Read Online Twang by Julie L. Cannon - Free Book Online

parking lot, idling not more than twenty feet from the Bluebird’s door. He put a beefy hand on my arm and I didn’t even flinch. “You knock ’em dead, okay, Jennifer?”
    “I will, Roy,” I said. “And thank you.” He could not have known all that my ‘Thank you’ encompassed.

    There was no cover charge at The Bluebird Café, and I walked right in, surprised at how tiny the place was! I counted twenty small tables set so close together I wondered how waitresses could move between them. To the left was a bar beneath a Jack Daniels guitar-shaped clock, to the right a stage with spotlights. Christmas lights and a row of framed photos circling the walls made it feel cheerful.
    It was 5:20 p.m., and there were a good number of folks there. Roy told me you signed up at 5:30 for a chance to perform, and then the Bluebird picked about twenty-four people per night. I had no doubt I’d be selected, and I wasn’t surprised when a woman touched my arm. “You’re here for open mic?”
    “Yes ma’am. I’m Jennifer Anne Clodfelter.”
    “Barbara,” she said. “Let’s go ahead and put your name in the hat.”
    “Great.” My fingers were crossed behind my back. I didn’t want to go first, but I also didn’t want to be last.
    “Lineup’s announced and show starts at six. If you’re picked, you’re allowed two original songs. We don’t providean accompanist, and no tracks are permitted, but we do have a Kawai keyboard you’re welcome to use.”
    “Thanks. But it’s just me and my Washburn, and I’m only going to do one song.”
    Despite nothing since breakfast, I wasn’t hungry, so I leaned against the wall, watching the clock over the bar, which ticked along annoyingly slowly. A little before six Barbara climbed onstage. “Welcome to open mic night here at the Bluebird, one of the world’s preeminent listening rooms. Remember our policy.” She held an index finger to her pursed lips and hissed out, “Shhhhhhh! Please keep your background conversation to a minimum. Our ‘Shhhh’ policy is designed to support a listening environment where the audience can concentrate on the song. Speaking of that, we’ve got a wonderful lineup for you tonight—”
    Her voice faded to distant background noise as soon as I heard I got the number-four slot. I ran over the words to “Spooky Moon,” vaguely aware of the first performer: a huge, hulking bear of a man in tight faded jeans and a sleeveless flannel shirt and with a long Charlie Daniels beard. He surprised me with a high-tenor voice accompanied by a saucy guitar line. He whined and wailed and twanged his way through a song called “Gimme Back My Catfish.” There was a smattering of polite applause and a few soft whistles. Then up came a plump, peroxided blonde with a very low-cut spangled top that got some subdued catcalls before she even opened her mouth.
    She introduced her song called “Mayhem Mama.” She wiggled and jiggled around up there a while, strumming and singing way off-pitch on the very first line, but sounded okay in a hillbilly way once she got going. Seemed the audience was more focused on her chest than her music, however, and I was glad for my modest blouse with only the top snap left undone.
    Next came a man in a white suit who reminded me of Colonel Sanders. He sang a song called “Walking the Railroad Blues” with a gravelly Johnny Cash sound. He got a good reception from the crowd.
    When it was my turn, I climbed up onstage wrapped in that magical preperformance euphoria I always got. I leaned in to kiss the microphone, feeling the little electric buzz on my lips that I love. I adjusted the Washburn and moved my brain into that small-town dialect I’d sure heard enough of and that audiences loved, smiling at each face I could see.
    “Good evenin’. My name’s Jennifer Anne Clodfelter, and I’m gonna sing a song I wrote called ‘Spooky Moon.’ I wrote the chorus of this song one summer night when I was eight years old as I