I’ve let myself go. Look at those words individually: let myself go. Where is the negative?
It’s liberating to grow old and not give a shit. I don’t want to die and I do things to add time between now and that day, but I’m not going to do dumb stuff to look younger or lie about my age. I’ll walk in a circle on a trail, then spend $7 for a juice, but I’m not doing anything with dyes and scalpels.
I’m proud of all the 58 years I’ve been alive and look forward to every birthday. Another year I beat evil and biology. It’s another year longer than I thought I would live. Age is a number on a scoreboard and in my mind, this ain’t golf.
I had to use a cane for awhile after some surgery and I kept using it even after I healed. Man with a cane gets respect in a crowd. It’s a poor man’s bodyguard. People clear you a path when you have a cane, and no one’s looking to start some shit.
What’s the worst thing about growing old? Depends.
Not quite there yet with the dumpster drawers, but I’m up on the downsides of getting old. The constant aches are kind of a drag, but it’s still better than being young and stupid. There are some days when my arthritis is so bad it limits grocery shopping to eye level, which turns me into a Folgers drinker because top shelf Ruta Maya just ain’t worth the pain.
You know you’re getting old when you’re online searching for a masseuse and you’re hoping it’s the real kind, not some woman you pay to jerk you off.
Mortality is acknowledged every night when you clear your computer history because there’s a chance you might not wake up and who’s going to understand that the Google search for Hung Mexican Men was for some research on drug cartel violence?
Age is the elephant in the room… watching “Judge Judy” at full volume. It’s something that’s always there, but in the back of your mind. Like the spare bedroom at your kid’s house that’ll be your dorm room until graduation to the nursing home.
But the topic of age and decay in the music business came out fairly prominently this past weekend when St. Louis music critic Dan Durchholz reviewed a B.B. King concert in which the 88-year-old blues guitar legend rambled more than he played, led a 15-minute singalong of “You Are My Sunshine” and could barely finish a song. During the show’s many dead spots, the audience shouted out requests and exhorted King to “play some blues,” which Durchholz characterized as “heckling” and that’s the word that Billboard magazine, the music industry bible, put in their headline when they featured the critique to start a little controversy. How did an “erratic performance” (Associated Press headline) by an 88-year-old blues legend become national news? The media piling on was sickening.
When I posted the Durchholz review on Facebook, it was just minutes after it was up on the St. Louis Post-Dispatch site (Durchholz is a Facebook friend). In introducing it I wondered if maybe some heritage acts stay too long at the party, and many rushed to B.B.’s defense. Several said it was worth whatever the tickets cost just to be in the same room as King and his guitar “Lucille.” I felt the same way when I first saw him about 10 years ago at Auditorium Shores, less than 50 yards from the Stevie Ray Vaughan statue. I knew the show was going to be bullshit, as King has gone from following T-Bone Walker to wanting to be Bill Cosby. But I was 20 yards away from one of the greatest blues guitar soloists that ever lived. I was there to say thanks.
But I didn’t pay the $150 a ticket that some of the fans in St. Louis did. I didn’t have to drop $20 for parking or get a babysitter. A 90-minute show takes about five hours of your time and I’m more of a “Veep” marathon guy these days.
I saw Frank Sinatra at the Fair Park Music Hall in Dallas about three years before he died and it was one of those shows I’d been hearing about. Forgetting lyrics, repeating stories, berating band leader Frank Sinatra Jr. like Olivia Soprano. But in that little shrunken man was the birthplace of “The Voice.” The person I was with whispered to me at one point “this is so sad,” but I felt completely the opposite. This was courage. It was one of the most amazing concert experiences ever, especially when Sinatra acknowledged the recent passing of Jules Styne and sang “Hang My Tears Out To Dry” as if he was saving all his strength for those three minutes.
But I have had quite different reactions to other aging troupers. The great Lionel Hampton did an “Austin City Limits” taping when he was 89 that was only salvaged by the band. It was heart-wrenching to see such a jazz/swing legend reduced to clapping along and there was also a little rage. Who’s looking out for Lionel?
A lot of acts way past their prime have to perform for money. They’ve got folks on the payroll, a band to keep out on the road. But the main reason a multimillionaire like Sinatra, with nothing left to prove, toured until he was 80 is because on tour he’s Frank Sinatra! At home he’s just an old guy eating from a TV tray.
I remember after the great Don Walser had a stroke and couldn’t hit his trademark high notes anymore, he continued to play clubs. He had bills to pay and he loved to interact with his fans. But it wasn’t the same. It was a downer. The club bookers are the ones who finally stepped in and told Walser, a proud man, that it was time to hang it up. Let the folks remember you at your best.
Willie Nelson turns 81 on April 30. His piano-thumping sister Bobbie is 83 and they still play together almost every night. Who’s going to tell Willie when he’s too old to go on tour?
Willie will tell you that playing music for the folks that love him keeps him going. He’s earned the right to play for as long as he wants.
As has B.B. King, a living national treasure. Use common sense, people. He’s 88 years old. And the ticket doesn’t say “Live at the Regal Theater.” Don’t expect Blues Boy King in his suit with the shorts. He’s living out his life the way he wants to. And you have the option to stay home and listen to his records.