I'm not ordinarily one to walk out to the dance floor, but I'm drawn to places where things are starting to happen.

Band competitions, based on audience vote, are blessings for bars as they are curses for bands. The way it tends to work is by every band bringing in their own people, who arrive in time for their guys, and then proceed to drink all night. I've an old friend who plays in such a band, and other old friends who know how it tends to work, so I've seen the phenomenon unfold a few times now. (I tend to show up early - I like having an excuse to hear different music live, without risking an entire evening on it.)

It always seems to me that it's awful for the guys to draw the first time slot. Just a few fairly sober people are listening, clinging to the tables and walls, judging them carefully. Those guys compete for votes against bands who play for crowds willing to shake and be shaken, down at the persuadable end of the night. I understand that lots are drawn to arrange the bill, and the final judges try to even up the scores; but it has to change what you can do up on stage.

On my most recent venture, my friend's band dodged some of that curse, playing third on a night with five bands. They were in the right spot to make the night come alive, with a style that just might make that happen.

During their introduction and the first few bars of their set, about a dozen people trailed out from the tables and the walls to the dance floor in front of the stage, territory that had yet to be taken that night. As the bass began to drive the slide guitar and the steel, about another dozen followed, including, in the end, even me.

There was plenty of space for me to hang out in the back of that crowd, even as it began to move with the music. I like to be where I can take a bit of a census; if it's a competition, I want to know what the score is. Musically, the score was mounting up nicely; I'd expected that, having seen these guys enough to know how well they'd get things going.

My census noted a sedate couple near to me; a lady in her late forties with a man slightly older, somewhat ahead of me to the left. They had on their drinkin' clothes: comfortable jeans, nothing showy. You could tell they'd arrived as they'd leave, together, though I couldn't quite tell if they were regulars of the band or of the bar, or someone hearing the tunes for the first time.

She seemed to be moving in her spot just as the band intended, leaning on her man to her right. Him more cerebral, still judging carefully; like me, somewhat more grey-haired than you'd usually see on the dance floor at these things.

They didn't draw my complete attention when the song got to the end of its solo, when the slide all alone began to resolve back into just part of the roar of a full-throttle band. The bassist's thrumming warned of the impending change, in time for her to join the drums kicking it all back in.

Her right hand counted the last measure of that solo on his ass - one, two, Three, FOUR. Open-palm smacks, not the kind that can hurt anybody - but she showed no sign at all of holding back, no worries about possible bruising, no misgivings that half a bar could see. Last damn thing I'd have expected of them that night.

The rush of sound the band brought then was enough to cover my snickering - couldn't help it, the moment was brilliant. She just kept on moving as the song finished, and all the sudden, he too was moving to the music, not nearly as well, but as motivated.

It's rare to catch the moment that the evening starts to happen, but it's always strangely charming when you do.

(My guys took first place. You should come see them in the next round; ass-smacking is strictly optional.)