The gateway to freedom...was somewhere close to New Orleans where most Africans were sorted through and sold. I had driven through New Orleans on tour and I'd been told my great grandfather had lived way back up in the woods among the evergreens in a log cabin. I revived the era with a song about a coloured boy named Johnny B. Goode. My first thought was to make his life follow as my own had come along, but I thought it would seem biased to white fans to say 'coloured boy' and changed it to 'country boy'.

Sometime we'll try and reach for things we know we each want and don't deserve.

Don't let the same dog bite you twice.

Music is music; you can't change rock and say well this is punk rock and this is acid rock or rockabilly.

Don't bother me, leave me alone. Anyway, I'm almost grown.

Everything I wrote about wasn't about me, but about the people listening.

He never ever learned to read or write so well, but he could play his guitar like he was ringing a bell.