Pushing back the wooden doors of the Black Swan, peanut shells crush under your feet as you stare through the lamp lit entryway and into the back room bar. A band is on stage strumming a tune that sounds strangely familiar, yet you can’t quite put your finger on it. You take a seat on the torn red couch and listen closer. There’s a strat reaming through countryish Waylon-like guitar runs and bass that numbs the backbone. Drums are clear and simple – your foot starts tapping of its of accord. The vocals are growly, sort of grungy Willie Nelson and the stories of the songs pull you back to that lonely fall where you spent too much time on the road, too much time looking back. You’re intrigued and check the lineup – Gregory Childs & Heart Lung. Some band out of Toronto, outlaw country spun up with a Cobain grease, emotional confusion and classic heart bleeds. “What’ll you take?” the server asks. You nod over at the stage, the singer heaving side to side, eyes closed as he leans into the drummer, Casino lifted high. “Whatever they’re having.”