I like the blues – that’s no secret – but my respect for the fans of legendary blues player B.B. King was much diminished when I went to see him live. I saw him perform at the “House of Lame White Motherfuckers” right after it’s re-opening on Lansdowne St. in Boston. My Girlfriend’s friend Steve was working there at the time. Steve kept appearing out of the crowd with two cans of Corona (who drinks cans of Corona) and at for most of the night I was triple fisting beers.
Now here’s something that I was unprepared for: If you go to see B.B. King, you’d better be ready to hear one song, then 5 minutes of an old guy babbling about back in the day. Unfortunately, for the idiots around me, I was not ready to let B.B kill my buzz so my girlfriend and I began to have a lively drunk conversation over his droning. We were laughing and having a lot of fun when I nudged a bald-headed man with glasses who was standing next to me. “CAN’T YOU CALM DOWN AND JUST LISTEN!?,” he whined, gesturing at the stage, “I’m trying to hear what he has to say!” I exchanged glances with my girlfriend, then looked back at the LFMF who, not waiting for an answer, had slithered a few rows ahead.
“What a Penis!” I said loudly, and received a “SHHHHHHHHHH!” from my left. I looked around at a sea of disapproving white faces that had come to grovel at the feet of a chatty old man. “TRASH!,” their frowns seemed to accuse.
Andrea and I continued our conversation, the beers continued appearing in front of us, and the “legend” rambled on about his guitar named Lucile, some kind of warehouse fire, and his days on the road. I wasn’t really paying attention, but I suspect he didn’t give a shit about that.