On the Floor Under the Hill

There are books that have been, should be, and will be written about the Under the Hill Saloon in Natchez, Mississippi. It attracts me the way few other places have in my travels. It’s like a fine bottle of bourbon: Beautiful when capped. Pleasing to admire. Once opened and poured, it awakens, burns, brings laughter, and, in excess, darkness.

For this post, I’ll simply focus on a detail.

I didn’t ask the drummer his circumstances. Maybe he forgot to pack a stool. Maybe he packed it, but because the band was so crammed into the corner of this late 1700s-built bar, a stool couldn’t fit. Nevertheless, there he was, inches from the floor, camouflaged by his shirt and a Mardi Gras-ed Christmas tree.