In a bar at Five Points, Nashville, W. berates the bartender about the poor choice of gin. Bombay Gin is terrible, he tells her. Tanqueray isn't bad, especially with tonic, but Bombay Gin is a marketing gimmick. She says her customers like it. W. tells her to introduce them to Plymouth Gin. Why hasn't she got any Plymouth Gin? You can get it in America. Our bartender looks annoyed. She'll get what her customers want, she tells us. But how do they know what they want when they haven't tried Plymouth Gin?, W. asks. I don't think she wants to hear about Plymouth Gin, I tell W.
Later, as we sit out on our hosts' porch drinking Plymouth Gin, we talk about music. He plays us Barbecue Bob and Memphis Minnie (trading licks with Kansas Joe McCoy) and Big Joe Williams (with his nine string guitar). Our host makes us listen to the funk guitar style of the Mississippi Sheiks. You pronounce it sheeks, he says. He points out their sophisticated harmonies, and the subtle interplay of instruments. It's their microphone technique, he tells us.
You find the ultimate blend of melody and rhythm in string bands, our host says. He's become a real enemy of melody, he says. He hates dead syncopations, he says. He hates drums. As soon as drums came in, that was it. W. thinks he's gone too far. So does Sal. Fuck melody!, says our host. I'm swept up by his arguments. Fuck melody!, I shout. Fuck drums!
Our host plays us some early John Lee Hooker. He plays electric guitar rhythmically, he says. Rhythm is everything, he says. He puts on Bukka White. The guitar produces the rhythm, says our host. It doesn't follow it. Fuck drums!, I shout. Fuck melody!
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