I have made a long career out of writing about good people who are not celebrities, who typically appear in news pages a prescribed three times: when they are born, when they get married and when they die, and then only if someone cares enough to pay for an obituary.
I have liked it that way. I always wanted to grow up to be Charles Kuralt, not Barbara Walters.
On rare occasions, I’ve interviewed people with names you have heard of, either for good or bad reasons: Captain Kangaroo, Lester Maddox, Dixie Carter, Jimmy Carter, Kitty Wells, Charles Barkley, an infamous jailbird or two.
And one sweltering day at Parchman Prison, I was privileged to meet B.B. King. It was better than supping with royalty.
This happened in the early 1980s, when B.B. was in his mid-50s, arriving on the infamous farm to perform for prisoners gathered under guard in the rodeo arena. Because he considered nearby Indianola his hometown, this was a homecoming of sorts.
Before he played, he met with a few of us reporters in the institution’s visitors’ quarters, receiving us with a genuine smile, sitting with his feet propped up, a big Barcalounger of a man. He was gracious to a fault.
He patiently answered our uninspired questions. He told us how Lucille got her name, how he got his name and even asked our names. I was impressed.
The concert was riveting. The prison guards instinctively put their hands over their guns whenever B.B. belted out one about freedom. If you’re doing life at Parchman farm, you can’t hear “Chains and Things” and not take it personally.
B.B. King was never my favorite blues singer, I’ll admit. I prefer the country, gut-bucket blues to the more sophisticated, electrified variety he perfected. But that rodeo arena concert remains one of my favorites ever because of what it meant to so many. For an hour or so, hundreds of imprisoned men were set free. B.B. King melted the bars with music.
He might have had a different life. He might have stayed in the Delta cotton fields where he was born, picking that ubiquitous crop until mechanization stole his job and made his life meaningless, as it’s done in recent decades for many others who once toiled in agriculture. The Delta population has declined dramatically in recent decades, leaving shuttered homes and businesses and quiet riverfronts.
B.B. King might have remained a local bluesman the way he started, singing in Indianola juke joints for a few dollars a night, grateful to be paid at all for making his music. The blues, after all, was more popular in Europe than here for a long time. Only recently have blues festivals and pilgrimages become as common as leather-and-pottery craft shows.
A big and resourceful man, he might have ended up as one of those nervous Parchman guards, because the prison is the main industry of Sunflower County outside of agriculture. Or, heaven forbid, B.B. King might have taken a wrong road, become a prisoner, yet another black man running from poverty and afoul of the law.
I think he knew his extraordinary talent ran tandem with luck, and that’s what he was doing at Parchman. He was sharing his luck with those who had none. With every vibrating stroke of Lucille, B.B. King was telling those prisoners he was aware of their humanity, that fate pivots on fine points and music is always, always a balm for the soul.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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