I want a supply of old blues music wherever I go. By that I mean to slip into a skin of songs that fizz and crackle; real good ones always should. Body like a vinyl, finger like a needle. Over the wreck and record. I remember thinking who am I to pretend I get them; deals with the devil, bruised ash fingers and a cage made out of ribs. But I got a cage out of ribs and when it shivers to the right chords, man it shivers right through bone. Bet they never thought they’d sing this long, this far, or seep in this deep. But real good ones always do. They howl and then they find you. Body like a vinyl, finger like a needle. Old blues music, wherever I go.
— Liyana Dizzy, 24