Oh man, Bo Diddley died today, and I’m sitting here with tears running down my face. What joy that man brought into this world. I finally got to hear him play in Santa Fe, back in January of ‘04, and wrote about it in one of my old GRACK! columns that I later developed into a full-length article for Horse Fly. What follows is that longer piece, by way of tribute.

Here’s to you, Bo: may you keep on rockin’ through those pearly gates…

Bad Seed Blessing
by John H. Farr

Bo Diddley at the Lensic?

I was broke and might die tomorrow, but no way was St. Peter gonna wave me through that gate if I didn’t grab a credit card and go: “You say you passed up your last chance to see Bo Diddley in person? GIT ON OUTA HERE!” So that was that.

At the very last minute, the Ford wouldn’t start. No buzz, no click, no nothin’. The last time this had happened, I was halfway across Cebolla Mesa. That time I’d gotten the juice flowing in the F-150 by banging on the battery posts with a wrench, so I tried it again and got the cab light to come on. This showed me I was on the right track, so I took off the cables and gave everything a scrub with a wire brush. When I refastened the clamps, I knew it would start. It did, and off I flew.

Getting from Llano to downtown Santa Fe in a little over an hour is possible, but it ain’t pretty. Once there, I took a quick walk to clear my head and then hurried to take my seat. Right away I recognized Bo’s famous custom-built “square” guitar resting on a chair. That also meant he’d be sitting down, old blues-man-style, but hey, the guy was 75.

Bo Diddley’s guitar, photographed at intermission

As it turned out, someone forgot to tell him. My boyhood idol came out and played for almost two and one-half hours straight, no breaks, accompanied by the very capable Alex Maryol Band, who’d opened for him as well. Bo played the old songs, some blues, even a rap number I swear he made up on the spot. He was loose and he was happy. “You got my back, right?” he’d say off-mike to Alex, then hit the special effects built into his guitar and take off into uncharted musical space, laughing all the way.

It wasn’t so much the music as the man himself that had me reeling through one wave of emotion after another. Twice I found myself all choked up and wondering why. Whatever it was that went through the heart and soul of the 10-year-old boy who first heard Bo Diddley on Armed Forces Radio in Germany in 1955 was special, all right. If I could put it in a bottle or a book, it would save the world. When he finally announced his last number and launched into a classic Diddley romp with his signature beat, I didn’t want the feeling to end. It didn’t, either.

Without explanation or intro, Bo changed his mind and jumped right into “Bad Seed,” a song about going through life his own special way and nobody else’s. In between verses he asked all the “bad seeds” in the audience to stand up, and some of them did. I was trying to take a picture and stayed in my seat. I already knew who I was, anyway.

On the way home I stopped at a Pojoaque mini-mart that was just about to close, nobody there but me and the law. My hair was flying in the breeze as I swung down out of the cab. Inside, I felt the tribal cops’ eyes on me as I put too much fake cheese on a cold hot dog and fumbled with the foam cup for my coffee. Shades of times past! Climbing back into the truck, I just had to smile: Man, do you think I’d look like this if I was holding?

All the way back, I never saw another car until I’d climbed out of the canyon. The three elk standing by the side of the road just past the Horseshoe let me pass but woke me up good, so I slid into Llano and played my electric guitar until four in the morning. I don’t think the landlord heard me.

He’s real polite though, and probably wouldn’t say.

I took other pictures at that concert, most of which didn’t turn out so well. This is the best one I have of Bo. It captures a certain energy, but of course you had to be there — and now none of us can anymore:

The one and only Bo