Gregory Childs
& Heart Lung

Pushing through the wooden doors of the Black Swan, peanut shells crush under your feet as you stare through the lamp-lit entryway and into the back room bar. A band on stage is strumming a tune that sounds strangely familiar yet you can’t quite put your finger on it. Taking a seat on the worn red couch, you listen closer. There’s a strat reaming through countryish Waylon-like guitar runs and bass that numbs the backbone. Drums are clear and classic and your foot starts tapping of its own accord along with the smash of a tambourine as the woman on stage bounces it against her thigh. The vocals are growly and the stories of the songs pull you back to that fall where you spent too much time on the road, too much time looking back. You check the lineup – Gregory Childs & Heart Lung. Some band out of Toronto, outlaw country spun up with grease, confusion and heart bleed. “What’ll you take?” the server asks. You nod over at the stage, the singer heaving side to side, eyes closed as he leans into the drummer, Casino lifted high. “Whatever they’re having.”