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Can a rhythm and blues song change the world? That's the question at the heart of veteran author Mark Kurlansky's new book, Ready for a Brand New Beat, a chronicle of the spectacular success of Motown hit "Dancing in the Street."

Released in the summer of 1964, "Dancing in the Street," by Martha Reeves and the Vandellas, emerged at an explosive time in American history. John F. Kennedy had been killed the year before. The U.S. was on the brink of major combat in Vietnam. Racial tensions continued burning hot in the Deep South, and "race riots" were causing chaos in urban areas from coast to coast. Meanwhile, in Detroit, Berry Gordy's Motown record label had made the conscious decision to remain apolitical with its music, which consisted mostly of bouncy, flouncy love songs by an all-black stable of artists. But then came "Dancing in the Street."

Much of the first half of Ready for a Brand New Beat can sometimes read like filler, with Kurlansky giving pages and pages of details on the history of jazz, Detroit, the civil rights movement, the Vietnam war, the automotive industry — even the Warren Report. Thankfully, in the second half is when the narrative starts to sing. That's when the reader is introduced to the large and fascinating controversy one tiny 2 1/2 minute song can create.

According to Martha Reeves and the Motown staffers who wrote "Dancing in the Street," the song was little more than a party anthem, a nice ditty about celebrating wherever one feels. To others, however, "Dancing in the Street" was understood to be a protest song about airing one's grievances in the middle of America's large and unequal metropolises: "Philadelphia P-A / Baltimore and D.C now / Can't forget the Motor City ..."

Civil rights activists began playing "Dancing in the Street" at rallies before they spoke to excite their audiences. In 1965, following another summer of urban racial clashes, an article in the black activist magazine Liberator read, "We are coming up! And it's reflected in the riot-song that symbolized Harlem, Philly, Brooklyn." The song to which Liberator was referring, of course, was "Dancing in the Street." It wasn't long before reporters were asking Martha Reeves if her tune was "a call to arms," a query that would bring Reeves to tears. Reeves was deeply saddened by the idea that her music was ever associated with violence, righteous or not.

Ultimately, Ready for a Brand New Beat offers no definitive answer about whether "Dancing in the Street" was meant to inspire urban insurrection. But it does offer interesting historical tidbits and a good look at the difficulties associated with cultural interpretation. I'm also glad it makes sure to touch on the fact that Motown founder Berry Gordy ended up coldly abandoning many of the original Motown greats when his company became big enough to move to Los Angeles. Even Martha Reeves got left behind, her contract cut without a word after coming back from having a baby. "Dancing in the Street" may have bolstered a great many protests, but at Motown it was more of the same.

Cord Jefferson's work has appeared in Filter, The A.V. Club, MTV, The Root and National Geographic.

Calm largely prevailed after a jury acquitted George Zimmerman Saturday night in the killing of Trayvon Martin. Law enforcement and community leaders had prepared for potential unrest, and a general riot panic had been set in place for months. Slate's Dave Weigel sums up the fears:

" 'The public mind has been so poisoned,' wrote Pat Buchanan last year, 'that an acquittal of George Zimmerman could ignite a reaction similar to that, 20 years ago, when the Simi Valley jury acquitted the LAPD cops in the Rodney King beating case.' In fringe media, like the Alex Jones network of sites, it was taken for granted that a Zimmerman acquittal would inspire a race war. The only dispute was about the scale."

Tucked between Russia and Turkey, the Republic of Georgia is renowned for great food: cheese dishes, pickles, breads and stews. This is a cuisine that you should not miss.

And on summer evenings in the capital, Tbilisi, the air is fragrant with the smells of one of Georgian cookery's highlights: grilled meat, or shashlik.

You can find good shashlik at restaurants with white tablecloths, but the very best in all Tbilisi is said to be at a roadside stop called Mtsvadi Isalamze. It's an unassuming place with rows of wooden picnic tables in an open yard.

The grill is a brick hearth where Giorgi Kavelashvili follows the traditions of his native Kakheti, the easternmost province of Georgia and the nation's wine country. Kavelashvili is 19, but he grills with absolute confidence, because, he says, "In Kakheti, everyone knows how to make shashlik. So I studied it from my childhood."

One of the secrets, he says, is the wood.

Here, shashlik is grilled on burning grapevines. Kavelashvili demonstrates by hefting a big bundle of grapevines onto the hearth and setting it alight. The vines burn quickly, leaving a heap of finger-sized coals that he rakes into an even bed of fragrant heat.

"Georgians, and especially Kakhetians, know from very, very ancient old times that only [this] type of wood is much more better to make shashlik," explains Nani Chanishvili, my guide and translator. She's a linguist, a professor of the Georgian language and a connoisseur of Georgian food.

What the Georgians of ancient times discovered, she explains, is that the aromatic smoke and high heat from the vines seal in the juices of the meat.

Perhaps the best test of the griller's skill is how well he cooks kebabs made from finely minced meat, usually lamb, that's mixed with spices and squeezed by hand onto the skewer.

Good timing is everything, because Kakhetian kebabs are cooked very close to the coals, and it's easy to overdo them.

Giorgi's kebabs pass the test perfectly: They are juicy and full of flavor from regional herbs, spices and sweet-smelling smoke. They come served with fresh, chewy Kakhetian bread and, of course, Georgian white wine.

Why white? As Chanishvili explains, Georgians like to drink a lot of wine when they speak — and "that means, only white wine, only white," she says, "because it is not possible to drink, for example, four, five, six, seven liters of red wine — then you will be dead. That's not right. But white [wine], yes, you can."

Chanishvili doesn't drink much herself, but she insists that her father could drink as many as 14 liters of white wine during a single feast. Then again, a real Georgian feast is an event that can go on for 12 hours.

According to Georgian tradition, that time should be spent enjoying food, making long and witty toasts, reciting verse and singing.

But be warned: Even 12 hours wouldn't be enough time to sample all of Georgia's delicacies, especially the best of the country's shashlik.

Unfortunately," says Chanishvili, "it's not possible to eat everything."

The book then leaps across decades and states to Burbank, Calif., where we first meet young Clifford, who lives with his unflaggingly upbeat mother and stroke-afflicted father, "Like flies trapped in amber, the three of them stuck / Like so many others dealt cards of rough luck." In a particularly lovely passage, Cliff's mother correctly susses her artistic son's sexuality when she informs him that there will be both male and female models in his drawing classes:

Remembrances

David Rakoff: 'There Is No Answer As To Why Me'