Cassandra Madison, A reviewer, March 1, 2005 A good book with a great storyline - FOUR STARS     At first this reviewer found it hard to stay with the story, mainly because of my unfamiliarity of the world of Opera. But diligence and persistence pays off for one who commits to reading the entire book. The story gets interesting as a man during the time period where slavery in the US is large and rampant. Peter Stohl visits his old friend whose letters boast of wealth and in-breeding on the backs of his slaves. He decides that a trip will provide both a much needed vacation and a chance to understand his American friend’s obsession with slavery. What he finds during his visit leads him on path to rescuing, educating, respecting and developing the raw vocal abilities of a meager slave. Of course he meets with plenty of opposition and almost fails in his attempt to buy the slave who he envisions will become his next opera diva. The book is short in length but the author, Lynn Kazi does very well in telling the story and keeps the reader interested with the constant flow from chapter to chapter.

Excerpts from the new, revised COTTONLAND SONGSTRESS, now available: Darkness made a helpful cover for Abram’s escape overnight, but the sinister eyes of daylight tracked his burly presence on the rolling prarieland. If he could make it across the Alabama River’s northern bend, the Pine Ridge might keep him hidden. Never mind that he was more than three-hundred miles from the nearest free state. Even if he reached the northern Alabama border, two full states choked in slavery’s grip stretched before him. But Abram’s thirst for release chafed him every minute of his thirty years. Every ripple across his chestnut-shaded flesh demanded a man’s overdue privileges. He was tired of gritting back moans under a leather stropping, tired of spitting dirt from shoveling trenches, tired of pocketing one-minute wages for two week’s work, tired of a griping belly growling to be full just once. Through one merciful night, no master or overseer bossed his food intake, ordered hay bales heaved across his broad back, or decided on the perfect wife for him. One free night might extend into two ...       “You stop right there, boy, or we’ll blow yer fool head off!”    All patrollers seized Abram by handfuls beyond the leaping dogs’ reach, then Woodley stepped in. “Hold it! Before justice is passed, I want y’all to meet my guest, Mr. Peter Stohl from Vienna, Austria. Stohl, I was hopin’ you’d meet my neighbors under more peaceful circumstances, but this is as good a time as any. I’m sure my fellow Coalition members wouldn’t object to me offerin’ you first lick at this nigger!”   The other men formed a wide circle around the European and the bondman. Peter spoke above the yelping dog team. “Where I come from, we believe in a fair fight, man to man. I’d be honored to thrash this runaway for his offense. Like to take a swing at me, boy? You haven’t the nerve to strike a white man! Had your hands in too much hog slop to know how to fight! You’re a halfhearted nigger, aren’t you? A cowardly slave, the worst kind! While you lit out like a scalded pig, which of these white men shared your wife’s cabin last night?” Abram’s fist slammed into Peter’s mouth. The patrollers circled closer, as Peter countered with a right cross to Abram's jaw.  The provoked black hurled a jab into Stohl’s gut. Peter connected a shortwinded uppercut to the slave’s chin. Abram rocked back, then lunged a head-butting grip around Peter’s pale throat, dropping both rivals to the ground. The hounds barked, patrollers yelled, cheering on Stohl and cursing Abram. The brawlers rumbled in the dirt, their kicks discharging the same explosive impact as their punches. Peter rolled on top of Abram, backhanding the slave across the face. Abram lifted Peter by his neck and threw him aside, scrambling to his feet an instant before his white opponent. Abram delivered right and left blows to Peter’s battered frame. The unstoppable black trounced heated fists into his reddened enemy, both men trading blow for forceful blow. Peter stayed toe-to-toe in a mismatch, outclassed by a stronger, angrier fighter. Abram’s reckoning of his last moments on earth gave him determination to whip some stuffing out of a white man.                 *         *         *        *        *       *         *         *        *        *   By the time the evening horn sounded, only a few field slaves didn’t hear the news about Abram’s fatal torture. The house slaves met them back at the quarter. Norlice wasted no time to speak free and clear. “Y’all hear ‘bout what happened?” “Oh, mercy Lord, mercy Lord!” Portensia sobbed. “He almost got hisself away befo’ they catched him,” Dicey said. “It was him an’ Cap’n Stohl fightin’!” Norlice added, drawing a gaping stare from D’Orleans. “Patrollers standin’ all around, watchin’ ‘em pour it on!” “An’ it was Abram what swung the first punch!” Biddy said. “What kinda fool nigger would up an’ wallop a white man,” Laban wondered, “in front of a pa’cel’a patrollers holdin’ guns?” “What kinda white man would let hisself git whomped by a nigger, an’ not kill ‘im right off?” D’Orleans argued. “Don’t make no difference,” Hamp said. “Just ‘cause he fetched you up to the great house an’ turned you aloose after singin’ some parlor music, don’t mean he ain’t got no mean streak!” “An’ whilst we is at it,” Biddy turned to D’Orleans, “what’s all that he be tellin’ you these dark mornin’s, out by the tree?” “Nothin’,” the girl dodged. “Just some story ‘bout a good soldier an’ a bad soldier.” “Yeah? What about ‘em?” Elect faced her. “Nothin’ much,” her voice dropped. “Don’t look like nothin’ much from what I seen,” Cleta sneered. “What did them soldiers do that you had to know about?” “I told y’all,” D’Orleans bristled, “it ain’t nothin’ but some white man’s foolishness.” “Mo’ devil’s talk,” Portensia said. “This whole business,” snapped Cleta, “him tellin’ such a tale to a young gal in the dark mornin’ means he can call on the spirits to bust through our conjure, if you acks me.” “Fo’ once, Cleta might be right,” Biddy agreed. “them pretty white mens is the biggest tricksters of ‘em all! Marsa Woodley is a hog, Marsa Addax is a snake; but I’d keep me a closer watch on Cap’n Stohl than any of ‘em!”                                  *        *         *         *         *        *        * The slave car had no windows and little ventilation. A foul-smelling hay pile rested in a distant corner. The sour air didn’t seem to affect an older black man and woman who shared car space. D’Orleans backed herself against the wall opposite the secured doorway, and slid herself down to the floor. Only after she sat did she notice the silent, elder couple, since they blended into the dark, wooden surroundings. They never took their constant stares off the girl since her abrupt entry. D’Orleans decided to test whether those folks had any tongues. “Mornin’.” “Mornin’,” they mumbled, still staring. “How far is you goin’?” asked the woman. “My new marsa say three hun’ered miles.” The modest girl smoothed her skirt, giving the couple more action to gaze at. “You ain’t never been on no train befo’, is you?” noted the man. “I ain’t never been stared at so hard since the white folks was pokin’ me up fo’ a sale.” “Sassy nigger,” muttered the woman. “Why that stinkin’ hay over there?” D’Orleans pointed. “You’ll find out,” the woman sneered, “when yo’ water can’t hold fo’ no three hun’ered miles.”

 “This yo’ first time onboard a ship, ain’t it, gal?”

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