Black Rhythm - Original - Cab Calloway and His Orchestra

Down in Louisiana

There’s a grand piano-playing man;

He knows that they can’t kid him

'Cause he’s got hot rhythm in his hand

The blues that he’ll compose will thrill you

From your head to your toes

He called his song «Black Rhythm,»

'Cause his black hands did it 'neath the moon

The keys he plays on sweetly

And you’re left completely in a swoon

The melancholy strum

Mixed with the rum-tum of melodious blues

When he plays the blue note

And adds a new note

You’ll think that he wrote a symphony

But he’s just improvising

On a southern mammy melody

You’ll quit your pouting

And start a’shouting

No need in doubting he knows the keys

He can lay on the white ones

Can play on the black ones with ease

The way he plays Black Rhythm

Makes the gang stick with him all night long

Forget the hour is late

They hear him syncopate his mournful song

A’humming like the breeze

A' strumming lightly on those ivories