She could scream, she could cry, she could whisper softly into your ear, a tempting seductress, or laugh out loud, a mocking shrew; her mood, her temperament all the result of her partner's caress.
Nearby sat B.B. King, who, I think, always keeps Lucille, his Gibson ES-355TD-SV guitar, within reach.
OK, so B.B. King isn't really rock 'n' roll.
Doesn't matter.
He's B.B. King and there isn't anybody quite like him.
In a little more than a week, Riley B. King will turn 86.
He sits in a chair these days when he plays, doesn't move around the stage at all. But, he still raises a glass, or two, of Jack Daniels in a toast to his adoring fans.
King is probably the most successful of the black bluesmen. He outpaced Sonny Boy Williamson, who gave him his break by offering him a spot on his radio show; sold more records than Muddy Waters; was received by a much wider audience than Howlin' Wolf and John Lee Hooker; and drew larger crowds than smokestack-lightning guitar virtuoso Buddy Guy.
What you need to remember is that King and his peers came up during a time when black musicians were being ripped off in just about every sense.They were playing Delta blues, Chicago blues -- rollin' and tumblin' blues music that was born in the heart and played through the soul. It was the foundation for much of what became rock 'n' roll, particularly '60s bands like The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Ten Years After, Jeff Beck, and, of course, Eric Clapton, whether he was part of Cream, fronting Derek and the Dominos or as a solo act.
Those guys took old American blues music, gave it a new beat, set it through twin 100-watt amp stacks and introduced a whole new generation to this thing called the blues. Some -- Clapton, Alvin Lee, and George Harrison, to mention a few -- gave credit to the bluesmasters. Others, particularly the guys in Led Zep, tried to pass it off as their own. But, that's something black musicians were used to anyway.
I mean, back in the '50s, Little Richard couldn't cut a break, particularly in the South and Midwest, where race music, as it was called, was banned from a lot of radio stations. You had to tune in to the high-watt stations out of Memphis or Chicago to get the real stuff, otherwise, you had gutless renditions of Little Richard's songs by white bread guys like Pat Boone. Chuck Berry? Ever listen to a song by The Beach Boys? Yeah, Carl Wilson nicked a lot of lead riffs from Berry and incorporated them into the West Coast surf sound. Just play Berry's "Sweet Little 16" back-to-back with The Beach Boys' "Surfin' USA." It took a lawsuit for Berry to get his due in royalties and writing credit.
It's what the business was like when King was cutting his chops, playing the Chitlin Circuit, making his first record, "Miss Martha King," for a tiny Southern outfit called Bullet Records in 1949.
He did well in the blues world, but there was a bigger audience out there waiting for him, if he could only open a few doors.
The first to let him in was Frank Sinatra, who was the original king of the Las Vegas Strip. Sinatra had a lot of respect for the black players of the day -- from Count Basie to B.B. King; Ella Fitzgerald to Sammy Davis Jr.; Billie Holiday to, well, B.B. King, again. He used his considerable muscle to get them into the Las Vegas showrooms, even if they had to stay in a hotel down the street.
By the time I ran into B.B., he was a dozen or so years into playing the Las Vegas showrooms, had a huge crossover hit with "The Thrill Is Gone," and was doing about 340 gigs a year.
He traveled in style, dressed to the nines, had a big diamond on his hand and had perfected his left-hand-tremolo style -- a gentle motion from the wrist -- to develop his trademark warble. His lead playing was uncomplicated, economic. I think it was King who taught Clapton that it's not the notes you play, but the notes you don't play that matter.
He was in Los Angeles a few days ahead of a big gig at The Roxy, one of my favorite clubs in town, to do some business with his record company and meet with the press. At least a few of us.
He was staying in a nice suite in a Sunset Strip motel with his valet. The place was spotless, not like so many other rock 'n' roll hotel rooms I had seen, and he was dressed casually, which for King meant a sports jacket, slacks and nice shirt with no tie. He saved the suits for the stage.
We sat there chatting about his roots, how he was raised on one of the last big Southern plantations in Itta Bena, Miss.; how he played for spare change on street corners; how he hitched his way to Memphis to start his career as a bluesman.
We talked of more modern times, about some of the guys who came after who were using the blues as the root of their joyful noise.
There was Buddy Guy, who B.B. said he "absolutely loved."
There was Jimi Hendrix, whose passing left a hole in King's heart. "He came onstage and played with me once in New York," B.B. said. "He was in bad shape that night, but he played beautifully. Tragic. It was tragic when we lost him."
Then, I brought up Clapton.
"Eric's a good rock 'n' roll player," B.B. said. "I've met him. He's a fine boy. A good player. But he's not the blues. To play the blues you've got to live the blues. He can play some blues, but he's a rock player."
The debate was on, of course, and I asked if he'd ever heard Clapton's version of "Further On Up the Road," first recorded by Bobby "Blue" Bland, or "Have You Ever Loved a Woman," written by Billy Myles and recorded by Freddie King.
Of course, he had, but he was unconvinced.
He pointed at Clapton's latest album "Slowhand," with stuff that ranged from the country "We're All The Way" to the lovely "Wonderful Tonight." I pointed out it also had Arthur "Big Boy" Crudup's "Mean Old Frisco." B.B. added that Elvis Presley had also recorded a Crudup song, "That's All Right (Mama)," and asked if that make him a blues singer?
"Ya got a point," I told him. But, I urged him to take a closer look at Clapton and his guitar playing. I felt vindicated, sort of, when in 2000, they collaborated on the album "Riding With the King," a pretty fair blues album. I don't know what Clapton did over the years to convince him, but it worked.
King's Roxy show?
Outstanding. Once he and the band hit the stage, they owned it and didn't seem to want to give it up.
Flash forward to December 2009, a much different place and different time.
Neither of us had progressed much. I mean, he was still picking out notes on guitar strings, I was still pecking out words on a keyboard.
He was much more successful, of course, and was about to open his BB King's nightclub/restaurant in The Mirage hotel in Las Vegas. I was doing a weekly column about Las Vegas at the time and was invited to the grand opening.
There was a red carpet when we arrived. As we were checking in, I ran into singer/songwriter/guitar player extraordinaire Steve Cropper, whose path I had crossed many years before. We exchanged some old stories, remembered some old faces, went into the club.
Cropper, it turns out, was the emcee for that night's show. He welcomed the crowd, told some stories, played some songs. Then he welcomed Texas blues wild man Lee Roy Parnell to the stage for a set. Then he welcomed jazz stylist Lee Ritenour. Then he welcomed blues great Robert Cray. A couple songs into Cray's set, a roadie walked out and placed a battered old Martin classical guitar on the stage.
"Willie's here," I told my wife Cara.
"Huh?" she asked.
"Willie Nelson is here. That's Trigger, his guitar."
Sure enough, when Cray was finished, Cropper welcomed Willie, who did a beautiful version of "Always on My Mind."
Then Cropper welcomed Buddy Guy, who proceeded to tear the room apart with his blistering hot licks, piercing solos, gut-bucket vocals.
And, then Cropper welcomed King to the stage.
B.B. had been enjoying the show from a ringside seat. Was plied with a little Jack Daniels, but he made it to the stage, parked on a folding chair and gave everybody a lesson in blues guitar.
And, then he welcomed all the players back up onto the stage for a lengthy jam with the house band. He was 84 at the time, but he played like a man half his age, wailing and growling, snarling and purring as he laid down some classics.
Lucille?
She was right there with him, dipping and soaring; seducing and mocking; the siren of the blues.
The lady was a champ.
