Electric Blues

To paraphrase Homer Simpson, the word "god" gets tossed around a lot these days. We have gods enough to fill a Greek pantheon and Valhalla besides. There are sports gods like Michael Jordan, movie gods like Steven Spielberg, and talk show gods like Oprah Winfrey. But only a few people deserve deification. B.B. King is one of those people. He is the undisputed God of the Blues.

The King--B.B. is a worthy heir to Elvis's title--played at Wolf Trap this weekend. And I was there. I had to be there. How often do you get the chance to see a god in the flesh? The Wolf Trap, despite its ominous name, has very little to do with wolves and nothing at all to do with traps. On its website, Wolf Trap is billed as a "performing arts foundation." Frou-frou language aside, Wolf Trap is actually a jumble of music venues located deep in the Northern Virginia wilderness. In NoVa, "deep" means "five minutes off the Beltway."

The performance took place at the Filene Center, an enormous wooden amphitheater that resembles a Spanish galleon beached on a grassy lawn. A lucky--and wealthy--few had seats up close to the stage. The plebes, myself included, sat on the hillside sloping down to the stage. Nearly everyone brought blankets, chairs, and coolers the size of Hummers. I sat on the grass. The theater offered chair rentals, but 1) they were expensive and 2) they looked like something Amnesty International would protest.

Who goes to see B.B. King? Aside from dweeby twenty-something interns with no knowledge of the blues beyond the Subterranean Homesick variety. The answer is: all kinds of people. B.B. has universal appeal. Most of the audience were middle-aged or slight past it. Most were white. But this was hardly the rule; there were black people, young people, young and black people even. Some parents have even brought kids as young as five or six.

There was even a hipster guy in tight jeans and a black hat. I mention this guy because I ended the evening hating his Animal Collective-loving guts. Dear sir: no matter how hip you are, it is polite to applaud when B.B. King takes the stage.

Before B.B. descended from on high, however, Lukas Nelson entertained us for forty-five minutes. Opening for a god is no easy act. Ask John the Baptist. Lukas, however, shouldered the task manfully, cranking out half-a-dozen country-bluesy tunes with flair. His backing band--bassist, drummer, and bongo player (?)--dug a deep groove and let Lukas run wild over it. He did. Not quite Angus Young wild, but wild enough to headbang, and wild enough to play his guitar upside down. At one point he even plucked the strings with his teeth. No joke! I wonder if his orthodontist covers him for any potential accidents.

Of the six songs I remember only one: "Hootchie Kootchie Man." While Lukas's voice was a bit too nasally--reminiscent of his father Willy--to capture the song's souped-up sexuality, he did as well as a skinny white guy could.

Then came the King. As a heavenly choir sang Handel's Messiah, the clouds parted and...sorry, got carried away. His band came out first and jammed through five minutes of smokin' blues. Doofus that I am, I thought their guitarist was B.B. himself. Geez, I thought, he seems spry for an octagenarian.

Then came the real King. May the good Lord grant me that vitality when I reach eighty-four. His only concession to Father Time was to remain seated during the show. Even sitting, though, he commanded the stage. It helped that the crowd cheered his every word. He could have said, "My name's B.B. King, and I just killed a puppy backstage," and the applause would have been overwhelming.

Of course he said no such thing. He was a charming host. He thanked everyone: the audience, the opening act, the backing bank. He told stories of walking eight miles to see a Tarzan film. He flirted with every lady in the front row. He condemned hip-hop artists for their misogyny. He joked about his medical staff, Doctor Viagra and Nurse Levitra. And when his drummer interrupted a story with a mis-timed cymbal crash, B.B. glanced back, grinned, and said, "You know I'm from Mississippi, don't you? And you know I carry a knife, don't you?"

Between the banter, he even played some songs. "The Thrill is Gone" drew the most applause, but I preferred "Key to the Highway," mostly because B.B. followed the lyric "So give me one more kiss baby" with a series of sloppy kissing sounds. "Just Like a Woman" was an old-fashioned blues number unlikely to find favor in today's politically correct climate. "Every Day I Have the Blues" was appropriately blue. And my favorite, "See That My Grave Is Kept Clean," was far spookier than any death metal song about hemorrhaging corpses and satanic rituals.


B.B. was in fine voice for the entire ninety-minute performance. He is eighty-four. Close your eyes, and you would have thought it was a twentysomething singing. His voice dug into each line, ripping it into ragged chunks of soul. Sometimes it rose to a bellow; sometimes, as in his lovely performance of "You Are My Sunshine," it dropped to a whisper. His guitar playing was...well, to quote from Almost Famous, it was incendiary. I lack the technical knowledge to describe its awesomeness.

Unfortunately, the performance was cut short by the real God, who sent some thunderheads rolling our way. Perhaps it was punishment for listening to the devil's music. As the thunder grew louder and the lightning brighter, the band just kept playing. Only the rain put a stop to things. When I left, B.B. was thanking everyone a second and third time. Pretty nice guy for a god and all.