I’m three chapters in to my new book on Rock music. My main character is living the life and following the history through. I’m trying to bring all those events to life. My man is the muse, the witness and participant. He was there at every crossroad. He never gets older and like a chameleon he blends in.
I’m looking for suggestions for a title – feedback on the extract – views. Anything!
Here’s a short extract:
I headed back to Clarkesdale and was staying across the road from what is now the Riverside Hotel. Back then it was the G T Thomas hospital for Negroes. I was sitting on the porch just across from the place strumming my guitar and working on a new tune. I was so engrossed that the ambulance pulling in must have passed me by. I still had hopes of fostering a career out of my music and was preparing for the evening Juke.
Slim was working as an orderly at the hospital and came across to sit by my side.
‘You heard the news?’ he asked, looking extremely serious.
I shook my head and waited for him to tell me. Slim would normally give me the low-down on all the comings and goings of the hospital. It was a busy place. I was expecting some line about an acquaintance of ours. I didn’t expect it to be quite so far-reaching.
‘That was Bessie Smith they just brought in.’
My attention immediately snapped to full on. Bessie was not quite my kind of thing, too jazzy and vaudeville for my tastes, but she was enormous and I liked her well enough. Everyone had her 78s. You could hear her songs coming out of everywhere. She was one of those black women who had crossed that barrier. The white folks were digging her, though I was dang sure that most of them weren’t picking up on some of the things she was putting down in her songs. They were pretty close to the knuckle.
‘She’s bin in a car crash,’ Slim informed me. ‘Looks real bad. Her arm was hanging off. I don’t know if she’s going to make it.’