The lights went out. I clutched my Rebecca-tini, pulling sugar from the rim of the glass up to my curious lips, and squinted as Charlie Brown frantically ran past. A hum of the guitar still traveled from the stage, the slow crawl of the Dead Confederate set edged to a halt. The darkness and the rumble of crowd conversation prevailed.
We sat illuminated moments later, wagging our heads and allowing the distortion to take its part in the conversation again. It was the conversation, the smoke and lights and rock and roll.
TAYLOR HOLLINGSWORTH & THE SPIDEREATERS
Taylor, striped shirt and easy smile. I followed Sarah up to the stage. I couldn't help but reflect on a night in Austin over a year ago. Travis and I stood side by side, much as we were at this moment, smiling at each other and back at Taylor's flailing sweaty head as he bent over his guitar. Macey. Brian. Dim orange light and crowd of friends in an off-street mexican restaurant. Tonight we stood, under crunch and curses, beers in hands and grins on faces, watching this son of Birmingham burn bright again.
Welcome Home Mister.
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