Coin Coin Chapter Four: Memphis

The jazz poetry embedded in this improvisational mix is a brilliant, scathing meditation on racism in America, while fiddles are tormented to cry, where the jaw harp sets the introspective tone. She is a child of the wind. The snatches of hymns and spirituals gut me, the juxtaposition of hope against cruelty being nothing more than malicious mockery. Run, baby, run like the wind! The long, sweaty draws of the trombone as long as the road she must run, as hot as the sticky, southern air beneath an unrelenting sun. Run to "heaven", that poplar tree we know about. Memory is a most unusual thing.