Rhode Island Red [antikvár]

A PT E R 1 I mean you Ask any Negro. They'll tell you: a woman does not play a saxophone. Except for me. Actually, 1 don't play sax. It's more like I noodle. I never studied the horn, but I can get through a Stars Fell on Alabama or a Night and Day with little or no problem. I was a far from brilliant student of the piano but I can sight read my way through a whole lot of Bach or Bud Powell. See, I'm naturally musical—not talented—I didn't say I was tal- i ented—just musical. At one point—what was I? Three? Four years old?—my father thought I might have been a genuine inheritor in that endless line of black musical geniuses. But not too many of us blow tenor in front of the Off TYack i , Betting Parlor on Lexington Avenue with a battered old hat inverted on the sidewalk. No, I think I pretty much have the exclusive on that one. But, wait. Let me explain a few things. i i I'm not a homeless beggar. I play music on the sidewalks ' i i of New York but I don't sleep there. I'm 5 feet 10 inches tall, I ' '' turned twenty-eight in Januaiy, I'm more or less a Grace ^ i Jones lookalike in terms of coloring and body type (she has the better waist, I win for tits), I'm the former second runner-up in the state spelling bee (I was twelve then), hold a degree in French with a minor in Music from Wellesley (scholarship all the way), and I live in a fairly low rent, nondescript walk- • ) I ¦ II I , I I ¦¦ I ¦I i . I