“We’re a jazz band. The New Yardbirds.” Kevyn’s words were short bursts of enthusiasm. His eyes gleamed in the backdrop of the neon lighting. His hair had grown long over the fall and was now curling over the back of his collar.
“Jazz!” the guy said, his eyes growing large. “I thought you were a Southern rock band. Yardbirds, that’s slang for chickens, isn’t it? What the hell! Kids don’t care about jazz!” Sweat formed on his brow.
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