[JPL] A Patriarch Holds Court at His Own Party

[r durfee]

August 9, 2007
Music Review | B.B. King and Al Green 
A Patriarch Holds Court at His Own Party 
By BEN RATLIFF
“I got to tell you one more,” B. B. King said from the
stage on Tuesday night, “and then I’m going to work.”
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 isn’t 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 it’s his
party, but he makes a lot more of these in-between
monologues than the average concertgoer might want.
Maybe it’s just that he knows his physical limits.
(It’s no joke to be 81, with diabetes and one-nighters
scheduled into the foreseeable future.) 

Anyway, he copped to it. “The papers will kill me
tomorrow,” he said. “They’ll say ‘Old B. B. was pretty
good, but he talked all night.’ ” 

When he wasn’t talking, he played tunes that have been
lodged in his sets for quite a while: “Key to the
Highway,” “Ain’t That Just Like a Woman,” “You Are My
Sunshine,” “Nobody Loves Me but My Mother.” 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
“supper.”) 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. 

Etta James was to be on the tour but canceled two
weeks ago; she is recovering from complications after
abdominal surgery. This left more time to the third
performer on the bill, Al Green: about an hour and a
quarter of magnificence.

In a tuxedo with cummerbund, gold star of David
hanging from his necklace, and chewing gum, the Rev.
Al Green spent the first 10 minutes laughing, singing
a few newer songs, and delivering red roses to the
audience. Then, with two synchronized male dancers
working around him, he began a row of hits from the
early 1970s: “Let’s Get Married,” “Let’s Stay
Together,” “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart,” “Tired
of Being Alone.” 

His remarkable delivery and stagecraft seemed to work
against the idea of a focused performance. Singing, he
floated forward on non sequiturs and half-phrases.
Sometimes he stepped three feet away from the
microphone and stand, moving a little to the left or
right, aiming his strong voice at a wider target
around it, letting his cackles and falsetto cries work
like darts or subside into the music. 

Somewhere in the middle, after making a flirtatious
show of turning his back and zipping up his trousers,
he put on an in-all-seriousness face. “This is the
Theater at Madison,” he said. “We don’t want to show
out, now. But we come from the Apollo, Apollo days,
you know. Listen, let’s go back to the very beginning.
A-ah-ha-may...” While the band and the backup singers
played “Amazing Grace,” he had a conversation with the
song:

...zing...

grace how swee... Me too, I was there too.

Come on.

What happened?

And what?

Was blind, totally blind...

Listen:

I see.

Ah yes, that’s alright. 

Girls?

His two backup singers — one was his daughter, Deborah
Green — carried on the work for him. When he
re-entered, he was screaming, thundering, a full
reversal from the shaded, talky singing he’s known
for. It was almost frightening. At the end he let his
right arm fall slack, and the band shut down
completely.

The B. B. King Blues Festival continues on Saturday at
the Pier Six Pavilion in Baltimore. 

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/09/arts/music/09gree.html?th&emc=th

Roy Durfee
P.O. Box 40219
Albuquerque, New Mexico 87196-0219
rdurfee2003 at yahoo.com


       
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