Driving home from school, sunshiny spring afternoon, sun shining on a nation run by old white men fronting for money. I was president of a rock’n roll club called – believe it or not – The Rolling Stones. 1955. Time before some kids in England also named themselves after Otis Blackwell’s DADDY ROLLING STONE. Founding that club got me “on the bench” in the principal’s office every lunch period for a couple of weeks. “Why can’t you listen to music by white people?”
1955. And this came on the radio.
I had to pull over and park by the side of the road. Happy and sad, crying and hammering the steering wheel. Blues and bad, sex and resentment of racism all over this pitiful land.
I had none to give…