Bb King, who has just turned 87, has returned home to Mississippi to play to family and friends. In the experience of a lifetime, Ed Vulliamy joins him and hears from the maestro about his rise from the cotton fields to international stardom
The fat red sun settles itself against the horizon, throwing a last, honey-sweet light through humid evening and over a small crowd on the lawn beside a railroad track that cuts through the cotton fields beyond. A quarter-moon rises and a chorus of cicadas serenades imminent twilight, now conjoined by the sound of the band; the drummer catches the backbeat and the compere announces: "How about an Indianola hometown welcome for the one-and-only King of the Blues: Bb King!"
And on he comes, to applause from people who know him well and claim him as their own – the last of the blues masters a few weeks short of his 87th birthday.
The fat red sun settles itself against the horizon, throwing a last, honey-sweet light through humid evening and over a small crowd on the lawn beside a railroad track that cuts through the cotton fields beyond. A quarter-moon rises and a chorus of cicadas serenades imminent twilight, now conjoined by the sound of the band; the drummer catches the backbeat and the compere announces: "How about an Indianola hometown welcome for the one-and-only King of the Blues: Bb King!"
And on he comes, to applause from people who know him well and claim him as their own – the last of the blues masters a few weeks short of his 87th birthday.
- 10/7/2012
- by Ed Vulliamy
- The Guardian - Film News
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