Guitars Exchange

20 miles along Highway 82 in the heart of Mississippi separate the cradles of the two kings of cotton, free slaves from blues, black men in whose bums an electric guitar always seemed a mere toy. And this mere toy, they both spun all the strings the six strings they had stored, converting them into something true and raising their fans beyond reality, surrendering themselves to serfdom at the hands of the fiefs of riff.  

20 miles, 29 minutes by car along Highway 82, that crosses from west to east the desolate cotton fields of their ancestors. And 29 months. From Indianola, thee 25th of April of 1923, to Itta Bena, the 16th of September of 1925 amongst plantations, and abandoned huts by more or less freed slaves and a meandering river which names those moors, convoluted spirals dampened his Lucy and his Lucille, his Flying V and his Gibson ES-335 without acoustic f holes, condensing these riffs and strokes that seemed to lead nowhere, that twist and writhe, just for the mere gloating look and the same unease from all pulsations of the string. Although for many subjects, the Blues Boy Riley was and continues to be the king, truly, before B. B. King there was a firstborn: 20 miles, 29 minutes, 29 months, just beyond the sunset, the legitimate was and always will be Albert King, born Albert Nelson, guitarist, singer and enormous, with a velvety voice and a freight train body, heir to the musical throne that his father Will cultivated in the gospel choir of his church.  

After World War II, a black man had never stared in a road movie, let alone given a role of continuity aboard a cargo steamer on the Mississippi. And Albert King wrote the screenplay of his life about scribbled pentagrams next to bottles of bear and old boxes of cigarettes along the banks that American river artery. What better role of continuity to be the most virtuous and curious amongst the performers of the music that washed along the black shores of America. At the time, neither he nor any other grandson of freed slaves had more promising work than that of the work that came from stumbling around with an instrument, so the young Albert began his pilgrimage, leaving behind rows of cotton and his 12 siblings, and envisioned vinyl grooves on the horizon.  

From Indianola (Mississippi) the family had moved to Forest City (Arkansas), and he began his path raising the triangular body of a Gibson Flying V bulldozing his way to Gary (Indiana), visiting the smoky blues bars in Chicago (Illinois) and ended up in Saint Louis (Missouri), then once again alongside Mississippi, 400 miles north of his birthplace, so that the river of his life transported its sediments and feelings, winding and winding, lying, to the delta of blues, in Louisiana. Where, from Baton Rouge until New Orleans, the king Albert fertilized his teachings, plucked on an upside down guitar, where black music always reigns and is an official religion the prestidigitation across the strings of those who always aspire to a throne, a guitar and a few faithful.  

The left-handed Albert King always rolled along the river from which he drank all inspiration. He established himself in Memphis and signed with the label Stax, with which he reached during the 60s and up to the mid 70s the golden age, a reign that, although it may not have seemed like it at the time, after he saw he was born under a bad sign; consistent with the suffering of the interpreter of his music, heir to the suffering and the hopelessness. And cementing his myth. His first works distilled that purity of the blues, King dialogued with his Flying V without interrupting it, turning vapours upwind to downwind, as the scriptures command. His debut LP gathered all his first 11 single hits and it was crowned at Fillmore of Chicago in 1968, where the crowd confirmed that, certainly, the enormous man of the bridge never touched the sixth string, and that unusual ability carried his vinyl so that it became part of the select collection of all his heirs: 'Live Wire Blues Power' (1968) entered in the book of history. Just as it should, a year later, 'Years Go by' (1969), the pure penultimate work of blues of his career as well. Rich foretaste of development of the plot.  

Thus, would come the alliance with white artists of various musical styling, covers and cameos with the Stones, homages to Elvis and visits to funk to try not to drop off the top of the lists. He participated in 'Live in Vancouver 1970' with the Doors and brought together a new band with which he locked himself in the studio to pass on the definitive 'I'll Play the Blues For You' (1972). This album constituted a masterpiece in which King walled all the magic of his ability at the controls of Lucy alongside the power of a band that included a wind section halfway between big band and jazz along with a rhythmic base armed by a bass (played by James Alexander) that commented on the melody much closer to soul and funky. Seventies music with whispered verses and calm waters that was closing an era and was entering the rapids that had become the business and were threatening to capsize his musical throne.  

It often happens that at any given moment, life surprises you with a moment that acts as a turning point... And, cinematographically, everything turns around without one, the protagonist of the events, ever even being able to decipher from where the slaps come from. Albert King stopped selling vinyls when Stax, his record label, went bankrupt and he decided to sign with a small independent label, Utopia... When things started to go wrong, nobody unravelled if it was first the hen of the derived sound or the egg of a bad choice of travel companions, but in the mid 70’s, the old Albert, who had already made stops in blues, jazz, big band, funk and, above all, had contributed more than anyone else to beautify soul, he grabbed tight the stage during his unsurpassed performance on stage to wade through the commercial wreck his career.  

His records were confused, aimless, mixing structures becoming less powerful and more pop, few pearls coming from his glorious hands on Lucy. The new public interest, the age, a wandering proceed, limited distribution and promotion...who knows the origin of the problems? The truth is that Albert King began to be more of a myth than reality. Hard to play that part ‘cause he was the protagonist of his own road movie. However, the viewer appears to warn him that there's an evolution of how the plot works. That finally fits into what is expected of a story with a beginning, middle and end. And which does justice to the character.  

No other new studio work returned him near the border of the top of the lists and however—furthermore, of course—his "brother in blues", as the other King, B. B, used to call him—all, Clapton, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Dereck Trucks, Joe Walsh... all, have confessed at one time or another how they wanted to enrol in any sailing crew out on the waters he sailed. Albert King never lost his magic playing live, continuing, he continued to give brilliance to many blues festivals that they wanted him to show off his prestige playing his Flying V upside down during the 80’s and he even released, in a last attempt to lower down the vinyl groove his mastery at the helm of a concert hall, 'I'm in a Phonebooth Baby' (1984), a great work, heir to his best and most pure albums of pure tap in dialogue with verses structures in A-A-B... but alas, it didn’t find a market.


Albert King has gone down in history as one who reigned on the deck of blues, a classification that nobody interrupts, because it is understood that tastes are like clubs in the deck and that the kings are kings by divine right. The fade to black of his history was shot in the cemetery Edmonson (Arkansas), not very far from birth home. And 20 miles, 29 minutes by car from Memphis (Tennessee). Crossing the bridge, on the other banks of the Mississippi.