B.B. King.
Yes, The King of the Blues and his consort, Lucille, came to little ol’ Bend, Oregon and as part of their continuing education program of music, my teenagers were required to attend.
Live music is so important and is quickly becoming a thing of the past. Music festivals have to struggle for funding, DVDs and blu-rays are in every home and today’s bands just don’t tour.
But sometimes, you gotta be there.
Someday May Be Too Late
You have to see these guys before it’s too late. Sometimes they implode (see Floyd, Pink) or have extreme mutual loathing to the degree of outright hostility (see Who, The) or are so volatile, you expect them at some point to spontaneously combust (see Halen, Van.)
As a result of their musical education and Guitar Hero (especially the new Aerosmith disc which is a must-have for any video-gamer’s home,) they have quite eclectic tastes that do NOT run to rap or even, shudder, pop. I admire them for that as well as for their own talents as musicians on the flute, alto, tenor and baritone sax and keyboards.
My children have been tutored in many areas of live music: symphonies, band, theatre, rock and roll and, of course, more blues than they really cared about. I am so glad I dragged them to see Ray Charles. At one point of the concert, I leaned over to them and said, "Remember this moment. You are seeing Ray Charles play Georgia.'" I remind them of that time on a semi-weekly basis to the point that I am now greeted with a loud sigh and overwrought whine, "We remember, Mom. It’s time to move on. Get over it, already.”
We even took them to see the best gospel music ever: The Blind Boys of Alabama. They’ve seen Doc Severinsen, The Trans-Siberian Orchestra and, oh yes, Paul McCartney.
The Air That Macca Breathes
As you know, if Paul McCartney is anywhere in my state of Oregon, there I will be, also. Never mind that it’s an eight-hour roundtrip between Bend and Portland. Never mind that the tickets are so expensive we have to eat Top Ramen and generic Spaghetti-Os for a month. Never mind that we’ve already seen him twice.
It’s Paul.
I’m really losing my patience with you people on this one.
About two-thirds of the way through the show, the only song that is played without introduction, preamble or personal story is started with those two words: "Hey, Jude."
The audience swoons. Their bodies go limp, their brains turn to oatmeal and some of them achieve levitation. We close our eyes, as one. Paul could be sitting up there at the piano completely pantless for all we know. We do not care. You can hear a hushed "ooh" ripple through the crowd and personally, I have the posture of a used Kleenex until the last "nah, nah, nah" fades into memory.
It’s Paul McCartney. The Cute One. Still. Twenty-five percent of The Beatles. You are seeing him in front of your face, you are hearing his voice still crystal clear after all these years and you realize you are breathing actual Paul McCartney air. You can’t get that from a DVD or blu-ray. You can’t get that from a CD. Even though they try their very best, you can’t even get that from the classic rock station even if they are KTWS, 98.3 FM, The Twins.
You gotta be there.
Just Alice
Later this month, we will be taking our children to see Alice Cooper. He’s not The King of the Blues or even The King of Rock and Roll who is and shall always remain Elvis.
He’s not The Prince of Darkness as Ozzy Osbourne has that title. He’s not God since that’s Eric Clapton. He’s, well, he’s Alice.
He’s more eloquent and lyrical ("It’s just a heartache that got caught in my eye") than Frank Zappa ("Watch out where the huskies go and don’t you eat that yellow snow") and more theatrical than just about anyone. He’s a plugged-in Sweeney Todd.
And while we did show our kids the DVD of Alice’s Dirty Diamonds tour in Montreux, so they could see when Mom said there was a "splash zone" at Alice Cooper concerts, she wasn’t Just Kidding; it’s not the same as the live show.
You gotta be there.
Rock on.
by Lynette Sheffield
