Out of nowhere it began to rain. It was Chicago cold. I had no umbrella. The wind kicked up. Enough was enough. I decided I'll get a good nights sleep and head in early. The rationale was to wake around 5 a.m., fight the notorious Chicago traffic and catch an earlier flight home. My decision caught even me off guard: For the first time in 25-years I would not visit Kingston Mines while in the city of blues. Something was wrong. Even my niece called me out on it. "Are you sure about this?" she queried. "You LOVE Kingston Mines."
I was sure.
The plan was too drive back to her apartment near Wrigley Field and call it quits. As we left downtown and approached the highway we found the on-ramp backed-up. I decided to ignore the navigational system and work my way through the back streets until I found my way to her apartment. Since she rarely drives, we didn't actually know the best route home. So began our inner city road trip. The streets glistened wet with rain, and as I drove the surroundings became familiar, from the tree lined streets around a college, to the stretch of decaying girders that held up the tracks to the elevated train; I had that distinct feeling of having been here before. Yet neither of us knew where we were until the garish orange canopies of the blues club glowed into sight. And though the wipers were trying their best to keep the windshield clear, it was obvious even through the rain covered windows we were about to pass my favorite live music venue. It had to be a sign! If this accidental passing wasn't enough proof of true devine intervention than the open parking spot diagonally across the street was clearly an act of God, or at least a blues loving muse! Once the music deities get involved there's no use fighting the siren's call. I parked the car. Fed the meter. Paid the cover. And ordered a round of drinks -- a double single malt for me, a cold beer for Katie. There was no turning back. This was going to be a blues night. I needed a fix. "Strap yourself in Katie. There's no turning back. It's Kingston Mines!!"
What neither of us knew was that in the wee hours of that morning we'd loose one the the greats. One of the most influential souls of blues: B.B. King died just a few hours later, a short while after Vance Kelly and his blues players finished belting out their rendition of "The Thrill Is Gone" - King's signature song.
Regret is not a taste I enjoy, but I'll chew on gratitude heartily. Any other emotion is better than the sick sour flavor of sorrow. Had I not been in the hallowed grounds of Kingston Mines the night of B.B's passing, I would have regretted my rare decision for many years there after. But this night was meant to be: Fate has a way of guiding us even when we fight the sure currents of our destinies. There was only one place I could be found on that rainy night in Chicago, the night B.B. King would leave us. It was only appropriate that I found myself in a blues joint when he died.
Truly now, the thrill is gone.
1925 - 2015