By Mark Miner

    Top grain maple filled his view.  Sweat and whiskey clouded his nostrils.  The last note quavered out slowly, and he uncurled from his guitar, grinned at the bassist and the drummer, and then shook the perspiration from his hair.  The audience stopped clapping, and he leaned into the microphone to speak.
    "Hey y'all, thanks for havin' us out tonight.  We're gonna take a little break here, then we'll be back.  Stick around."  His voice was soft, modulated by his diaphragm and the liquor.  The crowd was pretty quiet, waiting to be wowed.  He would do his best on the next set.  The band left the stage for a few minutes, to pee, to get some water, to tune, but soon they were back behind their instruments.  The amps and speakers were again loaded and leveled at the audience, ready for another salvo.
    House lights dimmed, the guitar tensed in his fingers, and he settled in for some more rockabilly goodness.  The toes were tapping, the beer was flowing, and it was a good night to be at the Rhythm Room.

 

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