Dallas?

Hey, Mr. Davis.

“Look at these motherfuckers costin’ me money.”

Because there are so many musicians?

“Shit, no. Because I gotta rent a second tour bus just for afro picks. You know the kind with the fist on the handle?”

Yes.

“My fuckin’ band goes through nine or ten dozen a show. And we play some cracker-ass places, too. Can’t depend on there being a proper barbershop around. Ever been to Delaware?”

A few times.

“Bullshit state. Like Maryland has a skin tag or some shit.”

Accurate assessment.

“Don’t tell me I’m fuckin’ right. I know I’m fuckin’ right, otherwise I wouldn’t have said shit.”

Sorry.

“Just shut the fuck up.”

Okay.

“We’re playin’ Wilmington and no one’s got a hair pick. Gary Bartz’ natural was floppy and pathetic. He got a face looks like an a fat bitch sat on an egg sandwich, so the n—-r gotta have good hair.”

As always, I formally protest your use of that word.

“Show’s gonna start soon and my band looks terrible. I can’t have that. Miles Davis is a clean motherfucker. Gotta have a handsome band. I had to call the only cat I knew in Wilmington.”

Please don’t say–

“N—-r named Corn Pop.”

–Corn Pop. You knew Corn Pop?

“We was tight.”

Wow.

“Corn Pop came through. Brought a whole case of picks by. That n—-r’s all right. Everybody love that boy. You gotta problem with Corn Pop, you some sort of rickety old ofay fuck.”

Accurate assessment.

BANG!

“The fuck did I tell you?”

Sorry, Mr. Davis.