Cosy Sheridan

She wore Baskin-Robbins spoons for ear rings. They matched her top and sometimes hid behind her hair as she played her guitar and sang. He mostly stood by, tapping his fingers on his bass guitar and singing harmony, although sometimes he sang the lead, and the final number was his. There were three dozen or so of us sitting in the room just off the hallway watching them play and listening to them sing.

She sang about Persephone and Psyche and Iphigeneia. She sang of her grandfather's music at the head of the parade before his faculties started to leave him. She sang of memories of her mother's house. They made us cry, and they made us laugh. Their music filled the room without a microphone, and they looked into our eyes as they sang.

This was a house of music — guitars and banjos on the walls and on the floor and a piano next to where the musicians played. There were pins on a map marking the places where the hosts had been. There were photographs on the wall with many smiling faces. There were two dogs with wagging tails who wandered around greeting each one of us and thinking maybe a cracker or two might fall their way. And they opened their house to us for an evening of music up close.

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Cosy Sheridan and TR Ritchie
playing at the home of Tom and Elizabeth Pittman

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