Scattered applause breaks out in the audience. Beers are raised and whistles are shrieked. The excitement’s contagious and a crackle of adrenaline shoots through Griff. He hasn’t realized how much he missed the stage. Two weeks away has been too damn long.
Alabama wiggles her brows. “Should we do it?” she asks Griff.
He meets her wild smile with one of his own. “Aw, what the hell.”
Into the mic, he says, “We’re the Copper Hounds, and you know the drill. Get your voices ready, Clover.”
With that, they launch into one of the best sets of their lives. Ten tight songs. Alabama stomps her boots, Griff shreds his strings, their collaboration the most perfect fusing of country, rock and roll and folk. They sing long and loud into the night, Alabama’s smooth-silky voice mixing with Griff’s gravel grit.
Every song thunderous, every guitar strum heartfelt.
It’s their sound. Not the manufactured made-up Griff and Alabama that Nashville taught them to be. Tonight, they’re the Copper Hounds, back on the stage that made them.
Back to the lives they wanted.