On a Saturday night at the Portuguese American Club in Oak Bluffs, Martha's Vineyard, a group of guys quietly enter the building, amps and instruments in hand. No roadies.
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Falling asleep late Sunday night, all felt right in the world. My world at least. Gazing up at an ink-black sky littered by stars, my thoughts drifted elsewhere while I shifted restlessly on my friend's futon.
My dad once told me two kinds of days exist on the Vineyard: Beach days and garbage. On Thursday, by the grace of God, we finally received the former.
Some African-Americans, seemingly born under an auspicious star, apparently have always gathered to share their leisure pursuits with others who were similarly favored.
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