Food for the Soul

It was a warm, late September evening, and slow strains of bass and steel guitar drifted into the night as we drew near the entrance of the little bar in Inglewood. It had been a brutal day, and my soul was a bit tender. We stepped inside, and I was greeted by the cheerful sight of a busy barroom and a tiny stage against the back drop of a burgundy velvet curtain.

We sat and ordered drinks, and then I turned my attention to the three-man band before us. Harmonica, acoustic guitar, steel guitar, and bass. Their name was The Tim.Buck.Two, their style was country with a twist, and they were very good.

I watched the bass player dance around his instrument, the back of which was pleasantly scarred and battered. A sure sign of love. Then I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me, feeling the vibrations course through me like electricity.

Before long, I found myself smiling and tapping my foot to the beat, the weight of the day sliding from my shoulders as they moved to the rhythm. The whole experience brought to mind a similar barroom, a few years and many miles away, where I used to sit for hours and let a different, but no less wondrous, music pour over and through me. I had honestly forgotten the sheer enjoyment of listening to a musician play his or her passion from a tiny stage.

It was a good night.