Page 29 of The Cannon
The music starts.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Before the Luke Bryan lyrics begin, I’m talking to Bristol.
“Come on now… all the eyes are watching.”
”Country Girl” starts and my voice lifts and reaches to the back of the room. Everyone’s ignoring my less-than-perfect voice. I can carry a tune, but no one is ever going to mistake me for a singer. What I lack in tone and breath control I make up for in enthusiasm.
This is one of Bryan’s earlier hits and I’ve been singing it for years. Bristol is mighty encouraging. And so is the reaction from the patrons. Girls are yelling their approval and I hear a whistle or two. There’s nothing like a country song to make a room come alive.
I sing directly to Bristol, personalizing a few of the lyrics to make it hers. Instead of Georgia, I’m stompin’ my boots in Memphis mud. The crowd responds. I call her by name, ordering, ‘Bristol, come on and do your thing.’
Shake it for me, my girl. The song pleads a man’s case. Baby you know what to do. Wrap me in your arms like Grandma’s yarn. Pretty girl shake it for me.
The pitch of the room builds as I perform to the woman I’m hoping will become my girl.
As I move into the last verse, Bristol’s arms raise in the air and she really gets into the song. Much to the crowd’s entertainment. They call for her to dance. Here’s my spot.
“Get up here, country girl! Dance for me!”
To wild applause, she stands and sashays to the stairs, climbs and dances to my side. It’s sexy as all get out. The girl can move.
“Shake it for me, girl!”
The riled-up audience is clapping and stamping their feet to the beat. There’s a look in Bristol’s eyes that sets me on fire. As the song comes to the end, she and I let loose a pent-up holler.
“Shake it!” I sing the last words.
That went better than anything I could have hoped for. I take her around the waist and lay one on her in front of God and his partying karaoke lovers.
We taste like rye whiskey, which is more of a turn on than it sounds. There can’t be much of the infamous absinthe in the cocktail’s recipe, but something has bit us both. It’s a dreamy kind of revved-up drunk. I feel more uninhibited than usual. That’s saying something.
“My turn!” Bristol commands. “Go sit down.”
Total shock as she pushes me away and takes the mic. I jump off the edge of the stage and return to my seat.
The MC rushes onstage and huddles with her. You can tell he wants the mood of the room to keep going. They agree on a choice and he goes backstage to make it happen.
Bristol looks like she’s having the time of her life. The horse has been unbridled. It’s out of the barn now and pawing at the ground. Here I am baby, let me ride.
After a few moments the music starts.
A graceful finger points to where I sit.
“Aretha Franklin is one of Memphis’ favorite daughters. This one’s for you, Sawyer. I hope you like it,” she says as if she’s the diva herself, addressing the packed concert hall. Her eyes look a little sleepy, but it works for what comes next.
“Looking …”
It’s not what I expected. The ballad, “A Natural Woman”. For me. And her voice? It’s beautiful. Soft and throaty mixed in a witch’s potion. She’s putting a spell on me. On the room. It quieted with the opening lyrics.
The way she caresses the microphone, how she reaches effortlessly for a note. Like she’s been doing this forever. American Idol much? Every time she says the iconic lyric she locks eyes with me. I’m a goner. She works the stage like it’s the most comfortable place on earth. How come nobody has mentioned the fact Bristol has this talent?
As the song comes to its end, her voice softens. Then softer still, until it fades with the final words. The applause starts before the last note sounds. I’m up on my feet. I kind of feel teary. What the hell? She doesn’t hold her gaze on me or the crowd. Suddenly she’s become embarrassed. Taking the steps and snaking her way through the tables she reaches my side.
My embrace holds her close as the applause continues.
“You’re incredible,” I say.
“You’re drunk.”
