If I ever get that chance to travel through time, I’m bound without a second’s thought for the Harlem Square Club, January 12, 1963 to dance to Sam Cooke singing live. I’d kept my New Year’s resolutions down to two, and a secret, but they were as follows: one, to put my hand on my hip, and two, to let my backbone slip. That sounds flippant, but I meant it, the best of life happens in a state of deep play, of high song, in a dance, in the brain of the body that’s dancing. Listen to this album and even two resolutions seem superfluous and I have just one, this: Don’t fight the feeling.