Been a long time since I rock-'n'-rolled,
since I kicked out the jams, motherfucker,
so as I pick along on this pink Stratocaster
and hold the note, hold it and keep it on hold,

what I'm waiting on is that good hoodoo
it takes to make an odd sound sound sharp—
Dot Ashby's jazz harp, Don Cherry's "juice harp,"
the squeegee squeak when Miles ran the voodoo

down—and what I'd give for McDuff's mini-Moog
(black keys white, white black), a tight-miked high-hat,
and to be ax man enough to pick a peck

of notes hip as these wack noodlings (dirty fugue,
banjo funk?), even if I can't say for sure what
I'm hearing's Béla Fleck, not that other fella, Beck.