sixteen going on seven spanish angels

The Rapid City Civic Center had a good season that year. My mother spent some of our few extra dollars on season tickets and somehow got great seats for Ray Charles, fifth row, stage right. I remember being asked if I wanted to go and literally said, "geez, isn't he really old? I suppose I'd better go because he might not be back this way." That of course was almost 16 years ago (geez, am I really that old?). I don't think he was back that way, but then, neither was I much, except for a 4 year blip at the turn of the century (fuck, I AM that old).
REGARDLESS, Ray was smokin' and the Rayettes were pretty hot and everything was loud and black and even the blue hairs filling rows H-R smiled and nodded along.

A small part of me wishes he'd gotten some sort of Rick Rubin-Daniel Lanois-or-better-yet-Quincy-Jones-produced "comeback album" in the style of Willie's Teatro or Emmie Lou's Wrecking Ball or all the titanic glory Johnny Cash found on American. But I guess he was too busy touring.

I don't remember it from his Rapid City set (gosh wouldn't that blow their wigs off?) but I'm partial to his meditation on moderate debauchery, Let's Go Get Stoned:

Ain't no harm to have a little taste.
But don't lose your cool and start messin' up the man's place.
Ain't no harm take a little nip.
But don't you fall down and bust your lip.

And of course, the duet with Willie Nelson. Makes me nervous now, with the loss of Johnny last year, there's only a few giants walking the earth (strictly speaking in the twilight-of-the-20th-century-monsters-of-true-American-pop sense of the phrase). I hope we wise up and send secret service teams to watch over Willie, Aretha, and the two Bobs, Dylan & Shane. Maybe park a patrol car outside Brian Wilson's house for good luck.

Farewell Mr. Charles.