It opens on a hard band hit, then leaves a pocket of air.

Muddy slides in on a long oh yeah, like the room already knows the shape.

Hear the pattern lock: hit, gap, his voice, a shout back, hit again.

Still just warming the floor—everything, everything—over those same stops.

Side answers keep popping in: get it, whoo, yeah. The band isn't filling the gaps; it's guarding them.

Now the story starts. Young boy, age of five.

Mother's line lands like a promise he can cash in public.

And he flips it: but now I'm a man, way past twenty-one.

I'm a man—then he spells it so nobody can miss the word.

M, A, N: that represent man. The answers punch each letter home.

Then the correction: no B, O, Y.

That means Mannish Boy. Title right there in the spell.

He stacks the names he owns—lover's man, rolling stone, hoochie coochie man—while the stop figure just keeps resetting the floor.

Outside with his mate, moon two hours late. Still one chord, still those dry hits under him.

Wasn't that a man—and right back into the letters.

Same no-B refusal, stretched answers and all. The groove hasn't changed materials; he's just turning the claim again.

Full grown man—then a hard Man shout and a longer held gap.

Man, child. The pocket loosens a little here—more room for him to lean and grin between hits.

Love boasts next, still riding the same stop-time.

Kansas trip, second cousin Johnny Cocheroo—he's naming the whole myth in one breath.

Straight to the line now: little girls, five minutes time.

Ain't that a man—then N again, grown, no B. The spell keeps doing the work.

After that no B, he lets the stops breathe. Shouts flicker, guitar nips in and out, voice holds back.

I'm a man, child—back in after the long hold.

Last stretch starts to spend itself in bursts: well well well, then hurry.

Don't hurt me, stacked quick—half plea, half laugh in the timing.

The groove finally loosens. Pattern breaks into ending gestures.

That does it—and a laugh, then the room drops out.