Music is memory.
George Benson, all eighty years of him, is a born performer. People from his era, tend to be that way because it was ( at that point of time) the only thing that put food on the table. Guitar ( unless you were Hendrix), vocals and songwriting were the vehicles but unless you had a presence – the music alone could be lost in the mass production and marketing of it. Benson – a perfect example of looks and an ability to charm audiences.
Like a worm ‘dangling on a hook’, once the audience grabs Benson’s bait – the real George can be tasted. Well – sometimes anyways.
There is no doubt Benson can play his Ibanez guitar well. There is no doubt the Pittsburgh born singer can sing. When he puts his mind to it – he can also write good tunes. Somewhere along the way – Benson developed a split personality and continually teeters between the good and the bad of the music business.
When Benson scats – he is pure. When Benson plays his Jazz – based riffs on songs such as Breezin’ – he is pure. Problem is – the marketing department (necessity?) forced him to do un -pure covers and porous ditties. Songs that appease the masses yet not the purists. In Montreal at the Jazz Festival – the sentimentalists and the hit parade connoisseurs bought the tickets. The purists were still waiting for the nineteen – year – old George at The Esquire Show Bar.
Like so many musicians over the years. Like so many music fans over the years. Survival displaced taste. Radio ( once upon a time) controlled the ‘perceived’ talent and catchy melodies especially on ‘Billboard’s Top 100’. The true George Benson would have placed somewhere around 1,265 on that chart. The position where real musicians gather and create real magic.
Memories.
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