The Thrill Is (Not) Gone
Sunday night I brought a change of clothes to the theatre with me. I slipped into the empty studio, 20 minutes before rehearsal ended, to change, reapply deodorant, and wipe my brow before dashing out to where the idling, running car waited, Darling behind the wheel, to pick me up. We bolted downtown, to BB King's on Beale (you know the one, the namesake of the first "B" in the handle) and made it just in time (2 songs early to be exact) to see the King of the Blues himself -- Mr. B.B. King.
Remember this Silly Symphony? I had totally forgotten it existed until last night, when I stood awestruck and watched how the brass wailed and the guitars cried. I suddenly remembered when, eeps! more 15 years ago, my piano teacher told me to make the instrument sing. The music was alive. Heaving, sweating, swinging, lovemaking, and lamenting. 85 years worth of experiences (beginning in Itta Bena, Mississippi, and, through luck and twist of fate, presently residing not far from there once again) poured through the vocal chords of this one man. eighty. five. years. Talk about soul.
I really don't know how to tell you about these music filled evenings I've been having. Music like this far transcends my vocabulary, or, at least certainly my ability as a writer to string together the parts of speech necessary to articulate what seemed so clear just a fortnight ago. Remember when I said I have really lucked out with opportunities to see music legends? I'm floored and honored that my luck has continued to keep up. Darling and I work long and hard, we don't get out too often, but we always try to make time for late night acts that catch our attention. Our evenings of music are magical, they feel extra-special, rewarding, and have totally enriched our experience thus far in the South.
If you are ever in Memphis on Friday/Saturday, consider checking out BB King's place on Beale. I had thought, prior to that evening, (as maybe you do now) it might have been a little hokey but it turns out the house band is fantastic. fan-tasss-tic. remarkable. They'll knock you're socks off.