St. Louis, Missouri — 1927.

A stringing ballad accompanied by poetic verse had echoed amongst the bridge, coming from none other than a certain violinist.

"Old Man River! That seems far too austere a name for something made of mirth and rage." He bows his violin as he theatrically glissades atop the railing of the train-line bridge. "O, roiling red-blood river vein. If chief among your traits is age,"

He plucks a string. "—you’re a wily, convoluted sage." He chuckles, playing a note.