Skip James
He was dying when they found him, eaten through with...
Skip James
He was dying when they found him, eaten through with testicular cancer. It took his balls and his already bell-high voice stretched into a shimmer. He was a ghost; the D-bass drone of his three-finger picking, the banshee wail of his voice. His playing was corvid feathers— ruffled and sharpened and blading in the wind; a flutter-flap of flesh on steel-string that carried him in a clean melodic line.
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