We stood beside the path that led from the door to the first visible break in the crowd. So we saw every soul that entered.
Bikers in bandanas, what looked like a convention of no-neck mafiasos, apparent regulars of old/young ballroom dancing couples who practically had the songs choreographed, Rice football players and their dates -- they were all there at The Big Easy on a rainy Saturday night. They were all there to hear the blues.
What makes a guitar a living entity like that? Capable of entering your soul and touching places you've long since allowed to go numb? What makes a graveled voice older gentleman become a soothsayer of sorts, telling you the secrets you've hidden from yourself? What generates the heat that melts bodies into one so that they flow rather than dance across the floor?
God, I love live music.