Song Break

It soon became abundantly clear that in the breaks between songs, the audience was allowed to say or do anything they wanted.

The young man in jeans near the riser chose to turn and face the crowd and holler "Whooooo!" as loud as he could. The girl sitting at the side wall table chose to drop tiny, torn pieces of a napkin into her half-full drink while openly weeping. By the sound of it, someone near the bar decided to use this time for vomiting.

And hidden in the shadows of the furthest back corner stood Latigo Flint. Latigo Flint felt like raising one fist, knuckles facing the band, while slowly nodding his head in appreciation. So that's what Latigo Flint did.

I highly doubt anyone else saw the serene grin and goofy eyebrow lift that passed between the drummer and the bassist. It didn't last long but you sure don't need house speakers to hear a contented sigh if you know how to listen. They couldn't be making much, playing this crazy rural bar where an emotion has yet to be born that isn't exaggerated, but it was obviously enough -- and of course, the band's drinks are free.

Their audience was about to double, for from outside came the spluttering mumble of a brawl dying down. In stomped a handful of onlookers followed by the two bloody combatants, arm in arm and already starting to argue again over whom would buy the other a beer.

The front man set his songbook down and craned around to face his band: Whispered instructions and a hand signal or two. Drumsticks clicked out yet another medium tempo 4/4 beat. Simple cords were fretted above a slight feedback squeal.

Will Latigo Flint again raise a fist and slowly nod in appreciation next song break? More than likely. I'd say it's more than likely.