Between ideas were vocal-sounding guitar
interjections: a wolf whistle, a throat clearing, a shout. Or sometimes he
let go of his instrument altogether. Mr. King is still a powerful singer,
with a voice much like his guitar: rough and toothy, then suddenly soft.