The American Christone ‘Kingfish’ Ingram once thought his hands were too big for a guitar. That’s why he first played drums, as a 5-year-old, and later bass guitar. He eventually switched to the six strings and is now, at the age of twenty-three, an international guitar hero who revives early music for a young audience.
Kingfish is a blues guitarist and singer. He grew up in the Mississippi Delta, the region where the blues originated, and was born in the town of Clarksdale, like his idols Muddy Waters and John Lee Hooker. In North America, Kingfish is considered the savior of the blues genre that has fallen into disuse among the younger generation. In July he performed at North Sea Jazz, in recent days he has toured our country on the occasion of his album, which will be released in 2021. 662 – named after the area code of Northern Mississippi.
Equipped with two albums – kingfish and 662– and a trio of versatile musicians, Kingfish performed Wednesday evening in the old hall of the Melkweg, Amsterdam, giving an opportunity to experience his talent up close. Because what is the magic of this young star? What enraptures the supporters and press in America, and the audience that has flocked to the Milky Way too? Is it out of awe at someone’s devotion? Is it out of need for authenticity? Or nostalgia?
primal blues
Standing there, head tucked and the indeed large hands groping and vibrating across the neck of his purple Fender Telecaster, Kingfish imagines the ability to lose yourself in music. His solos can’t last long enough for him. The fingers keep looking for new sound combinations, one note slides on to the next. New musical areas are being explored.
But is it blues? Kingfish’s sounds are remarkably comfortable. His graceful packets of notes don’t rub, they don’t moan or whine. Kingfish sounds flaming but rolling. This distinguishes the guitarist from the primal blues from his native region: his music does not sound tormented or melancholy.
That young Christone grew up in difficult circumstances with a single mother and sometimes no permanent residence, and he took refuge in the church choir and the blues museum in Mississippi – the places where he ‘schooled’ – is not expressed in his songs or guitar licks. Nor in his voice, which runs lightly and smoothly along the words. The lyrics of songs like ‘Long Distance Woman’ and ‘My Bad’, written by himself, have familiar blues themes – unattainable love, guilt – but they sound more general than personal.
In the Milky Way nothing seems more important than Ingram’s relationship with the guitar, his lover and best friend at the same time. Sometimes he picks up an acoustic one and caresss the strings until they ring like bells. He walks with an instrument through the hall filled with young and older – mainly male – audience without missing a note. Finally he plays ‘Hey Joe’ by Jimi Hendrix, about a man and his weapon, here performed to a reggae rhythm. His guitar doesn’t sound like a gun.