The master

B.B. King is still a thriller

by Jim Macnie

Critics love to sniff dubious when it comes to shtick. Showmanship and stage antics linked directly or indirectly to Vegas and its esthetic substations are a flapping red flag, challenging doubters to consider the artistry at hand as somehow less than sincere.

B.B. King knows all about entertainment rituals. From encouraging his drummer to crack a rim shot while referencing a door slammin' shut, to largely limiting his sets to 15 or 16 signature tunes, the 72-year-old bandleader has wallowed in ceremonial acts for a half-century now. But King, the most easily recognized blues guitarist in the world, is not only a master musician, but a savvy showbiz vet. Shtick may be intrinsic to his work, but when he's done with one of his sets, only a stone-assed misanthrope could pooh-pooh the action.

If there were any such cynics in the audience at New York's Blue Note club a few weeks ago, they were reduced to whoo-whooing devotees by the end of King's performance. The guitarist offered several silly anecdotes, plopped quip on top of quip, mugged after mischievously tinkering with his keyboardist's AC cord, roared for his band to effect deeper grooves, plugged his cameo in the upcoming Blues Brothers 2000, gulped down two glasses of water, dumping the remaining drops on his head, and threw out guitar picks for 10 minutes as the finale vamp tune swelled and a standing ovation prevailed. Watching his calf muscle quiver in time as he rocked his leg to the rhythms created by the band, he seemed about 23 years old.

Of course, stepping onto about 250 stages last year gave King plenty of opportunity to hone the tomfoolery. A workaholic whose motivation seems to be a blend of having deep pride in what he does and an unflagging desire to convince others of its value, King uses natural enthusiasm as his calling card. He's a thriller-diller when it comes to raising a crowd's temperature, and his skills at revelry get him over almost every time. That said, it was easy to see that a large chunk of those wooh-woohers around me fell prey to the show's other key aspect, the central reason the Mississippi-born bandleader not only fills large halls and inspires awe, but causes a roomful of listeners to either swoon or stomp: the quality of his musicianship.

Able to live up to the designation of virtuoso for decades now, King is a performer with an staggering command of dynamics. Listen to the incremental advancements documented on the four-disc career overview, King Of the Blues (MCA, 1991), and you can hear the proficiency growing. Jumping and boogieing in Memphis in the late '40s, he's an astute picker who strongly suspects that flair helps keep an audience on its toes. Around the time that Cream was forming in the mid-'60s, he feels self-assured enough to sing his tunes with an authority that explodes every aspect of blues platitudes. As the Ramones finish cutting Rocket To Russia, he finds a way to edit his guitar lines into a piercing take on minimalism that shuffles, romps, grieves, or does whatever the rhythm behind it demands. These adamant yet playful moments enlivened many trivial titles released by MCA over the years; there's no need to own more than 10 B.B. King records. Without exception, their inclusion on the terrifically well-culled box set helps put King's immense persona into perspective. No home should be without it.

I'm not quite sure if the same should be said about his latest outing, the pop star potpourri Deuces Wild (MCA). But I can tell you this: after initially tossing it aside, I went back to it and was startled to find several irresistible tracks. The conceptual gambit of uniting a blues star with his aesthetic progeny and longtime musical fans ain't exactly novel. But King has perpetually flaunted his catholic tastes, as well as his willingness to try anything as long its artistic or commercial quality seems guaranteed. Van Morrison, Eric Clapton, and Bonnie Raitt may be the usual suspects in such homage-offering discs from bluesville, but D'Angelo, Heavy D., Marty Stuart and Willie Nelson aren't. Each brings enough spunk to nudge their track into the realm of cool novelty. That's especially true for the Heavy D. cut, "Keep It Coming," where King jokes that he never expected Lucille to be rapping.

Of course, nothing as contrived as a me-and-my-superstar-pals outing is without cheese, so perhaps the less said about the Stones' take on "Paying the Cost To Be Boss" the better. I will mention that next to King's astonishing growl, Mick Jagger's thin-assed sneer seems feeble. And I'll also remark that it's unlikely Mick Hucknall will ever be mistaken for Percy Mayfield.

"Paying the Cost To Be Boss" was certainly cresting with power at the Blue Note. Though one of those signature songs I mentioned up top, it was void of any turns that would make you think it was part of an ages-old routine. As King chastised his woman for breathing down his neck, his vocals were acute, his emotions right on the surface, and his creativity visible from every angle. "If you don't like the way I'm doing/ Just pick up your things and walk!" he railed, and as he offered his side of the story, she almost became a tangible participant in the show. I file that skill under "theatre," and throughout the set the singer's animated delivery reminded me that he's quite an actor (though that Blues Brothers 2000 has me worried). King is perpetually on the road, and formula regularly threatens to infect his work. But his imagination triumphed in Manhattan, and it did so with a command that made me think it seldom lost the battle regardless of environment. Spontaneity defined almost every move of the night.

This cleverness was also obvious in the keen impulses of King's guitar solos. The Blue Note is smallish, so volume wasn't a high priority. That gave him a chance to let his technique speak for itself. His esteemed guitar Lucille received as much cuffing as stroking; King has added some crunch and rumble to those sweetly stinging upper register flights he's known for. A typical solo goosed the significance of the lyric. At one point, "I'm gonna pack my suitcase and move on down the line" was followed by an ardent array of licks that curved, bent and twisted, roughhousing a phrase at the start, caressing one toward the end. It was powerful stuff, able to create plenty of trouble, as well as reach out a hand in forgiveness. King recently presented a replica of Lucille to the Pope -- "You didn't think I was going to give that guy the real thing, did you?" he queried with a smile at the Blue Note. "That was her sister I laid on him" -- so now the Vatican has a little extra help in absolving its constituency's mountain of sins.

There was a time, years ago, when I had a hard time reconciling the concept of finesse when it was applied to the blues. Wasn't the gist to echo the anxiety of the dirt-poor culture that created it? Well, no, not entirely. It's also about taking an established form and squeezing the most persuasive music possible out of it. If that's built on finesse, resourcefulness and a canny sense of enterprise, so be it. Driving a straight shot from New York to Mexico several years ago, a pal and I kept returning to a pair of canons whose music simply didn't fail to re-juice our stamina: James Brown's '60s funk and B.B.'s jumping sides from the '50s. Both made the cut because of the literal elation their music generated. If you haven't seen King in a while, there's a tendency to forget that the age-old showbiz vet is also the Beale Street wonderboy. But stand in front of him for an hour or so, and all those clouds will vanish. Singing "The Thrill Is Gone" on the Conan O'Brien show recently, he snarled, smirked, and made Max Weinberg's crew seem meaningful. The ache of the tune's confession -- even at the contrived TV gig -- was palpable. King's age has only amplified his knowledge, honed his skills and bolstered his art with an overwhelming affirmation of life.

B.B. King will perform at Lupo's Heartbreak Hotel on Friday, January 23.