King of the Blues E-Book

Daniel de Visé

• Herausgeber: Grove Press UK
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

'Without a doubt the most important artist the blues has ever produced' Eric Clapton 'No one did more to spread the gospel of the blues'President Barack Obama 'One part of me says, "Yes, of course I can play." But the other part of me says, "Well, I wish I could just do it like B.B. King."'John Lennon Riley 'Blues Boy' King (1925-2015) was born into deep poverty in Mississippi. Wrenched away from his sharecropper father, B.B. lost his mother at age ten, leaving him more or less alone. Music became his emancipation from exhausting toil in the fields. Inspired by a local minister's guitar and by the records of Blind Lemon Jefferson and T-Bone Walker, B.B. taught his guitar to sing in the unique solo style that, along with his relentless work ethic and humanity, became his trademark. In turn, generations of artists claimed him as inspiration, from Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton to Carlos Santana and the Edge. King of the Blues presents the vibrant life and times of a trailblazing giant. Witness to dark prejudice and lynching in his youth, B.B. performed incessantly (more than fifteen thousand concerts in ninety countries over nearly sixty years) - in some real way his means of escaping his past. His career roller-coasted between adulation and relegation, but he always rose back up. At the same time, his story reveals the many ways record companies took advantage of artists, especially those of colour. Daniel de Visé has interviewed almost every surviving member of B.B. King's inner circle - family, band members, retainers, managers and more - and their voices and memories enrich and enliven the life of this Mississippi blues titan, whom his contemporary Bobby 'Blue' Bland simply called 'the man.'

Leseprobe

Also by Daniel de Visé

The Comeback: Greg LeMond, the True King of American

Cycling, and a Legendary Tour de France

Andy & Don: The Making of a Friendship

and a Classic American TV Show

I Forgot to Remember: A Memoir of Amnesia (with Su Meck)

First published in the United States of America in 2021 by Grove Atlantic

First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Grove Press UK, an imprint of Grove Atlantic

Copyright © 2021 by Daniel de Visé

Map by © Martin Lubikowski, ML Design, London

The moral right of Daniel de Visé to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book.

Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright-holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.

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A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

Grove Press UK

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Hardback ISBN 978 1 61185 654 5

Ebook ISBN 978 1 61185 880 8

Printed in Great Britain

To Mom

CONTENTS

Introduction

CHAPTER 1     Sharecropper

CHAPTER 2     On the Run

CHAPTER 3     Indianola Mississippi Seeds

CHAPTER 4     The Blues

CHAPTER 5     Memphis

CHAPTER 6     The Blues Boy

CHAPTER 7     Lucille

CHAPTER 8     On the Road

CHAPTER 9     Big Red

CHAPTER 10    Fallow

CHAPTER 11    Regal

CHAPTER 12    Revival

CHAPTER 13    Fillmore

CHAPTER 14    Mythology

CHAPTER 15    Live and Well

CHAPTER 16    Back in the Alley

CHAPTER 17    Moscow on the Mississippi

CHAPTER 18    Homecoming

CHAPTER 19    Lovetown

CHAPTER 20    Riding with the King

CHAPTER 21    A Golden Chain

Epilogue

Lyrics Referenced

Discography

The King’s Court

Acknowledgments

Notes

Index

INTRODUCTION

BACK INSIDE A JAIL WAS ONE PLACE B.B. King thought he would never go. He had spent only a single night in a cell, after a white cop flagged him down on a Mississippi highway for doing eighty in a sixty-mile-per-hour zone. That was in 1950. B.B. was then a struggling musician and underpaid radio performer in his twenties, still picking cotton to make ends meet, racing to a gig in a borrowed car. The fine was ninety dollars. B.B. didn’t have it, and the imperious cop knew it.

Two decades later, on September 10, 1970, B.B. stood on the cusp of his forty-fifth birthday. In those forty-five years, Riley B. King had risen from penniless sharecropper to sidewalk busker to Memphis deejay to chart-topping singer to King of the Blues. Guitar heroics defined popular music in 1970, and B.B. King was the first guitar hero.

B.B.’s story was the story of the Great Migration, the northward journey that delivered millions of African Americans from southern plantations into the urban North. B.B. had hitchhiked out of Mississippi, found fame in Memphis, and then set out across the nation in a bus called Big Red. After two decades on the fabled Black chitlin’ circuit, B.B. had crossed over, capping his symbolic breakthrough with a triumphant performance for a throng of white hippies at San Francisco’s pot-scented Fillmore Auditorium in 1967. After that, B.B.’s audience had changed color. He played mostly for whites now.

But this gig was different: a show inside Chicago’s infamous Cook County Jail, conceived by an African American warden to entertain 2,400 inmates, most of them African Americans. B.B. rejoiced at performing for Black people again.

B.B. and his band entered the jail around eleven that morning. Stony-faced guards patted them down and escorted them through heavy steel doors, which closed with a sickening clang. The group proceeded down endless, windowless tunnels, past offices and cells and the jail’s electric chair, to a mess hall, followed everywhere by eyes “empty of everything except deep, numbing pain,” one musician recalled. B.B. chatted with the inmates, trying to push down the primal terror of being locked inside a prison, a place that felt “final and scary and rock-hard.” A beefy guard shadowed the bluesman, his eyes searching for the flashing blade of a shank. Most of the men were young enough to be B.B.’s children. One by one, they shared stories of languishing inside cells for months without end, awaiting trial, unable to post bail, powerless to leave.

After a tasteless meal, guards led the band outside to a bleak and gusty courtyard. The entourage headed toward a small stage, a raised platform where condemned men had once been hanged. A stubborn wind tore sheet music from the musicians’ stands and whisked it over the forbidding thirty-foot stone walls. But a warm autumn sun shone on the yard, and the air was a perfect seventy degrees. The weather had held, and that was good, for organizers had committed to a concert on this day. B.B. was playing for free, but his label had spent $10,000 on transportation, salaries, and equipment to record the performance for eventual release as a live album.

The musicians warmed up, played a sound check, and jammed with men from the jailhouse band as the audience filed out to the yard. Two hundred female inmates sat in folding chairs at stage left. More than two thousand men sprawled out in roped-off sections of grass. The men on death row remained locked in their cells, listening through opened windows.

The concert began at 1 p.m. “Hello out there,” a female jail official announced. She introduced the white sheriff and a prominent white judge to the jump-suited crowd, setting off a chorus of violent boos that echoed across the yard. Fifty guards with thick batons and .50-caliber semiautomatic rifles roamed the perimeter and perched atop towers. Concerts didn’t get much more real. Sensing tension in the air, the announcer hurried things along, beckoning, “Would you please come forth, Mr. King?” And then B.B. climbed atop the old gallows, clad in an olive-green plaid suit. A gunshot blast from Sonny Freeman’s snare drum announced the first song: “Every Day I Have the Blues.” The six-piece band raced forward, shuffling in matching powder-blue suits, propelled by Freeman’s galloping swing beat. B.B. spun the volume knob to awaken Lucille, his sinuous, symmetrical Gibson guitar. He played his first notes, climbing up to a “blue” third, bending the string with his powerful fingers to rise from D flat to D natural, then dancing back down and ending the solo phrase on a sustained note. B.B. flailed his left wrist up and down to create the shimmering vibrato that was his trademark. B.B. felt that he and Lucille spoke with the same voice, one picking up where the other left off. A few bars later, it was B.B.’s turn. “Ev’ry day, ev’ry day I have the blues,” he sang, a rich, booming baritone that formed way back in his clenched throat. Two minutes later, the song was over, and the yard erupted in applause and cheers. This audience, surely, could relate to the blues.

Now the band slid into B.B.’s signature song, “How Blue Can You Get.” Lucille unleashed an aural fireworks display that recounted the history of urban blues, much of it written by B.B. on his guitar: soaring bends, rapid-fire staccato bursts, and sustained, tremulous tones. And then B.B. sang: “I’ve been downhearted, baby, ever since the day we met,” he growled, reminding his audience that he was not just the world’s greatest blues guitarist but also an archetypal rhythm-and-blues singer. B.B. sang, and Lucille cried, and the crowd talked and cried and shouted back. As B.B. slowed into a campy, feminine reading of the song’s climactic bridge, the audience clamor threatened to overwhelm the band, a release of pure, electric energy that B.B. breathed in like oxygen.

Much as B.B.’s new white fans adored him, they did not know how to engage, how to participate in a B.B. King show, any more than they would have known what to do in an African American church. But here at the jail, as the band proceeded into an obscure 1950s single titled “Worry, Worry, Worry,” B.B. called out to the audience and the audience responded, singly and collectively. “Throw your arms around him,” he cried, and the crowd shouted back, “Yeah!”

“Hold him close to you!”

“Yeah!”

“Look him straight in the eye!”

“Yeah!”

The song ended. Now, B.B. reached back almost twenty years to sing and play his first big hits, “3 O’Clock Blues” and “You Know I Love You,” songs he mostly saved for Black audiences. He knew that many in this crowd had heard them the first time around. This was B.B. King, blues crooner.

“Don’t forget ‘Sweet Sixteen,’ ” someone cried. “All right, baby,” B.B. cooed. He played that one next. Some of the loudest cheers came from scattered male inmates wearing dresses and wigs. At first, the band mistook them for women.

The concert climaxed with a slow-burning take on “The Thrill Is Gone,” the song that had secured B.B. a future in the pop-music pantheon of white America. “I’m free, free, free now, baby,” B.B. roared. The men in the grass and the women in the chairs, not free, roared back.

Looking out across the sea of Black faces “made me sad and glad,” B.B. recalled. “Sad that so many brothers were behind bars, glad that I was reaching out to my own people.” Such moments reminded B.B. of the miles he had traveled and of the sun-bleached sharecropper cabin where his journey had begun.

CHAPTER 1

SHARECROPPER

B.B. KING’S FATHER, ALBERT KING, was born on February 28, 1907. The King family crisscrossed Mississippi in a perennial search for farm work. Albert probably entered the world in Glaston, a pinprick of a place in southern Mississippi, one hundred miles north of the Gulf of Mexico.

Events tore Albert’s family asunder. His mother left his father and promptly died. A sister perished, as well. Infant Albert and his father migrated two hundred miles north to join their kin in Monroe County, part of the larger expanse of Hill Country, a rugged slab of northeastern Mississippi bordering Tennessee on the north and Alabama on the east. Sometime after 1910, Albert’s father exited his life, leaving Albert in the care of an older brother named Riley, who in turn deposited Albert with a sharecropper family named Love and vanished into the mists. Albert joined the Love family as an adoptive nephew. They lived in Sunflower County, part of the fabled Mississippi Delta. Flat and fertile, the Delta lay west of Hill Country along the Arkansas border, the cradle of Mississippi’s cotton industry. The Loves would carry Albert out to the fields in a tub, draped with a cotton sack to keep the mosquitoes at bay.

Nora Ella Pulley, B.B.’s mother, was probably born in 1908 in Chickasaw County, a Hill Country province named for the Indian tribe that had long dwelt there. Nora Ella was the daughter of Elnora and Jasper Pulley. Elnora’s parents, Pompey (“Pomp”) and Jane Davidson, had been born slaves.

By 1920, Nora Ella’s father was gone. She and her mother had joined the expansive household of Elnora’s new husband, another Chickasaw sharecropper, named Romeo Farr. A few years later, Elnora left Farr and took Nora Ella west to the Delta. There, probably in 1924, Nora Ella met Albert King. They were teenagers of sixteen or seventeen. When Albert called on Nora Ella, he observed the old rules of courtship, arriving at her house in shirt and tie and departing at the stroke of 9 p.m. Soon, they became a couple. By the close of 1924, Nora Ella was pregnant.

Today, the official marker for B.B. King’s birthplace sits at a remote crossroads, a mile or two south of a settlement called Berclair along gravel roads, where Leflore County Routes 305 and 513 intersect. For the birthplace of a legendary bluesman, it is a satisfying spot. Blue Lake—in truth, more stale creek than lake—sits east of the crossroads, a ribbon of stagnant water choked with logs and dotted with turtles basking in the warm Delta sun. Forest lies to the south, field to the west.

The plaque does not reveal the actual location of the King cabin, and perhaps that is just as well, for no trace of the dwelling remains. To reach that patch of earth, the blues pilgrim must follow the creek a bit farther south and east along Route 305 to Route 281, turn left, and cross the creek. The cabin stood there, in a lonely field. Decades later, archivists led B.B. back to the site by playing a tape recording that preserved the guttural Delta growl of Albert King, his father, recounting a series of twists and turns along those ancient roads.

B.B. would sometimes claim Berclair as his hometown, though it is barely a town, a few shacks scattered haphazardly along the railroad tracks that lead east to Greenwood and west to Indianola. At other times, he would name his birthplace as Itta Bena (pronounced “bean-a”), a real town, albeit a small one. In fact, the land where B.B. was born belonged not to a town but to a man. B.B. recalled that his parents lived and worked on the plantation of a white farmer named Jim O’Reilly.

Wednesday, September 16, 1925, dawned hot and bright, suffusing the O’Reilly plantation in a ninety-degree Delta swelter that belied autumn’s approach. Nora Ella King awoke that morning to pangs that announced her baby’s impending arrival. She alerted Albert, who set out to find his landlord. “When Mama went into labor and Daddy went looking for a midwife,” B.B. recalled, “O’Reilly helped him find the right woman.” O’Reilly attended the delivery. Albert gave the baby his landlord’s name, which also belonged to his lost brother. The birth certificate rendered it as “Rileigh,” perhaps reflecting the limited literacy of his parents. Albert trimmed the “O” because, he later joked, his son “didn’t look Irish.” The middle initial “B,” so consequential in Riley’s later life, didn’t stand for anything.

The King family lived in the Berclair cabin for four more years. The town sat on some of the highest ground in the Delta. When the Great Mississippi Flood swamped twenty-seven thousand square miles of farmland in 1927, Berclair and the Kings were spared. Neighboring towns Moorhead and Indianola and Inverness vanished beneath the muck just a few miles away.

Albert could not read or write. Nonetheless, he ascended to tractor driver, a job atop the food chain for African Americans working on Delta farms, paying fifty cents a day. Tractors plowed and tilled the land with the power of five or six of the mules they replaced. Farmers ran their tractors around the clock. Albert sometimes worked consecutive double shifts, forty-eight hours, earning two dollars for a bone-rattling two-day marathon of driving.

In 1928, Nora Ella bore a second child, a son named Curce. A year or so later, Curce died, apparently after eating glass. His death, and the sorrow that followed, was very nearly the only concrete memory Riley retained from those blurry years with his mother and father. “My mother told me that I took it pretty bad, pretty hard,” Riley later recalled, hinting ominously that he might have carelessly left shards of glass within his infant brother’s reach.

“I wish he were here,” Riley later wrote of the departed brother, recalling his thoughts at the time. “Wish I had someone to play with. I don’t understand death. Death is a cold chill, frightening beyond reason.”

Shortly after Curce’s death, in 1929 or 1930, Nora Ella packed her surviving son into the back of an old pickup truck and left Albert King. Riley recalled his father as a receding figure on the horizon, waving goodbye, “growing more and more distant until he finally disappears. It’s a gray day and the roads are bumpy and I’m not sure what’s going on, except I’ve never been on a trip like this.” As they began their journey, Nora Ella told Riley, “It’s hard for you to understand, but your daddy and I, well, we’re not living together no more.”

Nora Ella left Albert for another man. The shock of losing a child might have factored in her departure, or perhaps Albert’s drinking drove her away. By the spring of 1930, according to the census, mother and son were living in the home of George Herd, a farmer, like Albert, who worked the same cotton fields around Berclair. Once Nora Ella was gone, Albert knew better than to confront the man into whose arms she had fled. “When a woman decides she don’t want a man,” he later explained, “you let her go.”

THE BREAKUP of Riley’s family came as the nation sank into the Great Depression. The stock market had lost nearly half its value between September and November 1929. In 1930 and 1931, thousands of banks failed, and unemployment reached double digits. By 1932 and 1933, the low ebb, the Dow Jones Industrial Index had lost nine-tenths of its value, unemployment peaked at 25 percent, and two million Americans lacked homes.

No one, perhaps, suffered more in the Depression than the people of Mississippi. Two-thirds of Mississippians were sharecroppers or tenant farmers whose livelihood depended on the price of cotton, which plummeted from twenty cents a pound in 1929 to less than five cents in 1932. Overall farm income collapsed from $191 million to $41 million in that span.

“I didn’t know about no stock market crash or Depression,” Riley recalled. “Our world was small.” He and his mother lived in a remote farming village, one whose citizens were barely scraping by when the downturn hit. Riley and his neighbors didn’t generally own bank accounts, let alone stocks. They had little to lose.

Nora Ella remained with George Herd for a year or two, providing Riley some semblance of a stable family life. The Herd cabin sat within the village of Berclair, along the railroad tracks. Riley would remember the sound of the train whistle and the sight of the conductor waving as the trains rumbled past. Riley might have taken his first classes at the Leflore County Training School, the designated “colored” campus for African Americans in Itta Bena and environs.

One day in 1931, an illustrious visitor stopped by George Herd’s cabin. His name was Booker T. Washington “Bukka” White. He was a Delta-blues master, and he was Riley’s cousin.

Bukka White was born around 1904 in Chickasaw County, the cradle of Riley’s grandparents. Bukka’s mother, Lula, was a sister of Elnora, Riley’s grandmother. By 1910, Bukka was living with Elnora’s kin in Hill Country. He learned the guitar from his father, who was an amateur performer. Bukka also learned the “slide,” a cylinder of metal or pop-bottle glass that Delta bluesmen used to animate their guitars. Around age thirteen, Bukka was jumping on and off a freight train with some friends when it suddenly accelerated, carrying him clear to St. Louis. Bukka found work there in a roadhouse, sweeping floors and playing blues. He married at sixteen. Three years later, his wife died of a burst appendix.

Bukka traveled to the provincial music capital of Memphis in 1930, around age twenty-five, and recorded fourteen tracks for the Victor imprint, whose producers were exploiting a national blues craze. But the deepening Depression dampened the label’s enthusiasm, and only four sides saw official release. Still, by the time he met Riley in 1931, Bukka was an accomplished bluesman.

Bukka arrived in town for a gig at neighboring Itta Bena. He recalled Berclair as “a little, one-store town at the end of a road”: “My Auntie Nora was living there, and Riley was about six. So I was sitting talking to my auntie, and I looked over in the corner and seen that boy looking at my guitar, and he looked so pitiful to me, just sitting there so quiet.” Riley gazed at Bukka’s red Stella acoustic. A voice in Bukka’s head told him, “Get that boy a guitar.” He handed the Stella to Riley. The boy replied with a barely audible “Thank you.” Then he sat and gazed at the instrument.

At least three people would later claim to have given Riley his first guitar. If Bukka’s story is true, then Riley had his own guitar by age six. But Riley recalled no such gift. Perhaps Bukka only allowed his young cousin to pluck a few strings on the instrument before taking it back. In any case, Riley would not make a serious study of the guitar for a few more years.

After that, Bukka visited Riley a couple of times a year, “looking like a million bucks,” Riley recalled. “Razor-sharp. Big hat, clean shirt, pressed pants, shiny shoes. He smelled of the big city and glamorous times.” Bukka had a round face framing warm eyes and wide-spaced teeth, revealed when his face cleaved into a brilliant smile. A born storyteller, Bukka reeled off tales of Arkansas roadhouses and Chicago skyscrapers. He would serenade Riley, coaxing sweet sounds from his guitar with his slide. “His vibrato gave me goose bumps,” Riley recalled.

Not all of Riley’s kin brought joy into his life. He shuddered at the memory of visiting the “old folk” of his grandmother’s clan, who spun tales of headless bodies in open coffins as Riley lay in bed, shivering with fear in the next room. “The dark became a tomb,” he recalled. For the rest of his life, Riley slept with a light on.

Some of the elders might have been Riley’s neighbors. Sharecropper clans often traveled en masse from one settlement to the next as word spread of fresh opportunities to eke out a living. One distant relative recalled Riley living with members of Nora Ella’s extended family in Berclair around 1931, during her time with George Herd. Riley might have passed back and forth between his mother and her kin. That pattern would shape the next decade of his life.

Riley had a playmate in Berclair. Her name was Peaches, she was seven, and she taught six-year-old Riley the rudiments of lovemaking.

“We climb into my mom’s bed,” Riley recalled, “take off our clothes, and Peaches shows me what she learned by watching her folks.”

Once, Nora Ella caught Riley and Peaches in the act. She pulled him off her, hurled him across the room, and beat him. She didn’t touch Peaches. Riley asked her why. “ ’Cause you know better than to do a thing like that,” she replied.

IN 1931 OR 1932, Nora Ella left George Herd. Her declining health might have driven them apart. Riley’s mother probably suffered from untreated diabetes. Though still in her early twenties, Nora Ella was losing her eyesight. Perhaps Herd decided his new wife was no longer pulling her weight, a harsh but necessary consideration in the cruel economy of sharecropping. So Nora Ella and her son journeyed one hundred miles east, leaving the Delta to join Nora’s mother, Elnora, in Hill Country.

By 1932, Elnora Farr was back in Chickasaw County, her Mississippi birthplace, living alone and working as a sharecropper on farmland near the tiny county seat of Houston. Elnora was entering her forties. The men in her life, Jasper Pulley and Romeo Farr, were long gone. She would not remarry.

Elnora had three children, all in their early twenties, migrating back and forth between Hill Country and the Delta in search of an elusive living wage. In the early 1930s, all three were living in Chickasaw County: William Pulley, Nora Ella’s older brother, stern patriarch of the Pulley clan; Nora Ella herself; and Jack Bennett and his wife, Nevada, Nora Ella’s younger sister.

Riley seems never to have told anyone he lived in Chickasaw County. Perhaps those memories merged with subsequent memories from other places into a blurry Mississippi Hill Country montage. But census data and relatives’ accounts put Riley in Chickasaw for roughly three years, from about 1932 until 1935, along with his mother and grandmother and much of their extended family.

“When Albert and Nora separated, she took her baby and went to Houston, Mississippi, to stay with her mama,” recalled Lessie Fair, a distant relative who would enter Riley’s life a few years later. “Her mama and her and all of the rest of them was in Houston.”

Riley’s exact address during his Chickasaw years, from about age seven to ten, is hard to pinpoint. Charles Sawyer, his first biographer, believed Riley spent those years with his grandmother Elnora. Others remembered him living with his Uncle William. Uncle Jack would claim Riley as a dependent on the census. Riley himself recalled living with his mother.

Nora Ella was a loving mother, however fleeting her presence in Riley’s life. He adored her. “She has a radiant face, luminous brown skin, and a shapely body,” Riley recalled, later in life. “It’s raining, and her hair is glistening wet. She hands me a towel and asks me to dry her off.”

The scenes of Riley and his mother that would later populate Riley’s memoir read like soft-focus flashbacks from a movie. In one vignette, Nora Ella sat Riley down in their cabin and taught him to braid her hair, which fell to her shoulders. He wanted to do it just right, so that when she walked out to work the soil, “everyone will see she’s the prettiest woman in the world.” In another, Riley recalled sitting in church, alternately stealing glances at the comely girls behind him and “listening to Mama singing with the choir with a voice so sweet,” it made him want to cry.

Riley’s mother also figures in the more harrowing memories of his childhood. In one story, Riley recounted a night of “jagged lightning,” a fierce summer squall that “felt like the end of the world.” Riley and his mother huddled together “in the corner of that little shotgun shack,” her arm around him, as a funnel cloud roared near. Wind ripped the roof from their shack. And then, just as suddenly, the tempest was gone. The next day, Riley and his mother walked outside into crisp sunshine and found fish wriggling in the fields. Riley could not believe the storm’s wrath hadn’t touched them: “It was just me and Mama, standing alone in that corner, thanking Jesus for the miracle.”

In another episode, Nora Ella dressed Riley in a sailor suit for a trip to view a dead body in a sharecropper cabin. She instructed him not to stare, nor to eat all the food. Spooked by the cadaver, Riley impulsively grabbed a piece of sweet potato pie from the serving table. Then he spotted his mother, who shot him a stern look. He slipped the slice into his pants pocket. He sat down, and the piping-hot pie burned through the skin of his leg. Riley began to cry. Nora Ella led him outside and asked what was wrong. “I’m sorry, Mama,” he explained, “I know you d-d-d-d-d-didn’t want me to eat no m-m-m-m-more, so I snuck this pie.” Nora Ella was horrified: “Oh, baby,” she told him, “you took my look the wrong way.” Mother and son wept together.

From Riley’s earliest memories, he spoke with a pronounced stutter. Perhaps it formed within the cyclone of emotion spawned by his parents’ separation. Stutters are said to stem from emotional trauma. Riley’s great-grandfather Pomp Davidson, born a slave, also stuttered.

Riley learned his place in Mississippi society, directly or indirectly, from his great-grandparents Pomp and Jane Davidson, Elnora’s parents. Riley recalled Pomp as a fearless swashbuckler who “talked with his shotgun and liked to ride his mule while swigging moonshine whiskey out of a jug. . . . No one got in Pomp’s way.” Grandma Jane exuded her own quiet authority. “She’d put me on her lap and, up close, I’d notice wrinkles around her mouth and over her lips. Her eyes would twinkle and her voice was steady.”

Riley’s great-grandparents were born into slavery around 1860. They raised a large family in Chickasaw County. Riley met Grandma Jane when he arrived in Chickasaw in the early 1930s. Riley remembered Pomp, too, but the Davidson patriarch died in 1923, before Riley was born. Riley’s memories of his great-grandfather probably came from Grandma Jane’s vivid stories.

Jane Davidson taught Riley about the blues. Riley had already heard them: Albert, his father, and Jack, his uncle, were consummate field shouters whose deep, husky voices could fill the plantation. The field holler was an African American work song, typically bellowed by a lone worker in a rhythm and cadence to complement the day’s toil, at a volume audible across the field. Other workers would answer and echo the call, passing the song across the plantation like a signal fire. The holler sounded very much like unaccompanied blues. Folklorists theorize that plantation work songs more or less inspired the blues.

Riley’s great-grandmother explained what it all meant. Singing the blues helped the day go by. “But the blues hollerers shouted about more than being sad,” Riley recalled. “They were also delivering messages in musical code. If the master was coming, you might sing a hidden warning to the other field hands. Maybe you’d want to get out of his way or hide. That was important for the women, because the master could have anything he wanted.” Riley could see that the blues were about survival.

Great-grandma Jane told an old Chickasaw story about a Black boy who fell in love with the white master’s daughter. “When the moon was slim and the night was dark,” Riley recounted, “they’d meet undercover and steal a kiss.” In time, someone caught them and told the master. He tied the boy to a tree and covered him in boiling tar and feathers. He meant to burn the boy alive. Then his daughter appeared, hysterical and pleading. “He didn’t rape me,” she told her father. “I let him take me. I love him.” The father asked what she wanted him to do. “Don’t let him suffer,” she replied. “It’d be kinder to shoot him.”

AROUND THE START of 1935, Elnora Farr left Chickasaw County and traveled more than fifty miles southwest to a community of interlocking farms that would be her home for the next five years. Much of her clan joined her, including Nora Ella and Riley. Their destination was Kilmichael, a tiny hamlet, population five hundred. Kilmichael lay in north-central Mississippi, near the southern border of Hill Country. When Riley and his family arrived there, he recalled, “we got out of the truck and into a rickety old wagon pulled by a horse that went deeper into the hills, deep into the country,” across the Big Black River toward an expanse of farmland and forest tucked between two creeks.

Elnora and her family settled on the farm of George and Mary Booth, a childless couple in middle age. Their stay was probably brief. The Booth family, like Chickasaw County, barely figures in the King legend.

“All of them moved from Houston down on the George Booth’s place,” recalled Lessie Fair, one of Riley’s Kilmichael kin. Nora Ella, in declining health, sent Riley to live with his Uncle William, her brother, who had a new wife and an infant daughter. Riley helped with the baby.

After a short stay on the Booth property, Elnora and her kin decamped to a neighboring dairy farm owned by Edwayne and Bertha Henderson. The Henderson property sat on a few hundred acres, six miles south of Kilmichael along Highway 413. The farm comprised perhaps one hundred milking cows, along with corn, hay, and, of course, King Cotton.

Most of the actual farming on the Henderson land fell to a colony of sharecroppers. Under the sharecropping system, the landowner would provide each tenant family a parcel of five or ten acres to farm. Sharecroppers lived in unpainted wooden shacks without plumbing or electricity or telephones, fitted with windows that lacked panes, lit with kerosene lamps, and heated by wood-burning stoves. (The farm owner did not necessarily live much better, typically occupying a painted house of three or four rooms without running water or electricity.) The owner would supply farm implements, fertilizer, and seed. Sharecroppers grew much of their own food. The landlord would also provide a monthly “furnish,” an allowance that covered costs of daily life, including clothing and medicine. At harvest, owner and sharecropper would split the profits from selling the yearly crop—but only after the landlord recovered the furnish, plus interest, and deducted half the cost of seed, fertilizer, and sundry other expenses. In a good year, a sharecropper might earn a tiny surplus. More often, sharecropping fed an endless cycle of debt. The economic successor to slavery left African Americans free but living in perpetual bondage to the landlord and the land.

The sharecroppers who occupied the Henderson farm and neighboring tracts in 1935 included most of the characters who would populate Riley’s life for the next several years: Riley’s Uncle William and new Aunt Lucille; his Uncle Jack and Aunt Nevada; Myony “Mima” Stell, a sister to Riley’s grandmother, whose windup Victrola would change his life; the Hemphill family, whose five lovely girls would forever distract Riley from his studies; Archie Fair, brother of Aunt Lucille, the preacher whose guitar young Riley would covet; Denzel Tidwell, the white youth who would sell Riley his red Stella guitar; and Luther Henson, the schoolteacher who would show Riley a world beyond the cotton fields.

Riley now inhabited an insular realm defined by four points: the Henderson farm, along Crape Creek east of the state highway; the Elkhorn School, a one-room wooden structure and adjoining church set atop a hill overlooking a pond, west of the farm; Austin Chapel, a boisterous Sanctified Church that sat northwest of Elkhorn School; and the church and cemetery at Pinkney Grove, two miles to the south.

Elkhorn School was the domain of Luther Henson. “Professor” Henson would become the father figure Riley craved, perhaps the most enduring among several male role models who would guide him into a prosperous adulthood.

Luther’s father, Syrus Henson, was born a slave in 1835 on the Henson plantation in North Carolina. When the Henson family journeyed southwest to Mississippi in the 1850s, Syrus drove the ox cart. Some years after their arrival, Syrus was freed. He purchased more than one hundred acres near Kilmichael. He founded the Elkhorn Primitive Baptist Church and the adjoining school. He taught his children to read and write, perhaps in the hope that they would one day lead the Elkhorn School. That job eventually fell to the twentieth of Syrus Henson’s twenty-one children, Luther.

Five dozen students, from prekindergarten through high school, huddled within a single classroom at Elkhorn School. A cast-iron stove sat at the center, rows of wooden benches arrayed around it to capture the radiating heat. Kilmichael sharecropper children attended school for about four months of every year, from the end of the annual crop cycle in winter until the start of the next one in spring. Every morning, students assembled outside the school door and lined up by gender and height. The bell rang, and students marched into the chilly classroom. Mr. Henson led them in the Lord’s Prayer and a cheery wake-up song: “Good morning to you. Good morning to you. We’re all in our places with sunshiny faces.”

Luther Henson, a man of about thirty-five, projected quiet dignity. He spoke slowly and deliberately, punctuating every sentence with a warm smile. He ran his school with almost military precision, the only way to maintain order in a space filled with children of a dozen grades. Henson would call each grade in turn, youngest to oldest, summoning children of like age from their benches, a few at a time, to line up at the chalkboard for brief lessons.

“We had about five or six books,” recalled Jessie Hemphill, one of Riley’s classmates. “Reading, writing, arithmetic, geography, spelling. We also had one called Healthy Living.”

Henson’s pedagogy went well beyond academics. He taught his students the skills to someday escape the prison of toil and debt into which they had been born. (Henson himself would never earn more than thirty dollars a month.) He taught them about nutrition, encouraging their families to raise chickens and hogs for protein and grow trees for fruit. “Everything we ate, we knew what part of the body it was for,” recalled Fannie Henson Draine, Luther’s daughter.

Professor Henson urged his students to manage their assets, however meager, and to strive for financial independence. He taught the class little songs whose words reminded them to brush their teeth and wash their hands and that dipping snuff would “snuff your little life away.” He instructed them how to live in wedlock. “He taught the boys, when they were grown, how to treat their wives,” Jessie Hemphill recalled. “He said, ‘Don’t give your wives wood and water. Wood on the back, water come out of the eyes.’ ”

Riley had seen white-owned newspapers, such as the Greenville Democrat-Times and the Memphis Commercial Appeal, that seemed to write of African Americans only when they stood accused of crimes. Henson showed his class African American newspapers such as the Pittsburgh Courier and the Oklahoma City Black Dispatch that ran articles about successful Blacks, such men as musician Louis Armstrong and boxer Joe Louis. He taught the class about educator Booker T. Washington, abolitionist Frederick Douglass, and activist Mary McLeod Bethune. He implored his students to complete their education: “It’s the one thing, if you get it, white people can’t take it away from you.”

Mississippi in the 1930s was a dystopian society for African Americans, governed by the framework of codified racism known as Jim Crow, after a racist minstrel character. The U.S. Supreme Court had ruled in 1896 that separation of the races was constitutional, so long as Black and white accommodations were “equal.” Luther Henson helped Riley decode the separate-but-equal fiction. African Americans tipped their hats as they passed whites on the streets, but whites did not return the courtesy. African Americans called whites “sir” or “ma’am,” while whites called Blacks by their first names. White pedestrians on sidewalks enjoyed a perpetual right-of-way. Blacks stepped aside.

Henson helped Riley imagine a life beyond Jim Crow, a repressive system of which his own segregated school was an expression. Mississippi in 1930 spent $31 on a white student, $6 on a Black one. Riley and his classmates walked to their schoolhouse. The white children of Kilmichael were driven to theirs in a flatbed truck, an inequity that would haunt Riley all his life.

“Y’all hear about lynchings, where our people are punished for something they didn’t do,” Henson told his students. “Remember, not all the whites are behind this. If the whites wanted to, they could kill every one of us. But there are good men among the whites, just like there are bad men. Crazy people come in all colors. And one day soon, the good people will win over the crazy people.” More than anything, Riley recalled, “Mr. Henson gave me hope.”

Henson counseled Riley on his stutter. “Riley,” he said, “just slow down and let your mouth catch up to your mind.” Riley pleaded, “W-w-w-what if I can’t g-g-g-get the w-w-w-word out and everyone’s w-w-w-waiting for me?” Henson smiled: “Well, they’ll just have to wait, won’t they?”

Riley recalled schoolwork as a daily struggle and claimed he performed near the bottom of his small class. Classmates remembered otherwise. “He was an A-1 student,” recalled Ted Hemphill, brother of Jessie. Jessie herself said of Riley, “He was eager to learn, he was obedient to his teacher, and he would absorb everything he heard.”

However voracious Riley’s appetite to learn, he was, by his own account, “more drawn to the girls than the books”—especially the Hemphills, one of whom sat on the bench in front of him. When he saw a chance, Riley would reach around Leona Hemphill’s body and attempt a surreptitious embrace. She would respond by biting his hand. Henson sometimes caught him groping a breast or attempting to peer beneath a dress. Then, Henson would stride outside, break a switch from an elm tree, and administer a whipping, punctuating the blows with the admonition, “YOU . . . WILL . . . RESPECT . . . WOMEN.”

Riley was not a large boy, but he was strong, especially in his hands. Jessie Hemphill recalled a playground game called Let Buddy Out, heartbreakingly symbolic, in which children took turns trying to break free from a circle of students with clasped hands. “I would always make it my business to hold B.B.’s hand,” Jessie recalled, “because he could hold your hand tight.”

From Riley’s earliest days, he found his thoughts consumed by girls. Around age seven, it dawned on him that he could find them all at church, lined up on pews, wearing their prettiest outfits. From that day, Riley never missed church.

Sometimes Riley would attend the solemn Elkhorn Primitive Baptist Church on the hilltop across from his school, and at some point, he was baptized into the Baptist faith. But he preferred the Austin Chapel. This was the Church of God in Christ, a livelier congregation than the Baptists, led by the Reverend Archie Fair and his guitar.

Sundays at church belonged to Reverend Fair, a sanctified preacher, his sermons “part séance and part conjuring act.” From his pulpit, Fair invoked the Pentecost, the moment when the Holy Spirit descended on Jesus and his followers to possess their bodies and speak in tongues. The congregation shook, rattled, and rolled on the church floor while the reverend filled the room with the low thunder of his voice and the sweet twang of his guitar.

In Riley’s insular world, the reverend was a rock star. “Archie Fair is the nearest thing I know to God on earth,” he recalled. “He talks like his words have already been written out in a book. . . . His sermon is like music, and his music—both the song from his mouth and the sound of his guitar—thrills me until I wanna get up and dance. He says one thing and the congregation says it back, back and forth, back and forth, until we’re rocking together in a rhythm that won’t stop. His voice is low and rough and his guitar is high and sweet; they seem to sing to each other, conversing in some heavenly language I need to learn.”

One Sunday, Riley averted his eyes from the girls in the pews long enough to regard the reverend’s guitar, whose shapely curves he suddenly found even more alluring.

After church, the reverend would visit his sister Lucille, Riley’s aunt. The adults dined first, the children second, devouring whatever scraps their parents had left. The routine left Riley time, one evening, to sneak into the bedroom and find the reverend’s guitar reclining on the bed.

“While they’re not looking, I reach over and, oh-so-carefully, touch the wood of the guitar,” Riley recalled. “Touch her strings to see how they feel against my fingers. Feels good. Feels like magic. I wonder: How do you get her to make those sounds? How do you get her to sing?”

A voice interrupted his reverie: “Go ahead and pick it up,” Archie Fair beckoned. Nora Ella objected, mad that Riley had touched something that didn’t belong to him, Riley recalled, “but Reverend calms her down. Reverend understands.”

The reverend told Riley his guitar was a Silvertone, a line of inexpensive acoustics sold by Sears, Roebuck and Company through its catalog.

“You can touch it, boy,” Fair told Riley. “Ain’t gonna bite you.” Riley recalled the moment in sensuous tones: “He shows me how to hold her, how to take her in my arms. She’s bigger than me, but I still put her on my lap. She feels good against my body.”

The reverend guided Riley’s fingers to various combinations of strings and frets, showing him how to form three chords. They were the I, IV, and V chords, fundamental to every blues song Riley would ever learn.

RILEY’S OWN FIRST GUITAR was probably a diddley bow, a single-stringed concoction that a penniless sharecropper could fashion from household flotsam. (If cousin Bukka had really given Riley a guitar back in Berclair, the instrument did not follow him to Kilmichael.) A diddley bow was a length of wire stretched tight between two nails hammered into a board. The wire might come from the head of a broom. Folklorist Alan Lomax believed the diddley bow was descended from the ancient African mouth bow, an impromptu instrument created by placing a hunter’s bow in front of an opened mouth and plucking the bowstring. The oral cavity served as a resonator, amplifying the plucked string. The mouth bow evolved into a one-stringed zither, a vibrating sliver of palm frond tethered to a bridge and placed atop a hollow gourd. Lomax believed the diddley bow, or something like it, traveled with slaves to the United States and served as “a crucial step in the birth of the blues.”

Riley appeared one day at the door of the Henderson home. “Ms. Bertha,” he asked the lady of the house, “do you have an old broom?”

“Yes,” she replied, “but what do you want with it?”

Bertha Henderson watched as Riley unwound the wire that held the straws to her old broom. He used the handle as the bridge. “When I tightened or clamped down on the string,” he recalled, “the sounds would change and I’d think I was making music.”

Before long, Riley was dreaming of growing into a guitar-slinging country preacher like Archie Fair, if he could only tame his stutter and master his studies. Riley was developing an ear for music. Already familiar with the cotton-field shouters and the heavenly harmonies of the choir, Riley found new sounds inside the cabin of his great-aunt Mima.

Myony “Mima” Stell was the younger sister of Riley’s grandmother. Born in 1891, Mima was in her forties when Riley arrived in Kilmichael. Mima was the settlement’s resident hipster, the “most modern” of all Riley’s relatives, he recalled. She dipped snuff, and she smothered Riley with snuff-scented kisses whenever he visited. Riley endured her embraces to gain entrée to her windup Victrola. Mima owned the first record collection Riley had ever seen. Her Victrola spun hard plastic or wax cylinders, candle-shaped rolls that were the first media to be termed “records.” Later, Mima upgraded to a turntable and collected flat, fragile 78-rpm discs made of shellac. They looked to Riley like little flying saucers. She taught him to place a disc on the platter and cue the needle. “A second passed,” he recalled, “and then—pow!—those beautiful, scratchy sounds flew in my face, cutting right through me, electrifying my soul.”

Within those grooves, Riley discovered a whole new world of recorded sound. In Mima’s cabin, Riley encountered Blind Lemon Jefferson, a Texan whose muscular, moaning melodies and intricate, mercurial guitar lines reminded Riley of the field hollers of his Mississippi kin. Riley reveled in the rich, ribald blues of Bessie Smith, the orchestral big-band jazz of Duke Ellington, and even the seminal Mississippi country-blues yodels of Jimmie Rodgers.

But nothing moved Riley like the satiny guitar strains of Lonnie Johnson. Born in New Orleans, Alonzo “Lonnie” Johnson mastered the violin before he embraced the guitar. He immediately viewed the guitar as a solo instrument, and he codified an entire vocabulary of single-note virtuosity that would influence every guitarist to follow. Lonnie Johnson was probably the first guitarist “to base his style on cleanly articulated single-string lines rather than heavily strummed chords—the first guitarist to phrase like a horn, in other words,” writes blues historian Francis Davis. Johnson roamed freely between blues and jazz, which had not yet been walled off into separate silos. He played diminished and augmented chords, constructs beyond the imagining of most bluesmen. He bent and relaxed the strings to push notes higher or lower. He played lightning-fast riffs. Sometimes he lingered on a single note, like Louis Armstrong, fluttering his hand across the neck and wobbling the string to create an unmistakable vibrato. Violinists had cultivated vibrato for centuries, but, before Lonnie Johnson, no guitarist of consequence seems to have fluttered a string.

Johnson might have emerged as the first superstar of jazz guitar, but fate intervened when he won a talent contest in 1925 in St. Louis, playing the blues. That led to a recording contract, and Johnson rose to the forefront of popular blues. He recorded roughly 130 sides for the Okeh label between 1925 and 1932, making him one of the most successful and prolific artists of his day. Riley couldn’t hear enough of him.

BY THE LATTER MONTHS of 1935, Nora Ella was living in the French Camp settlement, nearly a dozen miles from her mother and young son. She had a new man, Elger (or Elder) Baskin, who was not particularly interested in her Kilmichael kin or in raising a child. “He seed Riley one time, to my knowing,” Lessie Fair recalled.

Nora Ella was not much past twenty-five, but her health was spent. Riley dared not ask his grandmother any questions about his mother: “I was afraid of the answers.” One day, probably in the closing weeks of 1935, Nora Ella sent word that the end was near. Elnora awakened Riley, who knew what was coming from the look in her eyes. “Are we going to see Mama?” he asked. His grandmother nodded. They climbed into a horse-drawn wagon for the journey to Nora Ella’s deathbed.

“It’s winter and nothing is growing and the fields are empty and I wonder how many people have died between this winter and last,” Riley recalled. “I don’t say anything, and neither does Grandma. The sound of the horse’s hoofs striking the ground strikes my heart like a clock that won’t stop ticking. My throat is dry and my nose is runny and freezing cold. . . . I wonder if I’ll ever be warm again.”

At last, the wagon stopped at an old shack.

“Mama’s eyes are half-closed,” Riley recalled, and “covered by a film that gives her a hazy, faraway look.” He noted with horror that blood trickled from Nora Ella’s eyes. “When I stand above her, her gaze does not meet mine. That’s when I realize she’s gone blind.” He fantasized of leading her to the wagon and taking her back home, but he knew he could not. “Her arms are thin as toothpicks, her body so frail it looks as though she’ll break in half. She breathes heavily, and when she speaks it’s with tremendous effort.”

Nora Ella feebly grasped Riley’s hand and began to speak. Her lips moved, but she lacked the strength to push words out. Riley lowered his head to her chest and placed his ear to her mouth to hear her hoarse whisper. “Kindness . . .” He waited for more, but her voice cracked. She gathered strength and continued: “People will love you if you show love to them. . . . Just remember that, son. I love you, Riley.”

“I don’t want you to go away,” he pleaded. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I’ll never leave,” she replied. “I’ll always be with you. I’ll always be your mother.”

And then, Elnora told Riley it was time to depart: “It’s going to be dark soon.”

Nora Ella died that night. She was twenty-six or perhaps twenty-seven. Her lone surviving child was ten. Nora Ella’s body was embalmed, returned to the shack, and placed on a cooling board, a perforated platform with ice layered beneath. The next day, her remains were loaded in a coffin and transported to Pinkney Grove for burial at the African American cemetery there. Years later, Riley could not recall the service.

Hindsight sheds little light on the brief life of Nora Ella King. There seems to be no official record of her death, no photograph to document her very existence. Her body lies in an unmarked grave at Pinkney Grove, a humble cemetery in a clearing across from the church, a spot at the very center of Riley’s universe. A few dozen worn stones populate the cemetery today, scattered among fallen leaves and patches of moss in a glade threatened by encroaching pine forest. None bears Nora Ella’s name. Riley rejected repeated entreaties to erect a tombstone in her honor. Close friends guessed at the reason: to erect a marker at his mother’s grave was to concede that she was gone, and that was something Riley was never quite prepared to do.*

_______________

* Some prior accounts suggest Riley did not know the exact location of his mother’s grave. But Lora Walker and Alan Hammons, both longtime friends, recalled him pointing out the gravesite with precision. Charles Sawyer, the biographer, notes another possible reason for Riley’s reluctance to erect a headstone: he was frightened of graveyards.

CHAPTER 2

ON THE RUN

FOR MANY YEARS, Riley King would tell interviewers that he lived with his mother until the day she died and that he lived alone after her death. In his account, Riley declined invitations to move in with kin and opted instead to remain in the cabin where he and his mother had dwelt. That narrative would endure as a central tenet of the B.B. King legend. “Staying in the cabin was like staying with Mama,” he recalled. “Her smells and her memories were in the walls and the floors, in the washtub and the wood-burning stove. Leaving the cabin would be leaving Mama.”

But the evidence suggests Riley had not seen much of Nora Ella in her final years. Since his arrival in Hill Country, around 1932, Riley had probably passed back and forth between the households of his grandmother and his Uncle William, head of the Pulley clan. With his mother’s passing, that temporary arrangement became more or less permanent.

Later in life, Riley rarely acknowledged the starring roles his uncle and grandmother had played in raising him. What little he said of Uncle William hinted that he didn’t much like the man. Nora Ella’s older brother “could be a little mean,” Riley recalled, “a right-to-the-point kinda guy. Uncle William’s thing was: ‘If you don’t do like I say, boy, you got trouble.’ So I did what he said. He was the main man in the family. I loved him but was afraid of him.”

The few times Riley breathed his grandmother’s name sound almost like slips of the tongue. “Everybody cared about me,” he told one interviewer. “But how much? The house where we lived—my room, my grandmother and I—I wanted to stay there. I felt that it was nobody but me. I just felt it was me against the world.” Even here, Elnora is all but invisible, as if Riley were looking right through her.

After Nora Ella’s death in late 1935, Elnora remained as a sharecropper on the Henderson farm. She also cooked and cleaned in the home of another farmer, Marshall Flake Cartledge. The Hendersons and Cartledges were neighbors, their farms sprawled across adjoining properties off Highway 413, south of Kilmichael. By 1936, Flake and Zelma Cartledge had a four-year-old son, Wayne. Ten-year-old Riley entertained the younger boy while his grandmother cleaned. “He would play with me and show me things,” Wayne recalled.

On Sundays, Riley and his remaining family attended church in rotation: Elkhorn Primitive Baptist Church one weekend, followed in successive weeks by the Missionary Baptist Church at Pinkney Grove and then the Church of God in Christ at Austin Chapel, where Archie Fair serenaded worshipers with his guitar.

Riley begged the reverend to teach him how to play. But he needed a real guitar: Riley wasn’t going to learn much on a one-stringed diddley bow. Word of his obsession reached the Henderson patriarch, Edwayne Henderson. One day, probably in 1936, Edwayne presented Uncle William with an old guitar for ten-year-old Riley to play. The instrument was probably another Stella, a simple acoustic model, ubiquitous in the Deep South, sold by the Oscar Schmidt Company in dry-goods stores. Well-crafted and modestly priced, Stellas were a cheap alternative to the costlier, metal-bodied National guitars of that era. And they were loud: an unamplified Stella produced enough volume to match the most boisterous blues shouter. Blind Lemon Jefferson played one.

Now, whenever John and Lessie Fair visited Riley’s Uncle William, Riley “would go and drag out the old guitar for John to tune it,” Lessie recalled. “John would take it and tune it and play some for him.”

On one visit, Uncle William chastised Riley for pestering his elders. “Boy,” William said, “John don’t feel like foolin’ with you with that thing.”

“William,” Lessie snapped back, “don’t dog at him like that. You don’t know what that boy’s gonna come to. Someday he may be a sho’ nuff musician.”

RILEY WOULD SPEND the years after his mother’s death surrounded by family but feeling very much alone. He passed endless hours in Aunt Mima’s cabin, sitting on the floor, ear pressed to her Victrola, losing himself in the music until Mima feared he wasn’t quite right in the head. Perhaps he wasn’t. Riley recalled wandering into the thicket near his cabin and communing with woodland creatures, feeding breadcrumbs to field mice and talking to squirrels. “Sometimes a bird would settle on my shoulder or a bunny would hop right up to my nose,” he recalled, raising eyebrows among incredulous loved ones in later life. “I felt too wounded from Mama’s death to get close to other kids.” Riley found it easier to befriend animals, because they didn’t talk back.

Rural Mississippi’s paternalistic structure insulated Riley from many horrors. He lived within a vast buffer of farmland overseen by two families, Henderson and Cartledge. Whatever their faults, those families were far from the cold-blooded racists Riley would encounter outside their farms.

In 1904, well before Riley’s birth, a Black man named Luther Holbert was accused of killing a white landowner, the most grievous affront imaginable against Mississippi’s established order. Luther and a female companion were captured and taken to Doddsville, sixty-five miles west of Kilmichael. The victims were tied to a tree and forced to extend their hands. Volunteers from a white mob stepped forward to chop off their fingers, one at a time, and distributed them as souvenirs. The mob severed their ears. They beat Luther, fracturing his skull and gouging one eye from its socket. Torturers used a corkscrew to bore holes into the victims’ bodies and remove chunks of flesh. Finally, they threw Luther and his companion into a fire. All this unfolded in a picnic atmosphere, watched by white families sipping lemonade and eating deviled eggs.

Riley recalled just one instance of violence that touched him in Kilmichael, probably after his mother’s death. He ran with a group of five or six boys. In a summer ritual, they would pick watermelons from a white farmer’s patch and run down to the creek to build a bonfire and eat the melons. After one such incursion, the farmer sent word that he would shoot the next trespasser who purloined a melon. Undaunted, the boys returned to the patch—and the farmer opened fire. “I remember hearing the shots,” Riley recalled. “Two, three shots rang out.” The boys sprinted away. When they reached the creek, Riley felt wetness inside one of his boots. He removed it and saw a pool of blood. Riley had been shot.