Language of the Blues - Edmonton Blues Society

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nicked words and phrases from the numbers runners, hookers, drag queens, thieves, junkies,
pimps, moonshiners, hoodoo doctors, dealers, rounders, and con artists who made up the
street set.
Today, the language of the blues is beloved worldwide. As Texas blues guitarist Jimmie Vaughan
amazing. You can talk about the influence of black blues and gospel on American music, but it's
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When I was growing up in the Midwest, however, rock was king and the blues were considered a
quaint and--in the African American community somewhat embarrassing relic. As B.B. King
related in his moving autobiography, Blues All Around Me
blues song,
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shimmied through
beautiful fierce lady, shining with sweat, and Son Seals--her tough, economical guitarist-grabbed
me by the gut.
A few weeks later, I drove with my new boyfriend, a hyperactive blues fanatic who was a ringer
for a freckled teenage Paul McCartney, to a cornfield about an hour south of Milwaukee. B.B.
King was standing on a plywood stage with his guitar, Lucille, resting on his belly and his arms at
his sides. It was a muggy summer afternoon and the Wisconsin state bird--the mosquito--was out
in full force.
Neither heat nor bugs had prevented King and his band from mounting the makeshift steps to the
stage wearing crisp white dinner jackets with snappy black bow ties, black knife-crease trousers,
and patent leather shoes polished to a blinding shine. The generator, on the other hand, which had
mournful blues, was struggling with the task of powering King and crew. It cut out intermittently,
often stranding King mid solo.
have made a Yoruba elder proud. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders, gesturing at Lucille as if
Once the power kicked back on for good, there was no stopping B.B. King. There were maybe
sixty people kicking up the dusty dirt in front of the stage--all black except for my boyfriend and
me. Two fierce hours later, we looked up from our earnest dancing to find ourselves surrounded
by a circle of people clapping and laughing and egging us on as the sun slowly dropped in
the sky.
I thought about that magical evening when I went to the Apollo Theatre in Harlem almost twenty
years later to see King for the second time in my life. A line of middle-aged African Americans,
Japanese tourists, bearded young hipsters, and graying hippies stretched for two blocks down
125th Street, prompting some B-
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