Observing Events

Observing events requires weaving specific details of people, place, and object into some chronological order, as in the following account of a rhythm-and-blues performance by artist Bobby “Blue” Bland. The paragraph, taken from Peter Guralnick’s Lost Highway: Journeys and Arrivals of American Musicians, demonstrates how vivid, specific details (names of singers, description of barefoot dancing, titles of songs, actual dialogue and lyrics) create a dominant idea: a single night’s performance blurs into an endless series of one-night stands.

Every night it is exactly the same. The band, a brass-heavy ten pieces with dilapidated reading stands that say “Mel Jackson/MFs Bobby Bland’s Revue,” does a desultory thirty-minute set. Then Burnett Williams, singer, valet, bus driver, and all-around good fellow, swings affably into a succession of Al Green numbers and current soul hits. The band plays dispiritedly behind him; even the bandleader, Mel Jackson, has disappeared from the stand; but Burnett always works up a sweat, finishing out his segment with shoes kicked off, doing the barefoot to the strains of “Love and Happiness.” This invariably cracks up Mel Jackson, who reappears precisely at this point, dapper, diminutive, very much in charge. His eyes gleam and dart skittishly about the room as he laughs out loud, proclaims, “That boy doing some barefooting!” and gives Burnett a soul slap and quick little hug as the warm-up singer departs from the stage, his shoes held delicately aloft. Then it’s Show Time, Ladies and Gentlemen, a Young Man Who Needs No Introduction, he’ll Take Care of You, Further on Up the Road, won’t let you Cry No More, cause when you Cry Cry Cry he just wants to Turn On Your Lovelights, well he’s a Good-Time Charlie, and You’re the One (That He Adores), but now The Feeling is Gone and he’s Two steps From the Blues. The string of hits becomes a litany, a numbing incantation. Audience talk becomes louder and more distracted, and then Bobby “Blue” Bland appears, big, shambling, sleepy-eyed, a cigarette between his fingers, tongue licking at the edge of his lips. He plays aimlessly for a moment with the microphone, his eyes cast upwards as if for inspiration, the band kicks off, and that smooth, mellow, almost horn­like voice slides in among the three trumpets, trombone, and saxophone (guitar, bass, two drummers, and occasionally a piano round out the band). “I pity the fool / I pity the fool that falls in love with you. . . .” It is ten-thirty, and Bobby “Blue” Bland is just going to work.