The first chord rings out and everything else just… falls away.
The noise.
The pressure.
Sage.
Work.
All of it.
It’s just wood and strings and my voice.
And something in my chest finally loosens.
I don’t even pick a setlist.
Just whatever comes out.
Three Doors Down.
Some old Matchbox Twenty.
A stripped-down acoustic cover of something sad and stupid.
And I sing.
Not polite singing.
Not bar-band singing.
I sing like it hurts.
Like I’ve got something stuck behind my ribs and the only way out is through my throat.
Every song turns into her.
How she drives me crazy.
How I want her.
How she wrecks me.
How I’d still pick her anyway.
It’s ugly and honest and raw and I don’t even care who hears it.
And people feel it.
They always do.
Tips start stacking up in the jar.
Women smiling too long.
Guys nodding like I just told their life story.
Music does what nothing else does.
