“Now, it’s been a while since I played in front of an audience, so you’ll just have to bear with me.”
“And by the way,” Leon said, “there’s a five-dollar cover charge for the band.”
“Oh, fine,” I replied, reaching for my wallet.
“Each,” he stressed. So Otis reached for his wallet, too.
By the time we paid Leon, Laura Lee had perched herself onto the stool like a chubby falcon and began tuning the guitar as it rested on her thighs. “Now, I’ll tell you right off the bat,” she said, “I don’t do Tammy Wynette; I don’t do Dolly Parton; and I do not do Shania Twain. I sing my own songs written by my own self right here at Kickers.”
“Uh…great,” I called up.
“Can’t wait,” said Otis.
“And I apologize in advance for the lack of microphone. Whole sound system got repo’d last Thursday. I’ll jus
