Prattled

The week is actually moving by at a fast clip, which is surprising considering how challenging it's been.

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And there's Launch playing "The Thrill is Gone" by BB King. I remember growing up listening to that 45, with "So Excited" on the flipside. I may have been the only seven-year-old to actually have the blues.

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I pictured BB King as a white guy.

And Bob Seger as a black guy.

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Eight days until the spring training trip. We've managed to find out some names of restaurants where ballplayers hang out. Scottsdale is supposedly the place to be. One place is called the Pink Pony Steakhouse though. Hmm... there's a Brady Anderson joke in there somewhere...

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Somewhere out there are black blues fans. I know, I know... it's hard to fathom. But they're out there. Malaco Records puts out some stuff that appeals to that demographic. You can hear it locally on KNON one weekday morning. I forget which morning it is... I do tune in when I can, but the DJ talks an awful lot, takes a lot of calls, cuts up with studio guests and sings over the records. I can't stand too much of that.

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Was at a club in Surfside, Texas in the mid-80s once, hanging out for some reason with a guy named Les Means. Played in the Surf Cats, among other local bands. Solid guitarist really. Always sort of considered himself a big fish in a little pond down there. Not sure I'd give him quite that much credit, but he was a respectable musician.

I think it was a Surf Cats show, in fact. But the show devolved into some sort of blues jam. They summoned Francine, the cook from the kitchen, to join the band. She took a guitar and flipped it over to play it left-handed, Albert-King style. Good singer, good guitarist too. They did "The Thrill is Gone." Les's wife Teri told me I could join the jam session if I wanted, but I chickened out.

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The Arena Theater held an almost all-black crowd that night in '86 when I saw BB King, Bobby Bland and Charles Brown.

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After the BB King show I asked someone if there was someplace I could buy a concert shirt. The response was a somewhat puzzled "I don't know." Guess it's not like hitting the lobby after a U2 show.

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I've never been much of a John Mayall fan. Oh, Bluesbreakers with Eric Clapton is a really good album. And I do appreciate that he loves the blues, and that he's launched the careers of people like Clapton and Coco Montoya. But his music just isn't that great.

He played Austin City Limits, and everyone was digging it. I remember everyone bopping along as he played the godawful "Mail Order Mystic," and I just didn't get it. Everyone acted like we had some demi-god in the house, but all I heard was unimaginative songwriting coupled with a lackluster band, serving to do nothing except launch Montoya's career. Coco told the audio crew, "Hey, Stevie was loud when he played here, so I'm gonna be loud too."

But at the end of the night, Mayall was out there on the stage, lugging his own amp off the stage, and that seemed kind of sad.

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Paul Westerberg played here last night. I wasn't that tempted to go see him, and this review is typical of the reasons why.

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Westerberg, though, is the longest name I think I've ever typed just with one hand on the keyboard. I'm told that the longest word falling into that category is stewardesses.
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Well, I've prattled on about nothing long enough. Happy Wednesday.