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Lightnin couldnt deny he saw hisself as a politico, spent a good deal of his time fantasizin bout what life was like in Bling City; walkin the celebrated streets uptown there made legendary by great past fiery Black leaders, remindin Black peoples of hard won triumphs yes, but also of they stolen pasts; endangered futures, collective devisive vision, and a social consciousness made less urgent durin the Clinton years. He felt a tremendous mutual callin, a soberin comfortable chill. Wit one stunnin blow in the the election of Barack Obama, the once robust, but now pitifully feeble, challengin activist and nationalist element in the body of Black culture, was left on the world stage to sputter and disappear into itself like spit on a hot iron. Yet it seemed all things was politically possible now as he recalled where he was, hearin the impossibly true news that a Black man was now the President of the United States. Hed never forget it. The Presidents Club lounge on the south side of Promise, re-named in the aftermath of the election was an explodin mix of yelps, tears, laughter, hugs and prayers with people holdin on to strangers, friends, and family, and toastin the occasion wit heroic amounts of alcohol. Obama couldna won without the white votes and the accompanyin blocs that came wit them, but just as many white folks wasnt ready for a Black President. The trump was that the democratic process was ready, and in America sometimes processes triumph over peoples. Remarks floated through the air a plenty. Thank God! Thank you! Oh! Thank-you God. He fuck-ing did it!! God dammit he did it!! The get it done soul anthem; Aint No Stopping Us Now a mainstay in the pantheon of Black music was on auto-re-run on jukeboxes everywhere, pourin out of social clubs, homes and taverns too; but most certainly there at the Presidents Club. Look at him! Obamarama time! ..Huh? yelled out a tipsy male customer, his eyes fastened to the huge TV screen. Standin tall with his Black woman. Caint mistake that sistah, for nothin cept Black! And them two pretty kids! The brother tipped his kufi as people applauded his words, jubilance gleamin on every face in the place. Someone clinked a glass for quiet and actually got enough of it to be heard, My group is going across the street to the church to put a prayer in right now. Jesus needs immediate feedback on this. a young woman said as she slapped high fives with a contingent of ten others. And the comments continued. Now we gon git some government by the original kings. Look at Ope! Cryin n shit A young brother called out. She gon be the next Presidenther and HillHillll be the V.P. Hillll be the President if Bill got anything to do wit it. somebody countered. Yeah. Theyll let Ope be National Security Advisor, since Condileesi already broke that in for a sistah... Mufuckas laughed. Maybe they was right Lightnin thought. Maybe the time for his dreams was now. Wasnt a Black President in the United States the imprimatur of proof
The first time fourteen-year-old Harlan Q met his grandfather, he was laid up on a porcelain prep table at the local funeral home with a grin on his face—like he was getting the last laugh. His will leaves a chunk of money and a Cadillac convertible. The catch? His body must be buried in Las Vegas. With little money, Harlan Q convinces his Bible-thumping father to load the corpse in the back of their station wagon and take the road-trip to honor his grandfather's wishes. Along the way they pick up Warrior, a Hollywood-bound, Zen-minded actor-in-training. He surprisingly helps Harlan begin to understand his thoughts and life—separate from the thinking of his father—during a covert stop at his late grandfather's bar, Long Gone Daddy's.
Willis' remarkable memoir strips away any fantasy of an idyllic life "in the country" and shows the passions, backbreaking labor, and violence of the hard-won life lived on an American farm in the middle of the 20th century.
A Wall Street Journal Best Book of 2018 In the tradition of Patrick Leigh Fermor and Geoff Dyer, a Grammy-winning producer discovers a powerful and ancient folk music tradition. In a gramophone shop in Istanbul, renowned record collector Christopher C. King uncovered some of the strangest—and most hypnotic—sounds he had ever heard. The 78s were immensely moving, seeming to tap into a primal well of emotion inaccessible through contemporary music. The songs, King learned, were from Epirus, an area straddling southern Albania and northwestern Greece and boasting a folk tradition extending back to the pre-Homeric era. To hear this music is to hear the past. Lament from Epirus is an unforgettable journey into a musical obsession, which traces a unique genre back to the roots of song itself. As King hunts for two long-lost virtuosos—one of whom may have committed a murder—he also tells the story of the Roma people who pioneered Epirotic folk music and their descendants who continue the tradition today. King discovers clues to his most profound questions about the function of music in the history of humanity: What is the relationship between music and language? Why do we organize sound as music? Is music superfluous, a mere form of entertainment, or could it be a tool for survival? King’s journey becomes an investigation into song and dance’s role as a means of spiritual healing—and what that may reveal about music’s evolutionary origins.
Welcome to Lone County, Arkansas, where every corner holds a secret, and the past is never really buried. Disgraced ex-detective Harper Adams has traded her badge for a desk job at her father's law firm, a move as dull as the small town she's returned to. But things take a turn when a local woman wants to declare her missing husband dead, five years after his mysterious disappearance. With her father’s firm representing the missing man's wife, Harper seizes the opportunity to delve back into her investigative roots. Her search leads her back to James Malcolm, a former crime boss turned tavern owner, who has his finger on the pulse of every shadowed corner. His offer to help with her investigation catches her by surprise. Why would a former criminal offer his help unless he has something to gain?
Stories of Words. Words used as misunderstanding, satire that goes straight over the wall and the secret of why words hurt so much.Words go deep inside us. Children are proud when they learn to read, then they find out how much words that are their's hurt them. The stories are funny and sad and lonely and scared and brash and boasting. They are objects we invented that along the way became our soul and our heart that are used against us. And that we use against them.
A London artist becomes the victim of a stalker in this “creepy” novel “with satisfying fits of the shivers” from the award-winning author of Easy Peasy (The Sunday Times). In London’s prestigious National Portrait Gallery, an exhibition of Connie Benson’s art is set to open. It’s quite an event considering that the reclusive portraitist hasn’t left her home on the North Norfolk coast for the past thirty years—not since her lover Patrick Mount disappeared. Mount, an eccentric guru who claimed to have discovered an elixir of bliss, is just as famous—perhaps even more so after his presumed death. Tonight, Connie’s masterful portrait of him, completed on the night he vanished, will finally be unveiled. But it’s arousing more than a love of art in Mount’s most secretive and devoted disciple. Tony, a violent ex-con, never met Mount, but he’s committed the famous man’s autobiography to memory. He’s collected every known photograph of him, and every word ever written by, or about, him. Except for one prized possession that has been forever out of reach: Mount’s key to bliss. He’s prepared to trap Connie in his secret world to find it. But Tony is soon to discover the consequences of obsession—because he isn’t the only one with things to hide. The recipient of the Somerset Maugham Award, Lesley Glaister is “an author for whom writing and storytelling is an unstoppable passion, as strong as a rush of blood to the head” (The Independent). “Crime writing of the highest order.” —The Sunday Times “Before Gillian Flynn, there was Lesley Glaister.” —Harper’s Bazaar
“Long Gone is a tremendous novel, and Alafair Burke is one of the finest young crime writers working today.” --Dennis Lehane, author of Moonlight Mile Echoing the intensity of Harlan Coben’s Tell No One and the psychological depth of Laura Lippman’s What the Dead Know, Alafair Burke’s first stand-alone novel catapults her into the top ranks of modern suspense. In New York City’s cut-throat world of art, appearances can be deceiving—especially when art world newcomer Alice Humphrey becomes a suspect in a gruesome murder at a Chelsea gallery, and is thrown into a treacherous labyrinth of intrigue, crime, and conspiracy. Now, Alice must discover the truth behind the murder before the unsolved mystery claims her as its next victim.