"Rolling Stone Blues"
It was my last night in Havana, Cuba, so I headed to the Malecón, that famous sea-side promenade, for one final stroll. A street musician named Willian noticed my Rolling Stones t-shirt and guitar and called me over. He immediately professed his love for the Stones, claimed that he recently met them in Havana, and started singing “Angie” in what he thought sounded like English. I joined in on guitar, and after playing some more Stones songs, I found myself sipping rum and jamming with his band on “Guantanamera” and other Cuban classics. Their band-leader was constantly on the lookout for heavier tourist foot-traffic (more peso-bilities), and every time we relocated, he’d yell at us to hurry up. Willian also showed me how to play the Tres, a Cuban guitar-like instrument. It was a blast. The next day was not. On a bumpy 7-hour bus ride to the western part of the island, listening to Howlin’ Wolf and reminiscing about the previous night, I wrote “Rolling Stone Blues.”
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