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“The Jackson 5 shook off the last song and readied for another sortie. The smallest Jackson movement, every tremble, elicited another wave of squeals from the Garden. "I'd like to talk to y'all tonight," Michael said, "about the blues." Carney chuckled--the kid was ten. "The blues?" Marlon or maybe Jermaine asked. "Yeah, the blues. Don't nobody have the blues like me. I may be young, but I know what it's all about." The boys bit into "Who's Lovin' You" and the building rattled. The girls screamed. There were rumors about guys the mob had rubbed out and buried in the concrete foundation below. The noise would've woken them up. Carney shouldn't have laughed. What ten-year-old black child didn't know the blues?” — Colson Whitehead
The Jackson 5 shook off the last song and readied for another sortie. The smallest Jackson movement, every tremble, elicited another wave of squeals from the Garden.
"I'd like to talk to y'all tonight," Michael said, "about the blues."
Carney chuckled--the kid was ten.
"The blues?" Marlon or maybe Jermaine asked.
"Yeah, the blues. Don't nobody have the blues like me. I may be young, but I know what it's all about."
The boys bit into "Who's Lovin' You" and the building rattled. The girls screamed. There were rumors about guys the mob had rubbed out and buried in the concrete foundation below. The noise would've woken them up. Carney shouldn't have laughed. What ten-year-old black child didn't know the blues?