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. Sitting on the worn red couch, you listen closer.
There’s a Strat reaming Waylon-like guitar runs and a bass line that numbs the backbone. The drums are clear and classic; your foot starts tapping of its own accord along with the woman on stage who hits a taped-up tambourine. Growly vocals sing stories that pull you 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, country spun up with grease, confusion and heartbleed.
“What’ll you take?” the server asks.
You nod over at the stage, the singer heaving side to side, eyes closed, his guitar lifted high.
“Whatever they’re having.”
There’s a Strat reaming Waylon-like guitar runs and a bass line that numbs the backbone. The drums are clear and classic; your foot starts tapping of its own accord along with the woman on stage who hits a taped-up tambourine. Growly vocals sing stories that pull you 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, country spun up with grease, confusion and heartbleed.
“What’ll you take?” the server asks.
You nod over at the stage, the singer heaving side to side, eyes closed, his guitar lifted high.
“Whatever they’re having.”
