Paradise Jazz trailed behind itself a trail as long and smoky as the devil's, knotted with enough kinks and coils to trip you up. But is seems to me that talking 'bout what's bad and good, right and wrong had no business with Paradise. Paradise was the kind of place where black and white mixed like salt and pepper, cream and cardamon; it settled itself in the space in between one thing and another, the place where myths became legends and legends took off their coats and played the kind of blues to leave blisters on your soul, lesions on your karma. I'm talking 'bout people like Byther Smith and Taj Mahal; even John Lee had dusted his broom in Paradise back in the day, and some might say it was out of place in that little northern town, but what do they know? There's no legislating for what might happen when a person catches rhythms like they got at Paradise. Probable or not, outside of London, I'd say Son Son had the best venue and the choosiest crowd, and it beat like a heart; only thing keeping that cold place breathing.