The Deep Dive, Jaybird Coleman Blues, Betrayal,
and the KKK Paradox. Join us on this deep dive
into the extraordinary and contradictory life
of country blues legend, Burl C. Jaybird Coleman.
From his early days as an Alabama sharecropper
and his rebellious streak in the World War I
Army, to becoming a street corner harmonica virtuoso,
and a prominent recording artist for labels like
Jennet and Columbia Records. We unpack his unique
cross harp technique, his uncompensated commercial
success, and the shocking reality of his touring
management. Perfect for music history buffs,
and anyone fascinated by the complex, untold
stories of American music. Jaybird Coleman, country
blues, harmonica player, Alabama music history,
Janet records, 1920s blues, rabbit foot minstrels,
Birmingham jug band, cross -harp technique. Okay,
let's unpack this. Because when you look at the
timeline of early American blues... Oh, there
are so many characters. Right, so many larger
than life figures. But you rarely find a life
story that is just so utterly defined by staggering...
contradictions. Yeah I completely agree. I mean
we are looking at a man who was simultaneously
a pillar of his local gospel community and a
wildly popular secular street performer. Which
was a massive divide back then. Huge. And a soldier
disciplined for insubordination who used that
exact rebellious energy to command audiences
of thousands. It's wild. An artist who generated
commercial hit records but didn't see a single
cent for his labor. And Perhaps most difficult
to process, a black man in the 1920s American
South who leveraged a charter of the Ku Klux
Klan to manage his touring logistics. What's
fascinating here is how it actively resists any
kind of oversimplification. Exactly. We are talking
about Burl C. Coleman, vastly better known to
history as Jayberg. And looking through the historical
archives, the encyclopedia entries and biographical
data we've gathered for you today. Sourced entirely
from Wikipedia and biographical encyclopedias,
by the way. Right, exactly. We are piecing together
a journey that stretches from 1896 to 1950. Our
mission here is to synthesize these artifacts,
to understand the profound pragmatism required
to survive, and to create art in that era. We
really want to examine how a fiercely independent
Alabama sharecropper navigated brutal agricultural
labor, strict military hierarchies, highly exploitative
record labels, and incredibly fraught political
alliances, all just to leave a permanent mark
on country blues. And it really starts with that
environment of labor. May 2020, 1896. Gainesville,
Alabama, Burl C. Coleman is born into a family
of sharecroppers. And I know we don't need to
re -litigate the overarching mechanics of the
post -reconstruction sharecropping system for
you. No, you already understand the perpetual
debt. Right, but the fact that you don't own
the land and the crushing reality that the harder
you work, the further behind you often fall.
It was a close lose. It really was. But what
I want to zero in on is the... Physical, the
acoustic environment young Burl and his three
brothers were thrown into. It was sun up to sun
down, manual agricultural labor. And that acoustic
environment is the absolute bedrock of everything
that follows. How so? Well, when we analyze the
early development of country blues, we have to
look past the romance of the genre. We have to
acknowledge the physiological reality of its
origins. OK. This wasn't passive musical appreciation.
In the fields of Gainesville, Coleman was immersed
in the oral tradition of work songs and field
haulers. Just constantly surrounded by it. Exactly.
These rhythmic structures were not just cultural
expressions, they were functional necessities.
The syncopation of the singing was used to coordinate
group physical exertion. Like timing the swing
of a hoe. Precisely. To pace the expenditure
of energy under a brutal sun and to provide a
psychological buffer against the sheer monotony
of the labor. It's like the rhythm is a survival
tool. You're internalizing the tempo of survival
itself. That's a great way to put it. And right
in the middle of this, around the age of 12,
he's introduced to the harmonica, which, when
you think about it, it's the perfect instrument
for that specific environment. Oh, absolutely.
It fits right in your pocket. You can take it
out to the furrows. But here is the detail from
the archives that I just struggled to wrap my
head around. The parents' reaction. Yes. He was
mostly self -taught, right? But his parents actively
encouraged him to hone his harmonica skills.
Specifically as an alternative to their occupation.
Right. in a system where survival depends on
every available pair of hands. contributing to
the crop yield wasn't pulling a 12 -year -old
away to practice an instrument, a massive, dangerous
risk. It was a substantial risk, but I wouldn't
classify it as reckless. Rather, it was a deeply
calculated strategic gamble by his parents. The
gamble on his talent. Exactly. They were living
the physical deterioration of that wearying occupation.
They understood that generational sharecropping
was a trap. Yeah. By encouraging his musical
aptitude, they were effectively sanctioning his
only viable exit strategy. They recognized that
his specific talent, his ability to manipulate
the harmonica, to mimic those field haulers,
could be monetized in a way that physical labor
could not. It is a testament to their foresight,
really. And their gamble pays off almost immediately,
right? Because he doesn't just sit on the porch
practicing. He takes it out into the world. EBM's
a professional very early. Even as a young teenager,
he starts performing at local dance halls and
parties, bringing in small wages. I want you
to picture that dynamic. It's incredible. The
12 or 13 year old kid who spends his days in
the soil taking this tiny piece of metal and
wood to a local dance hall at night, playing
for adults and actually getting paid for it.
It changes the entire power dynamic of his life.
It's an escape hatch. We all have something that
pulls us out of our immediate reality, maybe
a book or a specific hobby. But his escape hatch
was forging a professional identity that would
alter his trajectory entirely. That early professionalization
is key. He is learning the economics of performance
before he even reaches adulthood. However, that
localized escape hatch was abruptly interrupted.
By 1914, the geopolitical landscape shifts dramatically
with the outbreak of the First World War. Right.
The whole world changes. Coleman, who is now
roughly 18 years old, joins the United States
Army and is stationed at Fort McClellan in Alabama
for the duration of the conflict. Here's where
it gets really interesting. You got a young man
who has just tasted a bit of localized freedom,
a bit of independence, through his music, suddenly
thrust into the ultimate machine of conformity.
The U .S. Army in 1914. Exactly. Going from the
strict hierarchy of the landowner to the strict
hierarchy of the military command. But he doesn't
just fall in line. Not at all. The military records
and historical accounts highlight a very specific
reputation he developed at Fort McClellan. He
was stubbornly independent, and he regularly
disobeyed the strict military codes of conduct.
The transition from the farm to the fort is really
a lateral move in terms of subjugation. One system
of total physical control is exchanged for another.
Yeah, that makes sense. Yet what we see here
is the crystallization of his artistic persona.
His insubordination doesn't appear to be malicious
or mutinous in a traditional sense. It's more
about his spirit. Right. It's a profound refusal
to have his individuality erased by the uniform.
The response from his superior officers is incredibly
telling. Instead of severe career -ending penalization,
they brand him with a nickname. They call him
Jaybird. Exactly. Which is such a specific evocative
choice of words. It's not just a random insult.
In Southern folklore, a Jaybird is noisy. It's
territorial. It's untamed. It refuses to be ignored.
His commanding officers are looking at this guy
who won't stop making noise and won't just blend
into the ranks, and they inadvertently hand him
the stage name he's going to use for the next
four decades. It is a fascinating transfer of
identity. The institution designed to strip away
his individuality actually provides the moniker
that defines his solo brand. Wow, yeah. But Fort
McClellan provided something far more valuable
than a nickname. This period served as his primary
artistic incubator. Because of the audience.
Exactly. Remember, he was previously playing
small Gainesville dance halls. At the fort, he
is suddenly surrounded by thousands of young
men. The archives indicate he began entertaining
his fellow soldiers on a massive scale. I really
want you to think about the logistics of that.
You are stationed stateside during a global conflict.
You have thousands of soldiers dealing with anxiety,
endless drills and profound boredom. The quintessential
captive audience. And here goes Jaybird Coleman.
He doesn't have an amplifier. He doesn't have
a backing band. He has a harmonica and his own
lung capacity. The level of magnetism required
to capture and hold the attention of a massive,
restless crowd of soldiers on a parade ground
or in a barracks is off the charts. He is learning
crowd control. He is learning how to project,
how to read the energy of a room, and how to
manipulate his instrument so it cuts through
the ambient noise of a military base. He is transitioning
from a musician to a true entertainer. He is
mastering the psychology of a captive audience.
When the war concludes and he receives his discharge,
the contrast between his developed identity as
a performer and the reality of his origins becomes
untenable. You can't go backward. He briefly
returns to Gainesville to work as a farm laborer,
but the momentum of his artistic development
cannot be reversed. The localized environment
is no longer sufficient. You can't put the genie
back in the bottle. Once you've held thousands
of people in the palm of your hand with a D harp
going back to pulling crops in Gainesville, it's
just not going to happen. No, the sensory deprivation
of the farm compared to the energy of the crowd
must have been deafening. So he makes a definitive
move. He and his younger brother, Joe. relocate
to Bessemer, Alabama, with the express purpose
of becoming full -time musicians. The relocation
to Bessemer is a highly strategic geographic
shift. In the early 1920s, Bessemer was a rapidly
industrializing center, a hub of the iron and
steel industries. Right, so a totally different
vibe from Gainesville. Exactly. This meant a
dense population, a growing working class with
disposable income, and a thriving, concentrated
cultural scene. It offered the infrastructure
necessary to sustain a full -time musical career
that rural Gainesville simply could not provide.
And once he's in that environment His work ethic
kicks into an entirely new gear. We hit 1922,
and he teams up with Big Joe Williams. A formidable
singer and guitarist. Yeah, and they start touring
regionally across Alabama. But then he takes
it a massive step further. He joins the Rabbitfoot
Minstrels. That is a major milestone. For those
tracing the lineage of American entertainment,
the Rabbitfoot Minstrels weren't just a casual
gig. This was a massive, highly popular tent
show that traveled all across the South. He spends
two full years on the road with them. The importance
of his tenure with the rabbit foot minstrels
cannot be overstated. We have to contextualize
what a touring tent show represented in the 1920s.
It was huge. It was the absolute pinnacle of
the black entertainment circuit, often serving
as a mobile conservatory for early blues and
jazz musicians. Maui, Rainey, Bessie Smith, and
countless others cut their teeth in these environments.
Legends. For Coleman, a two -year stint meant
relentless performance schedules, adapting to
wildly varying acoustics under canvas tents,
and cross -pollinating with musicians from entirely
different regional traditions. It was a rigorous,
immersive refinement of his craft. It's essentially
a master's degree in live performance. He's taking
the raw, rural blues of Gainesville, the crowdwork
skills from Fort McClellan, and polishing them
in the most competitive touring environment available.
Right. And when he comes off the road after those
two years and returns to Bessemer, his life takes
on this incredible dual identity. This is where
it gets complex. He marries a popular local singer,
and they become a duo. But here is where the
complexities of his persona really start to shine.
The historical accounts emphasize that Coleman
and his wife were devout regular churchgoers.
Yes, they were highly respected. Renowned within
the black community for their powerful renditions
of gospel songs. If we connect this to the bigger
picture, we see a master class in cultural navigation.
During this era, the demarcation between the
sacred and the secular was heavily policed within
the community. Right. You couldn't easily do
both. Blues was frequently stigmatized as the
devil's music. Associated with juke joints, secular
desires and environments, the church explainedly
condemned. Yet Coleman managed to inhabit both
spheres simultaneously and successfully. He commanded
respect in the pews on Sunday morning while maintaining
immense popularity as a secular blues musician
throughout the week. And it wasn't just a divide
between sacred and secular. He was crossing racial
lines too. The accounts specifically note that
as a blues musician, his popularity extended
to both black and white audiences. In the violently
segregated reality of 1920s Alabama. A black
musician drawing enthusiastic white audiences
required a level of transcendent, undeniable
charisma. Truly undeniable. And we get a glimpse
of exactly how potent that charisma was with
this one detail from the archives. He would occasionally
play his harmonica while strolling through the
streets of Bessemer, and a crowd would literally
form and follow him through the town. That imagery
of the Pied Piper of Bessemer is critical to
understanding his specific appeal. It demonstrates
a form of direct, unmediated communication. No
stage, no tickets. There was no promoter, no
ticketing infrastructure, no elevated stage separating
the artist from the listener. He possessed the
sheer acoustic power and magnetic presence to
spontaneously generate an audience out of thin
air. This street -level authority is precisely
what built the foundation for his entry into
the commercial recording industry. He was not
an unknown entity discovered in a vacuum. He
was a proven, highly visible commodity. Which
perfectly sets the stage for the inevitability
of the record labels coming to town. When you
have an artist who can stop traffic and draw
a crowd just by walking down the street, the
industry is going to want to put that on wax.
Of course. And in 1926, that's exactly what happens.
Coleman enters the studio. He begins recording
for Janet Records, Silver Tone Records, and Black
Patty Records. A very busy year. He records solo
material, and he also records as part of a group
called the Bessemer Blues Pickers. This represents
a major inflection point. Janet Records operating
out of Richmond, Indiana, but recording extensively
across the country was a highly influential independent
label. They were pioneers in a way. They were
instrumental in the early dissemination of jazz
and country blues. Securing recording sessions
with Janet Silvertone and Black Patty meant that
Coleman's localized regional fame had been recognized
as commercially viable within the rapidly expanding
race records market. And they were right. The
historical data confirms this viability. The
records he cut in 1926 were commercial successes.
They sold well. But this is where we have to
look closely at the mechanics of the 1920s recording
industry, because the story takes a sharp, brutal
turn. It does. The records are hits. They are
moving units. The companies are profiting off
the sound that Jaybird homed in the sharecropping
fields and perfected in the military camps. But
Coleman asserted clearly and definitively that
he was never compensated for this commercial
success. Not at all. Not a fraction of a cent.
The exploitation within the race records industry
of the 1920s is a well -documented structural
reality. The power asymmetry between white -owned
record labels and black artists was absolute.
It was essentially legal theft. Intellectual
property rights, mechanical royalties, and fair
contracting were virtually non -existent for
these musicians. Artists were routinely offered
a meager flat fee for a session. And frequently,
as Coleman asserted in his own case, even that
basic compensation was withheld. Just shocking.
The label extracted the cultural products, maximized
the profit, and discarded the creator's financial
stake entirely. So what does this all mean for
Jaybird? How does a man who refused to conform
to the US Army react to being brazenly robbed
by corporate executives? He doesn't retreat.
No, he doesn't. Instead, he makes a logistical
pivot that is without a doubt one of the most
jarring and complex details in his entire biography.
Despite his explicit exploitation by white -owned
record companies, the historical record states
that he allowed a charter of the Ku Klux Klan
to manage his touring schedule. What's fascinating
here is the absolute extreme of pragmatism it
reveals. It's just so hard to process. From a
contemporary perspective, this alliance is shocking,
contradictory and deeply disturbing. However,
to understand it, we must analyze it strictly
through the lens of the constraints placed upon
it. Right. We have to look at the era. We are
looking at a hyper segregated, violently oppressive
1920s South. Coleman has just been financially
gutted by the legitimate corporate music industry.
In response, he engages with a hateful, terroristic
organization strictly to achieve a logistical
objective. Expanding his audience to major southern
cities. Exactly. It is a staggering paradox.
You have an African -American artist whose music
is the literal sonic translation of black survival
and labor, utilizing the organizational infrastructure
of a white supremacist group to book his shows.
I want you to reflect on the sheer force of will
required to make that calculation. It's an unimaginable
calculation. How fiercely determined to be heard
must you be to navigate an environment that toxic?
He knew the legitimate record executives in their
nice suits were stealing from him, so he bypasses
them utilizing the Klan's network to physically
get himself in front of massive crowds across
the South. It forces us to reconsider the nature
of compromise for marginalized artists of that
era. This was not an ideological alignment. It
was a chillingly utilitarian transaction. Strictly
business. The Klan, deeply entrenched in the
social and political fabric of many southern
cities at the time, possessed the logistical
power to secure venues, guarantee transit, and
bypass local ordinances that heavily restricted
black movement and performance. They had the
keys to the cities. For Coleman, in that specific
moment, this terrifying alliance offered a more
effective mechanism for touring and audience
expansion than the legitimate industry that had
already betrayed him. It highlights the impossible
harrowing choices required merely to exist as
a visible artist. He viewed the dissemination
of his music as the ultimate priority, and he
was willing to walk through the darkest parts
of the American landscape to ensure it happened.
Yes. And that brings us to the music itself.
What was this sound that he was fighting so relentlessly
to protect and project? The archives give us
a really clear breakdown of his signature style.
Typically when he performed, he used little to
no accompaniment. It was a very raw sound. It
was a deeply solitary sound, rooted entirely
in those work songs from his childhood in Gainesville.
The deliberate choice to perform with minimal
accompaniment is a crucial stylistic marker.
It places the entire rhythmic, harmonic and melodic
burden on his vocals and his instrument. No band
to hide behind. Exactly. The discography notes
his strong preference for high -pitched E and
D harmonicas. These specific keys are bright
piercing and acoustically designed to cut through
dense ambient environments. Like a busy street.
Whether he was on a noisy Bessemer street corner
under a canvas tent with the rabbit foot minstrels,
or playing to a massive unamplified room, the
E &D harps ensured his phrasing remained distinct
and commanding. And it wasn't just the key he
chose, it was the physical way he manipulated
the instrument. The terminology used to describe
his playing is a heavily choked cross harp technique
marked by a rapid hand vibrato. Let's break that
down. Because the physics of it are incredible.
Cross harp, or second position, is the foundational
technique of blues harmonica. You are playing
the harp in a key a fourth above its natural
tuning, which forces you to draw breath in rather
than blow out to hit the root notes. Right, it
reverses the air flow. This allows the player
to bend the reaves, pulling the pitch down to
create that crying, wailing vocalization. But
when you choke it, you are actively restricting
the airflow, narrowing the channel. It creates
a sound that is incredibly tight, gritty, and
pressurized. And then you introduce the rapid
hand vibrato. This is the physical mechanism
of cupping the hands tightly around the back
of the harmonica and rapidly opening and closing
them. Changing the acoustics on the fly. This
action manually alters the acoustic resonance
chamber, creating sharp fluctuations in tone
and volume. To sustain a rapid hand vibrato while
simultaneously managing the breath control required
for heavily choked cross -heart playing is physically
exhausting. I can't even imagine. It demands
immense facial stamina and lung capacity. It's
athletic. You are literally fighting the air
pressure to bend the notes while your hands are
creating this rapid fire acoustic modulation.
It wasn't polite parlor music. It was visceral
sweat drenched and deeply tied to the physical
exertion of his sharecropping roots. He is translating
the bodily strain of agricultural labor into
acoustic pressure. This unique sound kept his
footprint expanding through the late 1920s and
into the 1930s. Yes, his influence was growing.
He helps form and becomes loosely associated
with the Birmingham Jug Band recording sessions
for heavyweight labels like OK Records and Columbia
Records. The jug band movement is a vital component
of this era, characterized by an infectious blend
of blues, ragtime, and folk utilizing both traditional
instruments and improvised ones like jugs, washboards,
and kazoo. It's a very communal sound. His integration
into the Birmingham jug band and his ability
to secure sessions with major national labels
like OK and Columbia indicates that his commercial
viability had not waned. The industry still recognized
his value. Absolutely. However, this period also
introduces a moment of profound artistic rebellion
that perfectly encapsulates his character trajectory.
This is a moment of pure unadulterated agency.
The year is 1930. He goes into the studio and
records a track called Coffee Grinder Blues for
Columbia Records. But a dispute arises over payment.
Sound familiar. Right. Remember what happened
in 1926. He recorded for Janet and Black Patty
the records sold and he asserted he wasn't paid.
He absorbed that blow. But this is 1930. Jaybird
Coleman has evolved. He's not the same artist.
The historical record states that because of
this payment dispute, Coleman actively blocked
Coffee Grinder Blues from seeing wider release.
This raises an important question about leverage
and character growth. In 1926, he was seemingly
powerless against the exploitative machinery
of the labels. Yeah, they just take it. By 1930,
he understands his own value and the mechanics
of refusal. The power an artist held in that
era was infinitesimally small, but he recognized
the one absolute power he possessed. the power
to withhold his labor. The ultimate veto. He
calculated that burying his own art was a necessary
sacrifice to prevent further exploitation. Consequently,
Coffee Grinder Blues remains his rarest record,
not because of a lack of commercial potential,
but as a deliberate, tangible artifact of his
defiance. It's an incredible line to draw in
the sand. If you won't pay me for my soul, you
don't get to sell it. He shuts down Columbia
Records, but we have to acknowledge the reality
of drawing that line. There are consequences.
When you refuse to play the game, when you block
your own releases and demand compensation in
an industry built on exploitation, the corporate
machinery eventually stops calling. As we move
through the 1930s and into the 1940s, the national
recording sessions dry up. The trajectory shifts
profoundly. The archives note that throughout
the 1930s and 1940s Coleman returned to performing
on the street corners of Bessemer. Right back
where it started. He transitioned from a nationally
distributed recording artist, one who negotiated
with Columbia Records and navigated complex touring
logistics back to the localized, highly immediate
environment where his professional career essentially
began. There is a symmetry to that which is really
striking. We started this deep dive with an image
of him in the 1920s. Pied Piper drawing crowds
through those exact same streets. Yes, then he
leaves fights The recording industry wrestles
with the complex logistics of the South, records
his masterpiece, buries it on principle, and
ultimately he comes right back to the corner.
While it is tempting to view this return through
a lens of tragic decline, a fall from commercial
grace, our understanding of his deeply ingrained
independence suggests an alternative interpretation.
A more empowering one. The street corner may
have been the singular venue where Coleman felt
he retained absolute, uncompromised ownership
of his artistic outwint. On the street, there
are no A &R executives withholding royalties,
no toxic management dictating parameters, and
no contracts to negotiate. It's perfectly pure.
The transaction is direct and immediate. It is
simply the artist, the D -harp, the choked cross
-harp technique, and the audience standing immediately
in front of him. He stripped away the parasitic
machinery of the entire industry and just kept
the music. He played on his own terms. But time
moves on. The records note that by the end of
the 1940s, Jaybird Coleman disappeared from the
music scene entirely. He faded away. He fades
from public performance. And on January 28, 1950,
in Tuskegee, Alabama, he passes away from cancer
at the age of 53. 53 is undeniably young, yet
the sheer volume of lived experience, geographical
movement, and artistic innovation compacted into
those five decades is staggering. Yeah, it really
is. But it is crucial to emphasize that his deliberate
withdrawal and his early death did not erase
his sonic legacy. The archival record explicitly
points to the 1992 document records compilation.
compilation titled Jaybird Coleman and the Birmingham
Jug Band complete recorded works in chronological
order in 1927 to 1930. That compilation is the
ultimate proof that the labels couldn't bury
him. Time couldn't erase him. His heavy rapid
vibrato survived the wax cylinders in the 78s.
It lived on to be studied, analyzed and deeply
appreciated by future generations of music historians,
blues aficionados and harmonica players trying
to figure out exactly how we got that wailing
sound. The 1992 document release functions as
a vital act of archival rescue. It ensures that
the uncompensated brilliance of 1926 and the
principal defiance of the 1930s are preserved
as primary texts in the continuum of American
roots music. It's essential listening. Coleman's
life demands that we look beyond the aesthetic
romance of the blues to confront the brutal economic,
physical, and social architectures these artists
were forced to navigate simply to leave a record
of their existence. Let's take a breath and look
back at this incredible arc. We started with
a young boy named Burl. born into the suffocating
trap of the sheer cropping system who looked
at a pocket harmonica and saw a way out. His
escape hatch. We watched him enter the strict
confines of the World War I military only to
refuse to blend in earning the name J -Bird through
sheer stubborn independence. Yes. We followed
him as he learned to command crowds hitting the
road with the massive rabbit foot minstrels and
balancing a life of respected church gospel with
the raw magnetic pull of secular street performance.
Navigating both worlds perfectly. We saw him
walk an unimaginable tightrope, generating hits
for record labels that refuse to pay him, and
leveraging a terrifying infrastructure just to
ensure his folk and work song roots reach the
masses. The ultimate pragmatism. And finally,
we saw him take his power back, entirely blocking
his own record from release and returning to
the street corners to play purely on his own
terms. It is a master class in resilience and
the relentless drive for self -expression. But
as we conclude our analysis today, I want to
leave you with a lingering thought to consider.
OK. When we engage with historical recordings,
our instinct is often to passively consume, to
tap our feet and appreciate the technical proficiency
of the melody. Just enjoying the tune. But knowing
the context of Jaybird Coleman's life, understanding
the absolute paradoxes he was forced to navigate,
and knowing that he actively chose to bury Coffee
Grinder Blues rather than submit to further theft.
How does that change the way you value the art
you're listening to? That's a profound question.
If the historical preservation of an artist's
legacy is predicated on their own financial and
psychological exploitation, who ultimately really
owns the music? That is exactly the kind of question
we need to be asking when we look back at the
origins of American music. Thank you for joining
us on this exploration of a truly uncompromising,
complex original. It's been a fascinating deep
dive. We highly encourage you to go dig into
the archives. Seek out those high -pitched E
&D harp recordings from the late 1920s. Listen
closely to the sheer physical effort in J. Burt
Coleman's rapid hand vibrato. You can hear the
history in every note. Hear the echoes of those
childhood field haulers and experience the sound
of a man who, despite every system built to keep
him quiet, absolutely refused to be silenced.
Until next time, keep diving deep.