In the Music Bar (Motto: We don’t care what key, clef or time signature you are, as long as you have a good time”), Classical sidles up to The Blues. “How’s it hanging, Bluey? Still no takers?”
The Blues looks, well, blue. “Everyone likes you, you’re so enduringly popular. Even I like you, with your Mozart and your Brahms and your Bach. Where’s Jazz tonight?”
“Modern Jazz is off on a break. An unscheduled, freeform break. It’ll be back when the tune starts. Trad Jazz is living it up next door. They love it there.”
“Yeah, but they have you to thank for that too, really, don’t they? I need a champion, someone to carry my voice beyond my humble roots.”
“Well, find someone then. Have another bourbon and then find someone.”
“You’re right, of course. What would I do without you, Classical?”
“Oh, you’d find a way to rock. Speaking of which, hey Rock!”
The Blues stares out the window and thinks “I need to find a person whose veins I can fill with the bluesiest notes there are. But who?”
It is September 16, 1925. The Mississippi river shines.
The Blues hears a baby’s cry, and knows its search is over.