A couple of weeks ago, my girlfriend Tricia and I went to see one of my favorite country music artists. His name is Chris Knight, and if you're not familiar with his work, you're in great company almost no one seems to be.
Knight was playing a country music festival in Brooksville, Fla., held at a campground. Most of those in attendance were staying there in tents and RVs. Tricia and I arrived in my pickup truck. We're not much for camping, but I'm a sucker for great songwriting, and there's no one better than Chris Knight (though Tricia might fight me on that).
He played two shows that day one in the "café," a covered pavilion under which attendees pulled their lawn chairs and sat down to listen, and the other on the "main stage," where the squelch of feedback chimed in like part of a bad rhythm section.