David-Matthew Barnes Joyriding With Soul Singers Yesterday, I thought I saw Chaka Khan flowing down hill in a faded red El Dorado. Shotgun was Aretha Franklin, decked out in a fur trimmed leopard spotted hat that sat sassy on her head. A rush hour wind slipped through the open car windows, slid across the dash, tugged like an invisible summer string of joy. Rapture on the radio, they belted out note after perfect note, sang and snapped to the sultry bass line of a hit by Prince. I pretended not to notice them from the feet aching bus stop where I dreamed that they gave me a lift.

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