Today rain and sunset put him in the right spot to be captured by a keyboard. This earth, this concert hall, invites us to sit and listen to air rustle leaves, whisper through grass, shape clouds, turn waves back at the beach, push storms, infiltrate our rooms with hands too small to be felt except in passing. Each spring brought forth his sonatas till he fell to desultory summer singing only when prompted by my music. On my last day in that house, while I boxed kitchen utensils, he watched outside the bare window, his intent gaze a question, a prompt for which I had no music. B.B. King B.B. King can t play and sing at the same time.
Some folks don t have to, but that alone isn t any reason to sing the blues.
It s like patting your head and rubbing your belly simultaneously. I can t do that. In fact, I couldn t ever play an instrument whether I was singing or not. After I took trumpet for four years, my teacher told me to quit. Try a reed, he said.