This story ia about an author who believes that the jazz music and the blues were the same and tells the usual same old story. Only to later realize at a small jazz session, with deeper thinking he came to realize much more of the culure, and Americas culure overall. The story seems to takes place New Orleans, with the author walking around one night until he finds himself in front of a building called Preservation Hall, which is a place where jazz musicians would play. Though he admits to not being a big fan of jazz, and he thought the people who played at Presevation Hall were not that good, he entered anyway. Upon entering he notices that it is unusually small, about “twice the size of his hotel room” he states, and that it is dimly lit and was very crowded. At first the author believes that jazz never seemed “risky” enough. After listening to the band play a few numbers he had a hold new take. “The band rambled on, and i realized there was nothing at all quaint about this music; it had always been full of risk, unstable and liable to combust. He then talks about the blacks use of the white mans instruments, and how they found their own tune with them. ” The exchange and re-exchange of ideas between groups”. He then notices that the players of the instruments took it even farther playing notes in jazz people were not used to in that area, he noticed how culture argues, blends, and advances. He then uses this learning to percieve American culture differently. He went from the idea that America had no culture to noticing that it has more culture thsn snyonc can take in. He uses this to explain the melting pot, it bubbles and explodes when we least expect.