That Southern Beauty

I walked into Skipper's once Nic Cowan and his band were already playing. He simply oozed sexiness in his cowboy boot-esque black shoes, dark wash boot cut jeans, and vaguely western collared black shirt. I'm from the wrong side of town, he said, but she keeps on coming around. And I believed it.

His singing voice sounded like dark chocolate and well-aged whisky, a rather sinful combination for me. But when I heard him talk, I really melted.

I always get nostalgic for the deep south whenever I visit my home town of Birmingham, and I was particularly romantic about it on my recent trip home to attend my grandmother's funeral. And tonight, when Cowan ended the first song, he gave an understated laugh that suggested an indulgence in the occasional cigarette, and then he made some gracious comment about how he appreciated the audience. And his Atlanta voice sounded like home to me, and my jaw dropped, and my heart skipped a beat, and I danced with his Georgia peach voice, and wished that I had never set foot outside of Birmingham.

Cowan stood on stage and owned every damn song he sang, and graciously gave well-deserved credit to the bassist, electric guitarist, and drummer at all the appropriate times. I wanted to rip his shirt off.