Page 42 of Where the Music Grows

“All right,” I say, my voice steadying as I settle into it. “Let’s see if we can keep that energy going.”

I start with one of my older songs, something I wrote back on the farm when the nights felt endless and the days blurred together. It’s slower, more melancholic, but there’s a raw honesty in it that always seems to connect. The crowd quiets almost immediately, listening to me. No one is talking over me. All eyes are on me. It’s humbling, really, knowing these strangers are hanging on every word.

By the time I hit the second verse, I can feel the room shift. People swaying, heads nodding, and there is more than one woman eyeing me like I’m a prized bull up for auction.

I play a few more songs, some the regular crowd has heard before. And then, because I’m emboldened by the crowd’s energy, I decide to test the new one I’ve been working on. Jinnie came by last night and we worked on the song. With her help, I felt like it was pretty nailed down.

Now, it was time to test it. It was a little more rock, or as Jinnie called it, dirty country.

“Okay, guys,” I say and take a long drink from the water bottle. “I’ve got a little something different. This is a new one. Real new. This one is going to make you want to stomp your feet and maybe bang your head. You ready?”

Several ladies throw their hands in the air and scream.

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” I tease.

It’s fun to flirt. These women are a few years older than me, but that doesn’t matter. It’s all about selling the music. And myself. If they want to flirt, I’m cool with it. But I’ve got to be careful. I don’t want some big-ass cowboy trying to kick my ass.

I strike the opening chord, and the room seems to hold its breath. The song starts slow, almost deceptive, with a low, thrumming rhythm that feels like a storm brewing just over the horizon. Then, like a crack of thunder, I slam into the chorus, my fingers flying across the strings. The energy in the room explodes. People are on their feet, clapping and stomping along. Even the guys who’ve been leaning against the back wall all night are nodding their heads, caught up in it.

I glance out at the crowd as I sing. I see Aggie behind the bar with a huge grin on her face. It feels like a live wire has been fed into the bar. Whatever it is, it fuels me. I pour everything into the song, letting it rip through me like wildfire.

By the time I hit the last note, the place is electric. The applause is deafening, louder than anything I’ve ever heard before. People are shouting for an encore, but Aggie steps up on stage and puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Let’s give the man a break,” she says into the mic, her voice cutting through the noise. “He’ll be back tomorrow night.”

There are groans of disappointment, but they’re drowned out by more cheers as I step down from the stage. My heart is pounding, my shirt sticking to my back from the sweat. I feel like I could run a marathon or write ten more songs.

“Encore!” someone shouts from the back.

I grin, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “Y’all are gonna make me work for my supper, huh?”

Another roar of approval. I sneak a glance at Aggie, silently asking her if I can do one more. She rolls her eyes and leans over the mic. “One more song, you animals. Y’all are going to get me in trouble for working this boy to the bone!”

The crowd roars. I hold up my finger as I down the rest of the tea that’s gone cold, but it still gives my throat a little soothing.

I play two more songs before finally calling it. My fingers ache, my voice is shot, but damn if it doesn’t feel good.

As soon as I step off the makeshift stage, people swarm me.

“That last song—where can I buy it?” A woman with purple streaks in her hair grips my arm.

“You got a YouTube channel?” A guy in a flannel shoves a napkin at me. “Sign this?”

I blink, overwhelmed. “Uh no YouTube. Not yet, anyway.”

Aggie rescues me, herding me toward the bar with a firm hand on my shoulder. “Give the man some air, folks.”

She slides a water toward me as I collapse onto a stool. “Holy shit.”

Aggie laughs, counting a stack of bills from the register. “Told you you were good.”

“Who are all these people?”

“Word’s getting around.” She nods toward a group in the corner. “That bunch drove up from Carbondale. Said someone at the diner told them about you.”

I take a long gulp of water, trying to process. Strangers. Driving hours. For me.

A thought hits me like a lightning bolt—Dad should see this.