Either in the early Seventies or the early Eighties at the latest, I went to hear Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee in a Cambridge, Massachusetts, café of renown. They were pretty old at the time, but they were still a joy to hear. It was also amazing to watch them perform. Sonny played harmonica while Brownie played guitar and sang. Sonny, who was blind, was famous for his whoops and hollers, as well as for his imitations of trains. They appeared inseparable late in their lives. Listening to a recording by an old blues singer in a Zagreb café this morning, I could not place his name even though his voice sounded familiar. Then I tried to remember Sonny and Brownie’s names. Try as I might, nothing came of it. And I ended up feeling quite despondent about my poor memory. But I was surprised by it some ten hours later. “Sonny and Terry,” I almost shouted out loud in the evening. I immediately went to the World Wide Web and quickly realized that I got the names wrong. Actually, I got one name right, but I split it into two names by mistake. Still, I was delighted by the unexpected recollection. The brain is the greatest mystery, no doubt. It kept working for so many hours until it came upon the tidbit that was perfectly sufficient for me to find out the rest. “Sonny and Terry,” I now repeat over and over again and shake my head in awe.