In theory, the lyrics the white boy is singing ought to enrage the audience with their racism and sexism. In theory.
Gold Coast slaveship
Bound for cotton fields,
Sold in a market
Down in New Orleans,
Scarred old slaver know
He's doin' all right,
Hear him whip the women
Just around midnight—
But 20, even ten rows back, the words can scarcely be heard. They exist not as nouns and verbs, but as a physical mass, a hot, indistinct slur like sausage meat: ground out of the famous lips, eaten by the mike, driven into banks of amplifiers...
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