With apologies to George Gershwin: white man — particularly this one — can’t sing the blues.
With apologies to the listener: it’s rough and ready, words written and the four parts recorded in about an hour and a half. And I can’t sing the blues.
You know how some people have those tales to tell (usually after a particularly messy night) of waking up next to somebody who, in the cold light of sobriety, really wasn’t their thing? Well, that’s never happened to me (ok, except for a vague anecdote which is far less shocking a tale than I paint it to be).
