Opening silence — a little air before the first voice enters.

And there's the voice: Muddy, sliding in low and long on that "Ooooooh, yeah."

A shout answers from the side of the room, right on the tail of the line.

"Everything, everything" — the song opens like a warm greeting.

The pattern never budges: hit, gap, voice, answer — and the band leaves the space bare instead of filling it in.

Now the story starts, way back — "when I was a young boy."

Every stop hands the floor straight back to the voice; the whole track runs on that trade.

His mother told him he'd be "the greatest man alive" — and he sings that old prophecy like it already came true.

Then the turn: "but now I'm a man, way past twenty-one."

The band never crowds him — low end spare, room to lean and pause wherever he wants.

"I'm a man" — the first flat-out statement, and the answer from the side is instant.

Then he spells it, letter by letter, and every letter gets its own shout back.

M, A, N — "that represent man."

Then the other word — B, O, Y — spelled out just to be waved off.

"That means Mannish Boy" — and right on top of it, "I'm a man!"

"Full grown man" — and from here the names start stacking.

Under all those names, the band hasn't added a thing — same figure as the first minute.

"Rollin' Stone" — now he's citing his own legends, with "I'm a man" landing between the names.

New verse, same single chord — and the boasting goes cosmic: he says he made the moon come up two hours late.

"Wasn't that a man?" — the question does the bragging for him.

The spelling comes back around, tighter this time — and the answer stretches out long: "yeaaaah."

One more "full grown man," a shouted "Man!" — and then the voice steps out and lets the figure roll on its own for a while.

"Man, child" — three minutes in, it loosens inside the same groove: more ad-libs, more answers.

Underneath, the low end stays spare — every pause he takes lands in clear air.

Now the details get playful — "little Johnny Cocheroo." They just keep getting better.

"I can make love to you, woman, in five minutes time" — and then, "ain't that a man?" The side answers yeah.

Third time through, the spelling's down to shorthand — "N," "that represents I'm grown," "no B." Even the argument's condensed.

Now the voice steps away and the figure just keeps turning — the band holds the ground for him.

Dry strikes, live gaps — nothing rushed, nothing filled in. That steadiness is what lets him wander.

And the voice walks back in right on the figure — "I'm a man, child."

The last minute spends itself in bursts — "well, well, well" — and then the hurry calls start.

After all that bragging: "don't hurt me, don't hurt me, child."

Underneath the pleading, the figure just keeps right on turning.

The groove finally eases back, the pattern loosening into ending gestures — a last "yeah, yeah" rides out on top of it.

And he ends it with a laugh — "that does it" — and lets the room go quiet.