1980, Age 8. "Every Day I Have the Blues," by B.B. King, from the album Singin' the Blues. B.B. King died this morning.
My guess is that there will be thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of tributes written about him over the next few days. About half of them will be titled, "The Thrill is Gone." A bunch of them will make a variation of the joke, "He just didn't wake up this morning."
King lived to be 89 years old, which is exceptional for a black man in America, and certainly for a blues musician. He was truly born in a different era, hailing from the Mississippi Delta in the early part of the 20th century and making his early career on Memphis' famous Beale Street. He was the Beale Street "Blues Boy" — the "B.B." in his name.
In many ways, it is not surprising that my Facebook feed is filled with thoughts, tributes, and remembrances of B.B. King. He was, after all, the "King of the Blues." But while many somehow understand that the blues is important in American music, I would guess that there are relatively few who listen to the blues on a regular basis, fewer still who buy blues records.
For most Americans, B.B. King was the face of the blues.
My parents weren't particularly blues fans. They listened to old swing and country music, for the most part. But they had this stash of records, many of them from the dry goods store that my granny helped run when she married her second husband and moved to Man, West Virginia. I would look through them for hours and pull out the more interesting ones to give a listen. It was a good cross-section of what was popular in America in the early 1950s. I found Johnny Mathis and Skeeter Davis and records with titles like, "Your Favorite Pop Hits on the Hammond Organ!" Among these were two copies of B.B. King's debut album, Singin' the Blues.
I should mention that both were extremely water-damaged and certainly not collectible in any sense. I think I gave one of them to my friend Chris. But I would put it on and give it a listen. It was the only blues record in the entire collection.
Years later, I found myself teaching music. I would ask if they knew any blues musicians and apart from the occasional kid with hippie parents who would offer up the name of Eric Clapton, B.B. King was the only one they could identify. But they all knew him.
I saw him once in concert, about nine years ago, on his 84th birthday. It was at the House of Blues and the audience was packed — standing room only. It was clear that few of them had more than a passing familiarity with his music, but they ate him up. My clearest memory was some college kid in khakis and a backward ball cap who insisted on shouting, "You are the king, sir!" at the show's quietest moments.
Americans knew B.B. King. They knew his guitar(s), Lucille. They knew he had diabetes, thanks to commercials he did for OneTouch Ultra. And they'd seen his face on Toyota commercials, too.
Part of King's legacy is no doubt due to the fact that he was one of the musicians who bridged the transition between blues and rock music. Eric Clapton performed with him often. George Harrison claimed him as a major influence, which can certainly be heard. So did Jimi Hendrix, though that may be a little less obvious.
His music was called "day blues" early on. It was the showier, glitzier cousin of Chicago's electric blues. While it didn't have the grittiness that many blues fans love, it did keep blues in the mainstream for some time.
Mr. King was the ambassador for blues music, performing for presidents and kings, prison inmates, and school children. His legacy is important for that reason, almost as much as for the music itself.
I'm always surprised when I meet people who claim to not like the blues. Back when I taught music, one of the central "big ideas" I wanted students to leave with was, "All American music comes from the blues." It doesn't matter if you like rock or hip-hop or punk or funk or country or bluegrass or jazz or metal — none of them would exist without the blues.
Yesterday I found myself driving for work and I put on The Cramps first record and noticed the familiar three-chord, twelve-bar blues form that musicians like King, Muddy Waters and their contemporaries popularized. It has become so much a part of the American musical memory that it's hard to imagine a time before the blues. The blues have become a form on which musicians as diverse as Charlie Parker, Bill Monroe, and the Ramones have hung their musical and lyrical ideas.
I've got three nights of gigs this weekend, playing punk, rock-and-roll, and soul music. I'll be sharing the stage with seasoned jazz musicians, kids with shitty guitars who started playing a couple years ago, and one R&B legend. It is not an exaggeration to say that all of them owe a debt of gratitude to B.B. King.
Long live the King.
