"Hey, you ever
hear that Jelly Roll Morton stuff where he tells Lomax how the old studs used
to put each other down?"
"I got those
records, man," Shaft said, pouring vodka into the three glasses, splashing
tonic down on them and hunting around for a lime.
Sure he had those
records. Anybody who knew anything about music and black men had them. Jelly
Roll sitting there at the piano telling Lomax what it was like in New Orleans
and all the other places. Jelly's foot tapping, his voice grinding gravel for
the tape. Nickerson meant the scene where Jelly tells how a confrontation was
built on a crescendo of threats and outrageous warnings. It was funky,
old-fashioned nigger talk that Lomax made part of history by recording for the
Library of Congress. Shaft cried when he read Lomax' book years ago. Somebody
at NYU turned him on to it. He laughed when he heard the records. Jelly Roll,
so fucking proud and beautiful. Finally stabbed to death in a Washington, D.C.,
bar by some other cat. Argument over a woman. That was a good way for Jelly
Roll to die. The only way. He got the bottle of Johnnie Walker and poured
himself another drink and poured a shot of straight vodka for Nickerson.
"Jelly
Roll," Shaft toasted.
Interesting choice.....
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