I expect him to continue restlessly exploring where he and Sudanese bluenote sound intersect in the eye of the volt. As for the native rights supporter who came off like the inscrutable brave in Buffalo Springfield's dynamic cowboy movie but who totes a cigar store Indian onstage? The rebel in me that thrills to Young's peculiarly suhthuhn quixotic qualities and access to American African's obsession with freedom wants him to account for these lyrics about my ancestral sovereign Wahunsunacock's martyred daughter, Matoaka:
I wish I was a trapper
I would give a thousand pelts
To sleep with Pocahontas
And find out how she felt
In the mornin' on the fields of green
In the homeland we've never seen.
Hey now hey ... my my my. Aren't we both, the contested bodies, still looking for America?