Live At B.B. Joes: Fred Johnson’s Soulful Time Capsule from 1984
Man, there’s something about Live At B.B. Joes that just grabs you by the soul and doesn’t let go. Released in ’84, this album feels like a warm hug on a cold night—equal parts jazz groove, funk swagger, and raw emotion. Fred Johnson delivers vocals so smooth they could melt butter, but it’s not all him; the band is tight as hell, too. You can tell everyone involved poured their hearts into this one.
Let me hit you with two tracks I can’t stop thinking about: “Summertime” and “A Child Runs Free.” Both are fire, though for totally different reasons.
“Summertime”? Oh, man. It starts off slow, almost hesitant, like someone walking barefoot through tall grass at sunset. Then Fred’s voice comes in, rich and deep, wrapping itself around Gershwin’s classic melody like an old sweater. Kamau Kenyatta on piano adds these delicate flourishes—you know, the kind of notes that make your chest ache because they’re so damn beautiful. And when Qumby Ortiz jumps in on congas? Forget it. That rhythm hits you right in the gut, primal and alive. Every time I hear it, I’m transported somewhere else, ya know? Like I’m sitting under a starry sky, sipping whiskey out of a mason jar while life slows down just enough to breathe.
Then there’s “A Child Runs Free,” which slaps hard in a completely different way. This track has energy pouring out of every pore. Tani Tabbal on drums lays down this relentless beat that makes your feet move whether you want them to or not. Fred sings like he’s chasing after that child, full of urgency and hope. There’s this moment near the end where his voice cracks ever so slightly—it’s imperfect, real, human—and it gets me every single time. Feels like freedom, like running until your lungs burn and laughing till your cheeks hurt. It’s messy and wild and absolutely unforgettable.
What strikes me most about this album is how it bridges worlds. Jazz meets soul, Japan meets the US, polished arrangements meet raw passion. Even the credits read like a who’s-who of talent—Kamau Kenyatta producing, Bill Pillucere laying down bass lines that stick to your ribs, even Sally Donaldson pulling strings behind the scenes. Everyone brought their A-game here.
But here’s the thing: listening to Live At B.B. Joes isn’t just about appreciating great music. It’s about feeling connected—to Fred, to the musicians, to anyone who’s ever felt joy or pain or longing. There’s no pretense, no overthinking. Just honest, unfiltered art.
And honestly? If albums were people, this one would be the cool uncle who shows up unannounced with stories to tell and pockets full of surprises. Except instead of leaving after dinner, it sticks around forever, reminding you why you fell in love with music in the first place.
So go ahead, give it a spin. Just don’t blame me if you find yourself humming “Summertime” in the shower tomorrow morning.
