B.B. King was one of our greatest artists. A genuine treasure of American music, up there with Copland and Ellington and Monk and Sondheim and Fitzgerald and Guthrie and Sinatra and scant few others.
I was always mesmerized by the left hand, pivoting around the point where the tip of his index finger met the fretboard. Even not understanding anything about the instrument, it was so obvious to me he was in complete control of the melodies he wrenched from Lucille.
Other guitarists were in awe of King. He was never a speed demon; he never needed to be. He never needed to be anything other than himself. That is increasingly rare in this world.
Thanks for the music, B.B.