A call to all gates, hipsters, cons, vipers -- I'm the sender who was born on a windy night, along with the Twentieth...

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REALLY THE BLUES

A call to all gates, hipsters, cons, vipers -- I'm the sender who was born on a windy night, along with the Twentieth Century, a raggedy slum kid what used Chi's sewer gratings for a teething ring. At fifteen I'm all jammed up, restless like a Mexican jumping bean, but I don't dig what it is, see. But me and the law meets up and I'm in Pontiac jailhouse and I get me a solid dose of the colored man's blues straight from the gallion. I find my idiom! And for thirty years I'm blowing out my guts, creating, getting that bayou style from Al Capone's roadhouses to swing joints along 52nd Street, Paris nightclubs, Harvard University, dicty Washington embassies, not to mention all the barrelhouse dives. Me, and Bessie Smith, Jimmy Noone, Clarence Williams, Bix Beiderbecks, King Oliver, Louis Armstrong, Eddie Condon, Gene Krupa, Zutty Singleton, Johany Dodds, Sidney Bechet. Tommy Ladnier. But some of these fly cats go long-hair, and I'm pure, hear. I got my schooling in three jails, on a gang of tea-pads, whorehouses, and speakeasies, and opium got me so strong it turned me every way but loose, but I crawled out of the fog and latched onto my horns. Man, I got the idiom, but really the blues! (Dame Gossip sayeth that there hath been much excitement in public circles about this and that it well may be the Young Man With a Horn of non-fiction. Hot music hot stuff.)

Pub Date: Oct. 25, 1946

ISBN: N/A

Page Count: -

Publisher: Random House

Review Posted Online: N/A

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Oct. 1, 1946