Flynn Bohannon lived a gypsy’s life, traveling from town to town, venue to venue, sharing the music of his homeland. To his way of thinking, there was nothing better than seeing new faces, new places, every few days. If things began to feel a little stale, he picked up stakes and found somewhere new. Sometimes he traveled in a group, jamming with other musicians he met along the way. Other times, like now, he was a solo act. Either worked fine for him. It was all about the music.
He’d landed in Boston three weeks before and had been working his way down the Eastern seaboard, playing in pubs, bars, taverns, and coffee shops—a different town or city every night. Some shows had been pre-booked. Others, like the pick-up session he’d had in that pub in Baltimore, where the bartender had turned
