By the turn of the 20th century, the old negro spiritual had given birth to two gifted and desirable daughters. Their names were The Blues, and Rock and Roll.

The Blues was the daughter of the field, dark with the heat of the sun and the toils of the era, her voice had a depth that could only be forged by pain. Her tones were low, her chords were minor, her swings were heavy, and as her mother was "spiritual" so she became an enchantress; hypnotic and melodic, able to remove the listener from the cares of their day to day and ease the burden through her weeping wail. She was reefer, she was alcohol, she slowed things down, she numbed the pain. She gave way for dances that swayed and swooned and when she really hit the spot she caused your eyes to close, your head to shake slowly from left to right, and your mouth to contort into the same position as if you'd just sucked deep into a lemon. Coincidentally, she was the child of bitterness, and was passing down a tradition of making lemonade, a recipe that would catapult her offspring to greatness for years to come.

Rock and Roll was the daughter of the house. She was the result of a soul forced by power. A power that enraptured, a power that enraged. Naturally, her skin was fairer, her features more... passable. Her movements were swift, her chords were major, she dared to scream. Also the daughter of a spiritual, she in turn became a priestess complete with chants and anthems. Raised in the midst of dichotomy, her voice was one of rebellion, though she hid it with cleverly veiled dance songs. She didn't care much for lemonade, she had been to the vineyard, No, her drink of choice were the grapes of wrath. She was cocaine, she was too much alcohol too fast. She could get you in a world of trouble, especially if you was black in them days. See she had her way with white women, plus she didn't like to follow customs and traditions. She was not an escapist as her sister, rather the years of a Tantalusesqe existence had driven her to angst and ultimately madness. But her music was pure unadulterated power. One of her songs could change your mind, one of her albums could change your life. She was often despised by her sister and her sister's children partly out of envy, and partly out of fear, the old "yous gonna get us in trouble with massa" syndrome. So for a time she was an outcast, a vagabond, a wanderer, a mullato not seeming to fit in anywhere. She was called a hound dog and bathed in muddy waters. But deep down in Louisiana close to new Orleans, she had a son whom she told would be a man....