1974, when I was in high school, I took a ceramics class from a teacher named Mr. Rafello. My specialty was ashtrays. The big perk of the class was that we had a community stereo. Students could bring music to play as we worked. After a month or so, Mr. Rafello noticed I was bringing albums by Cream, Jimi Hendrix, the Allman Brothers Band and so on., a compilation of recordings with the Hot Club of France. The album jacket was covered with dried clay and dust, and featured an illustration of a debonair Django. “Jim, you should hear this,” Mr. Rafello said as he put the disc on the turntable. It was like hearing music by divine aliens. I was knocked out: the shredding guitar phrases, the driving quarter-note rhythms, and a sound so real it was like nature.
