The Rhythm Bar was a brick barnacle clinging to the underbelly of Hell’s Kitchen on Manhattan’s West Side. You wouldn’t want to be caught dead there, although a lot of people had been.
At least the Rhythm Bar had live music. And it wasn’t like Conor Bard could afford to be picky. So here he was, onstage with a drummer, a bass player, and a guy with a beat-up electric piano. A white boy singing rhythm and blues.
“Papa was a rolling stone …”
Conor slid his hand along the neck of his Fender Stratocaster. His fingertips pinned the steel strings against the...