Elmo rocked his fingers over the bridge, holding the chord in tremolo dissipation as long as he could. “Hey little Elma, what have you done?” he sang as the metal feedback whined out.
“Hey little Elma, who’s your only one? Hey little Elma — shotgun! It’s a nice day for, well, just about anything. It’ll hit the low 60s today, but the wind will pick up. Tomorrow, well, more of the same but cooler,” he sang.
Elmo ripped back into a guitar solo and thrust his fist high above his bowed head.
“Stop! Stop!”the club manager shouted. “I like your style, kid, but it’s too derivative. I want to hear more of you — more! More! More!”