Up ahead, the band jammed on the stage. A drummer, horn player, piano man and some cat plucking a giant stand-up banjo looked like they were playing the fast, swinging music in their sleep. Eyes closed. Fingers flying. Sweat popping off their mellow, greasy faces.
Merry looked around at the beautiful Colored people dressed in their Sunday’s best, smoking, drinking, laughing and dancing to the new music. Whatever this strange music that made grown folks party instead of working was, it didn’t sound like Lucy Sass crying or Mahalia laying it all on the altar. No, this music felt closer to God. Holier than Gospel, more real than the Blues.
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