Slowly Those Who Create The

You Ought To Be Out Raising Hell. This Is The Fighting Age. Put On Your Fighting Clothes.

The Militant Not The Meek Shall Inherit The Earth!

Sometimes It Seemed To Me I Could Not Look At Those Silent Little Figures; That I Must Go North, To The Grim Coal Fields, To The Rocky Mountain Camps, Where The Labor Fight Is At Least Fought By Grown Men

I'm Not Afraid Of The Press Or The Militia.

But In Shimabukuro's Hands, As He Breaks Out Experimental Jazz, Lays Down A Steady Blues Train, Or Shreds On Rock Anthems, This Little Jumping Flea Becomes A Melodic Monster.