The Americanization Of Rhythm

Abstract

Ha! Wouldn't that be a meeting to see old Nat Turner come cleaving through there steaming his vision of redemption? They invited him. But the time was too early, and they got no more than a poached drummer whose flame was yet to erupt, led by his arm through the smell of fifty hustled drunkers simmering on the brink of a promised volcano. It was a good crowd that night. You could tell by what was squeezed into the black velvet dress reaching up for you with a hugging kiss on the ear, Honey, there ain't nobody near the Mississippi could drum like you. Yeah?