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Stevie Ray Vaughan, eternal in Austin.

He makes you think; he stumps you; and makes you think again.

The bluesman is from Kansas City, and J-Ville and Brooklyn.

He’s seen it all, but not in a way to comprehend.

The bluesman has children, on purpose or otherwise,

And he cares in a way we can’t comprehend.

The bluesman will play whatever you request, but make it good.

The bluesman…the bluesman stops, and looks down, and slides some chords…if you ask for too much.

“Here’s one by Muddy Waters. Actually it’s Robert Johnson, but Muddy played it in Clarksdale. I was there.”

Get him going on Robert Johnson. He’ll never stop.

The bluesman was there.

The bluesman was always there;

Him, or Diddley, or Muddy, or Stevie or Clapton.

The bluesman doesn’t cover songs;

The bluesman conveys oral history.

He plays it with a slide, and he plays it with soul, and he keeps playing even after you turn your back.

Charlie Monte Verde

 Charlie Monte Verde always wanted to live in  one of the ‘big three’ cities, and darn if he  didn’t land in the best one. Charlie was raised  in Upstate New York before his current five  years in Chicago, and honed his writing skills in Mrs. Bonar’s AP English class before he was  bumped down to the regular English class.

 Charlie creates original American art forms  about growing up, or childhood, or girls, or trains, or his beloved Buffalo Bills. Sometimes it’s about all of those things, just like in his dreams. He’s currently working on his first based-on-a-true-story novel, The Great Hate, which will be available . . . hopefully someday.

Charlie daydreams about shaking off the work-a-day 9-5 blues and becoming a writer like his idol (predictably) Ernest Hemingway. Charlie uses a catch-as-catch-can method for writing that includes many bar napkins and disorganized notebooks. When these notes do make it out of the bar, they can occasionally be found on his blog at cultofamericana.wordpress.com.


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