Shemekia Copeland

Crossing the mud flats of San Francisco Bay, doing sixty-five, or there abouts, on a bright and sunny summer's day, when from out of the radio a bluesy voice came, and caught me as her prey. Her voice was young and with such power, she really sang the blues! Her voice ripped me out of the driver's seat, and bounce me all around the van, then threw me out the door of my own dam truck, and ran me over once or twice. All that was left of me was a bloody mess and my old white soul which she kicked up highway 37 until it was black and blue'