FYC- AMERICAN ROOTS PERFORMANCE. You might know this chick – or one of her ilk. And, by chick, I don’t mean it as a put down. She’d be happy to hear you call her that. Born into a Small Rural Town below the Mason Dixon Line, at 13 she borrowed some makeup, pretty clothes, the entrance fee and entered the local teenage beauty contest. She won. And

FYC- AMERICAN ROOTS PERFORMANCE. You might know this chick – or one of her ilk. And, by chick, I don’t mean it as a put down. She’d be happy to hear you call her that. Born into a Small Rural Town below the Mason Dixon Line, at 13 she borrowed some makeup, pretty clothes, the entrance fee and entered the local teenage beauty contest. She won. And kept winning. In 1990 she represented her state in a national contest. She came in fifth. Not bad, right? Blessed with natural beauty, a glorious singing voice and, with the help of a nip of bourbon here and there, ambition, she won the lead in a Big Broadway Musical. Life was great. Men chased her. When the show closed, she took it hard. Her marriage to her sweet hometown boyfriend miscarried. What to do with the last of her cash? That bottle of bourbon she’d always kept on the floorboard of her car was empty. She could use some moisturizer and a meal. Screw it. Evan Williams Kentucky Bourbon ($12) will do fine, thank you. Later tonight she’ll charm some old guy into buying her a burger at the local tavern. It was painful to watch my friend spiral downward. But there was no breaking through. Believe me, I tried. She was unconcerned. “When yer over the hill, ya pick up speed,” she cackled in my face. So, all I could do was write this song. There’s a faded memory - That flickers through her night - Love can take her home again - But until she sees the light...