‘Cause I’m really tempted to say, “This is the end of an era.” But that seems a bit hyperbolic. Especially when I consider I’ll be doing this three more times in the next 18 months.
After some deliberation, I’ve decided that the place I’ll miss the most in Georgia is The Swallow in the Hollow. This place offers some of the best live music I’ve ever experienced, along with above average barbecue.
I’ve seen the show twice now, the first time by accident. We’d gone for dinner, and when the hostess asked us if we were there for the show, we assured her that we weren’t. Fortunately for us, the music started before we were done with our meal, and, as soon as it did, we knew we had to stay. The two times I’ve been there, the performance has consisted of three or four singer-songwriters playing their guitars. No percussion. No back-ups dancers. No lightshow. Loud enough to enjoy, but not so loud as to worry my audiologist. From what I gather, these are the folks that write all those hits that win Grammys and Country Music Awards.
Perhaps this wasn’t what I expected to find in Atlanta. (As my friend’s boyfriend said, “When are they going to start singing about guns and bling?”) But one thing’s for sure: there ain’t no Swallow in Stamford.
