Rhapsody in blues

B.B. King proves the thrill isn't gone

by Chris Kanaracus

What's most amazing and a little intimidating about B.B. King is that at 74 years old, he's still going, and he's going strong. King may not release too many records these days (though he did release Blues on the Bayou in 1998), but, on average, he'll jackhammer out more than 300 concerts a year. This Sunday, Worcester will get a taste of King's aged mastery, when he performs at the Palladium.

King's importance to the blues, and music in general, spans from his days as a Memphis DJ in the late 1940s and from his touring the so-called "chitlin' circuit" of small Southern blues clubs, and on to the large concert halls and outdoor festivals that have been King's turf since the late 1960s.

But it's really not sheer longevity that distinguishes King. Fifty-plus-year careers are as much a blues convention as the 1-4-5 chord progressions that serve as the music's backbone; witness John Lee Hooker and the late-Muddy Waters, to name but two. What sets King apart from his peers is the fact that he's the only pure blues musician to fully permeate the mainstream. King is practically ubiquitous, from his appearances in fast-food commercials to presidential citations to scores of honorary degrees, and even to an audience with the Pope. It's not much of a leap to say that King has the market cornered on universal respect.

He's a reluctant icon, though. "I like that people would call me a legend. That makes me feel good," he says. "I don't want my behind kissed, but I'm comfortable with it."

Reached at his Oakland, California, hotel room about two hours before a mid-November show, King sounds exhausted, not to mention a little peeved. The quiet, low rasp that ekes over the phone line bears scant resemblance to the impassioned, raging-to-serene juggernaut of a voice that has left its blissful mark on more than 50 albums and on at least 15,000 live performances. You get the impression, maybe, that this isn't the best time to chat.

But King is willing to give an interview, something, at this point in his career and in an age of countless ivory-tower-caged, six-interviews-per-tour prima donnas, he frankly doesn't have to do.

Nor does he have to tour. "I'm not out here because I have to be. I'm out here because I love to be. I love to make new friends as we go around," King says. "My band, 12 guys, they're my friends, too. Some of them have been with me for over 20 years. They aren't as, shall I say, settled in as I am. So I like to keep them together."

King says he has slowed things down a little this year, to just over 250 shows. Still, you've got to wonder how he keeps it fresh for the audience and, perhaps more important, for himself. King, for his part, is nonchalant about the subject: "Each night, we play by feel. . . . We've got so many songs down, we can do whatever we feel like."

King says he'll play for about 90 minutes this Sunday, after sets by Jeff Pitchell and Texas Flood. What's a little mysterious, though, is why it's taken so long for King to come around these parts.

The last time he was in town, in June 1992, he also played the Palladium, then known as E.M. Loew's. That concert, though successful, was marred somewhat by events the following week, when the theater's employees barricaded themselves inside the building and threatened to stay until they received back pay -- money they hadn't received a dime of, despite the $10,000-plus raked in at the bar during the show. Little hard information is available about King's end of the deal, but rumors persisted for years after the show that someone had run off with the cash box, and King got stiffed as well -- hence an absence from Worcester that many believe was, in fact, a boycott, until now.

It wasn't. "I don't remember none of that. That was a long time ago, but I think it worked out as far as I know," he says.

He won't quite admit it, but things are probably winding down for King, who is also a diabetic. "On the bus, in the hotel, after the show, whenever, I listen to these cassettes. I keep them with me all the time, listen to them every day. There's a guy, Blind Lemon Jefferson, he's an acoustic bluesman from the '20s. A fellow named Django Reinhardt, jazz guitarist from the '30s. Charlie Christian, another jazz guitarist, and a guy by the name of T-Bone Walker."

King talks about his influences in a way that, amusingly, never lets on to a crucial fact: the names he mentions are luminaries, to be sure, but not to King's extent. He speaks of them from a fan's perspective. And the pointed way he describes them suggests that he thinks perhaps his interviewer hasn't heard of them, perhaps does not realize their value. But in one light, it's not a snub -- it's actually the most telling evidence heard over the course of the interview that King's reputation as an ambassador, as a champion of the blues, is truly deserved. After 50 years of unprecedented success, King would rather pump up anyone but himself, even current young guns like Kenny Wayne Shepherd and Derek Trucks. "All of them are playing stuff I wish I could play. My hands can't do what they can do."

B.B., no offense, but you're missing the point.

B.B. King, Jeff Pitchell, and Texas Flood perform at 7 p.m. on December 5 at the Palladium. Tickets are $27.50. Call 797-9696.