When B.B. Played - the Camera Prayed

“Lucille in the Spotlight”

Bill King Photography

If there were ever a musician I’d give anything to have a long, unrushed sit-down with—just two chairs, maybe a couple of Cokes, no entourage—it would be B.B. King.

I fell for the King the moment I dropped the needle on Live at the Regal. The vinyl spun, and there it was—those stinging guitar licks that sounded like they'd been pulled from the gut of every broken-hearted man south of Memphis. B.B. left space between the phrases like a preacher between parables. Empathy oozed through his strings, but so did control. Nothing accidental. Nothing wasted. The voice? Always on. Always gospel. And the guitar—Lucille—well, she spoke back in perfect time. Voice and guitar weren’t separate; they were two ends of the same soul.

B.B. was from that rare tribe—the ones who never got off the bus. Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, B.B. King. Lifers. I’ve ridden those buses too. I know the allure: the rhythm of tires on asphalt, the late-night diner pit stops, the bunk stacked above the hum of the engine. But for a lifetime? That’s a calling only the road-wired few ever answer. B.B. didn’t just learn the circuit—he became it.

When I had my first opportunity to photograph him in 1998 at the Molson Stage in Toronto, it was a chaotic scene in the photo pit. One minute—that’s what we were given. I came loaded for war: two camera bodies, both loaded with 400 ASA black-and-white film. The Jazz Report Magazine had me in, and I wasn’t there to fumble.

The band came out first—a warm-up jam that let me dial in—F-stop, shutter speed, lens focus—old-school. I spotted the amp dead centre and locked in my vantage, away from the eager elbows of the dailies.

Then B.B. arrived.

You could feel him hit the stage before you saw him. The audience surged to their feet, just like on a Sunday morning in church. And King—he understood the moment. He gave the camera what it needed—arched brows, half-grins, eyes closed in prayer, or maybe pain. Those facial expressions were as much a part of the music as Lucille’s cry. Some were for the camera, yes—but many were genuine, born of that intimate space where sorrow and survival meet

I kept shooting—one body, then the next. Thirty frames in, the second roll was almost gone, but I was in the zone—inside the moment. And then, the perfect closer: B.B. lifts Lucille skyward, cradling her like a daughter, holding her up to the heavens—or the balcony, at least. I hit the shutter on the last frame. Some say that the guitar wasn’t the Lucille—maybe it had been gifted to a pope along the way. Didn’t matter. In that moment, it was every Lucille he ever carried.

The last time I saw him was in July 2014. By then, B.B. was talking more than playing. But that was just fine. He’d earned the right. He was still there—alive, joyful, still busing it and still giving.

Artists like B.B. don’t fade. They imprint. Like Buddy Guy. Like Tony Bennett. They live in two registers: sound and sight. Once you hear, sure—but the other stays with you like a photograph burned into memory. Not just notes and lyrics, but posture, gesture, that tilt of the head when the solo comes. They give in stereo. They give everything.