If posterity ever asks for claims to near-fame, I believe I have a good one: months before Club Ebony in Indianola, Mississippi ‒ one of BB King's favourite haunts ‒ was sold, Mary Shephard asked me if I wanted to buy it.
OK, so she was only half-serious. Still. The possibilities boggle the mind. BB King, master of the blues, playing a gig once in a while in my own blues bar?
I heard BB King live in the mid-1980s, at Antone’s in Austin, Texas. A famous stop on the blues circuit by then, a relatively large space as Austin music spots went, Antone’s nevertheless remained a friendly, intimate place. In those years, it was only blocks north of the University of Texas campus, and only blocks south of where I lived. I was just getting to know and like the blues, and I’d often walk over to Antone’s to hear any of a slew of heroes. The Fabulous Thunderbirds, Joe Ely, Lou Ann Barton and others belted out foot-stomping blues rock; Buddy Guy, Albert King and BB King sang the blues, straight-up and lip-smacking delicious. (So somehow it seemed just damn right that behind Antone’s was Milto’s, home to the best pizza in town, the place where we’d often end up after an Antone’s special).
Those Antone’s evenings kick-started a love affair with the blues that never grows old. And that’s what took me, years later, to Club Ebony.
An essential stop
Built soon after the end of World War II, Ebony has hosted all the major black American blues stars. BB King, who was born nearby, had a soft spot for Ebony. In town to play there in 1955, he met Sue Carol Hall, the daughter of its then-owner; they were married in 1958. In 1980, Indianola held the first of what became a beloved annual ritual: the King Homecoming Festival. It would invariably end with King performing at Ebony. King once said that by bringing so many famous musicians to Indianola, Ebony’s first owner, John Jones, “was really the guy that kept the Negro neighbourhood alive”.
That’s a hint at how intricately part of black history in the US blues music is. As a Mississippi politician, David Jordan, reminded me one morning, it came out of the cotton fields where so many blacks worked in hard, pitiless conditions. The blues was how they gave vent to their feelings. You can hear those emotions in the lyrics, but somehow it was always the chords that spoke to me. I can’t explain it, but for me there has always been something elemental, something stripped-down sorrowful, about that C-F-G7 (and variations) sequence over 12 bars, even when it underpins upbeat rockers like Joe Ely’s Mustta Notta Gotta Lotta. And certainly when it underpins soul-stirring King masterpieces like The Thrill is Gone.
So that’s the tradition and history I stepped into, when my friend Frank Abbott took me to visit Ebony in early 2007. Running ahead of a spectacular storm that later knocked over miles of electric poles, we arrived there in plenty of time for the evening gig. Not King, but a smiling David Lee Durham and his True Blues Band, local favourites. They sang some of their own compositions and also a assortment of songs I’ve heard and loved over the years: Sell My Monkey, I’d Like to Do It With My Baby (All Night Long) and a rousing, rollicking Mustang Sally.
And when they took a break, Durham strode over to the sole foreigner in the joint and enveloped me in a sudden bear hug. “Hey man,” he asked. “What can you play? Why’n’t you play with us?” My answer still embarrasses me: “I can pick out Für Elise on the piano, that’s all.” Did I really think Beethoven would dovetail with the blues, especially here in BB King’s home? But Durham had no doubts. He said: “That’ll work! Jus’ play the tune, we’ll play behind you, ok?”
To my eternal regret, I chickened out. Nevertheless, it was a good reminder of how music of every kind can indeed fit the blues. Here, for example, is BB King singing The Thrill is Gone accompanied by ‒ get ready for this ‒ Luciano Pavarotti.
Anyway: early that Ebony evening, Frank and I sat down for a chat with the club’s owner of over 30 years, Mary Shepherd. She spoke of how she loved the place, but was now wearying of the daily routine of running it. She was looking to sell. By then, we had exchanged notes about the blues and she had some idea of my interest in the music. So Mary asked: “Hey, you wanna buy the place?”
I declined. Within a year, the Shepherds sold Ebony to BB King.
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OK, so she was only half-serious. Still. The possibilities boggle the mind. BB King, master of the blues, playing a gig once in a while in my own blues bar?
I heard BB King live in the mid-1980s, at Antone’s in Austin, Texas. A famous stop on the blues circuit by then, a relatively large space as Austin music spots went, Antone’s nevertheless remained a friendly, intimate place. In those years, it was only blocks north of the University of Texas campus, and only blocks south of where I lived. I was just getting to know and like the blues, and I’d often walk over to Antone’s to hear any of a slew of heroes. The Fabulous Thunderbirds, Joe Ely, Lou Ann Barton and others belted out foot-stomping blues rock; Buddy Guy, Albert King and BB King sang the blues, straight-up and lip-smacking delicious. (So somehow it seemed just damn right that behind Antone’s was Milto’s, home to the best pizza in town, the place where we’d often end up after an Antone’s special).
Those Antone’s evenings kick-started a love affair with the blues that never grows old. And that’s what took me, years later, to Club Ebony.
An essential stop
Built soon after the end of World War II, Ebony has hosted all the major black American blues stars. BB King, who was born nearby, had a soft spot for Ebony. In town to play there in 1955, he met Sue Carol Hall, the daughter of its then-owner; they were married in 1958. In 1980, Indianola held the first of what became a beloved annual ritual: the King Homecoming Festival. It would invariably end with King performing at Ebony. King once said that by bringing so many famous musicians to Indianola, Ebony’s first owner, John Jones, “was really the guy that kept the Negro neighbourhood alive”.
That’s a hint at how intricately part of black history in the US blues music is. As a Mississippi politician, David Jordan, reminded me one morning, it came out of the cotton fields where so many blacks worked in hard, pitiless conditions. The blues was how they gave vent to their feelings. You can hear those emotions in the lyrics, but somehow it was always the chords that spoke to me. I can’t explain it, but for me there has always been something elemental, something stripped-down sorrowful, about that C-F-G7 (and variations) sequence over 12 bars, even when it underpins upbeat rockers like Joe Ely’s Mustta Notta Gotta Lotta. And certainly when it underpins soul-stirring King masterpieces like The Thrill is Gone.
So that’s the tradition and history I stepped into, when my friend Frank Abbott took me to visit Ebony in early 2007. Running ahead of a spectacular storm that later knocked over miles of electric poles, we arrived there in plenty of time for the evening gig. Not King, but a smiling David Lee Durham and his True Blues Band, local favourites. They sang some of their own compositions and also a assortment of songs I’ve heard and loved over the years: Sell My Monkey, I’d Like to Do It With My Baby (All Night Long) and a rousing, rollicking Mustang Sally.
And when they took a break, Durham strode over to the sole foreigner in the joint and enveloped me in a sudden bear hug. “Hey man,” he asked. “What can you play? Why’n’t you play with us?” My answer still embarrasses me: “I can pick out Für Elise on the piano, that’s all.” Did I really think Beethoven would dovetail with the blues, especially here in BB King’s home? But Durham had no doubts. He said: “That’ll work! Jus’ play the tune, we’ll play behind you, ok?”
To my eternal regret, I chickened out. Nevertheless, it was a good reminder of how music of every kind can indeed fit the blues. Here, for example, is BB King singing The Thrill is Gone accompanied by ‒ get ready for this ‒ Luciano Pavarotti.
Anyway: early that Ebony evening, Frank and I sat down for a chat with the club’s owner of over 30 years, Mary Shepherd. She spoke of how she loved the place, but was now wearying of the daily routine of running it. She was looking to sell. By then, we had exchanged notes about the blues and she had some idea of my interest in the music. So Mary asked: “Hey, you wanna buy the place?”
I declined. Within a year, the Shepherds sold Ebony to BB King.