Cotton fields zipped by as our van’s stereo blared. My son, who plays guitar, could tell the difference between Eric Clapton’s guitar parts and B.B.King’s. “Lucille had a distinctive voice,” he said as we were driving down Highway 49 through the Delta. “And you can hear B.B. King’s whole life in that voice.”
I thought it was a pretty astute observation.
We had taken a guy’s trip and gone to the B.B. King Museum in Indianola. One son was reading “The Help” for class. The other was learning guitar. I couldn’t think of a better place to help my sons understand both. They could understand The Blues better and what environment gave birth to them.
B.B. King was born into a tough life. The Mississippi Delta was a painful place for him growing up. But like a rose blooms on a stalk of thorns, he took a guitar and created a piece of heaven on Earth. He conquer the shack he lived in. Then Memphis. Then the world.
And it’s easy to see why. Sure, he had talent. But he also had a world-class work ethic. He demanded his band live by his impeccable standards. That focus, that persistence, allowed him to break through barriers that would have stopped most people. He emerged from a world divided by racism and conquered it. Audiences from Indianola to Paris celebrated the man, his guitar and the beauty that emerged from both.
He’s gone now. Mississippi has lost one of its finest ambassadors. He showed that the best moments truly come from the worst. And he healed so much pain with his gifts.
I told my son that B.B. King died this morning and he was genuinely sad. Imagine that — a 12-year-old boy mourning the loss of an 89-year-old Blues legend.
That’s how special B.B. King truly was.
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