I never wanted to be no rock star.

Never had them dreams.

I’ve been playing guitar a long damn time, but fame was never what pulled me toward the instrument. I never pictured my name up there in lights. Never dreamed about being the next B.B. King. Hell, we already had a B.B. King. The world didn’t need me trying to be another one.

I just wanted to play.

My mama bought me my first guitar when I was little. I had to be a baby. Maybe five, six, seven years old. Somewhere around there.

I’ve had guitars around me…

Maybe it’s this damn heat that made me remember this story.

I was young.  Young enough to have more nerve than sense.

We lived out in the country, and there was this girl who rode my school bus. She and her brother lived way back off the road. I mean WAY back.

Every morning the school bus would pull up and damn near have to wait on them to come walking out of that field toward the road.

I knew where she lived.

And one hot summer day, for reasons that made perfect sense to a young fool, I decided I was gonna ride…

I was sitting there the other day beside a dumpster parked in front of my dad and Mama’s old house.

That dumpster will preach to you if you sit beside it long enough.

Because sooner or later, somebody’s gonna clean out your house.

And mine.

That’s a hell of a thing to think about.

Every day, somewhere, somebody is standing in an old house opening drawers, pulling boxes down from closets, digging through cabinets, and trying to decide what stays and what goes.

Keep.

Give away.

Throw it in the dumpster.

And somewhere…

I’ve been around the record business a long damn time.

Long enough to watch it change. Then change again. And every time somebody tells you the latest change is gonna “save the music business,” you better check and see who the hell they’re talking about saving.

Because it usually ain’t the little Blues man.

One of the biggest changes was streaming.

Streaming opened some doors. No doubt about that. An independent artist can put a record out today and somebody around the world can hear it tonight.

That’s pretty…

I guess the smoke is finally starting to settle.

And when I say smoke, I mean the fire of getting a new computer, gathering up recording tools, learning what I’ve got, and getting everything ready to make some music.

I’ve got quite a few tools now.

So I suppose it’s time to get busy.

Funny thing is, once you finally get the tools you’ve been wanting, another question shows up:

What the hell are you gonna do with them?

I don’t know where to start. Aint that some shit !

Maybe that’s all right.

Lately, I’ve been…

Everybody wants to talk about microphones.

"What mic are you using?"
"What's the best condenser?"
"Do I need to spend a thousand dollars?"

Hell, that's usually the wrong question to ask.

You can own the finest microphone money can buy, but if you're recording in a room that sounds like a concrete slab or an empty kitchen, your recording is still gonna suffer. A fancy microphone can't fix a bad room. In fact, it makes the problem worse.

Here's why.

Technology done come a long way. These days, you can spend two or…

Every time I get stopped at a railroad crossing, I don't get as mad as I used to. Matter of fact, I smile.

Because that train reminds me of learning to play the guitar.

You're sitting there with somewhere to be. The engine's running. Your foot's tapping. You're thinking, Damn, come on already. Then your mind starts wandering. "Maybe I can turn around. Maybe there's a side road. Maybe I can beat this thing somehow."

Sure enough, somebody always tries.

One car cuts left. Another hangs a U-turn. Somebody's…

Some weeks leave your boots dusty. Others leave your soul full. Last week did both.

This Monday found me doing something I don't do very often—sleeping.

I finally made it back home from Helena, Arkansas, after spending the week at summer camp, and I guess my body had been keeping score. I eased back into my chair to rest for a minute, and the next thing I knew, I'd slept away most of the day.

Truth is, it felt pretty good.

I'm not making excuses. I'm just plain tired.

When you spend your days pouring into young…

I woke up this morning with music already playing in my head.

No radio. No record spinning. Just a melody floating around. It got me wondering where songs really come from. Funny thing , I've been writing and playing music for years, but I'd never stopped to think about it quite like that.

The whole process is a real mystery.

When you break Western music down, it's really just a bunch of mathmatics. Chords. Scales. Timing. Patterns. There are only so many combinations that still sound like music. When you look…

I'm sure there's a lot more to Alabama blues culture than I know, especially being from the northern part of the state. I've been around a while, and I've seen my share of it, but I can only really speak on what I lived.

 Growing up around Huntsville, blues wasn't something you studied. It was something you heard. Something you felt. It lived in the clubs, the VFW halls, the juke joints, and the people who walked through those doors every weekend.

I can remember places like the Nightlight Club, the River…

Can you believe somebody asked me why THE BLUES still matters?

Before I answer that, we need to get clear on something.

What the hell are you talking about when you say "the blues"?

Because depending on what you mean, the question doesn't even make sense.

Are you talking about the blues as Black people's voice finally being recorded and preserved? Is that what you mean?

If so, why wouldn't that matter?

Why wouldn't the voice of the people who helped shape American music matter?

Why wouldn't the stories,…

Everything moves fast now.

Too damn fast.

Fast shipping.

Fast content.

Fast food.

Fast forgetting.

Some days it feels like the whole world is running toward nowhere.

Then you hold something handmade.

And the clock slows down.

The Old Man's Knife

Years ago I met an O.G. carrying the same pocketknife he'd owned for years.

Thing looked like it'd survived three wars.

The handle had worn smooth.

The blade had been sharpened so many times it was crooked.

I asked him why he kept it.

Said, "Because it still works."

That answer had…

Somewhere between the hiss of those old records and the crackle of a tube amp lives a truth most folks forgot about.

Perfection never made nobody feel a damn thing.

You can spend all day polishing a song until it shines like a new pickup truck sitting on the showroom floor. But shine ain't soul. Never has been.

The blues taught us all that.

I had a birthday coming up, and during one of my livestreams some of my folks started whispering around in the comments.

“Hey… let’s get Ric something for his birthday.”

Now see, I thought they was joking at first. But behind my back, my VIPs and fans got together and started cookin’ up something special. And I’ll tell you what — there ain’t nothing sweeter than watching good people come together for somebody they care about.

Cap’n Dennis Ruley.
Miss Biscuit Head outta Arkansas.
Dr. Moto.

Man… they were…

Every time I look at this picture, man, it makes me smile.

That’s my brother from another mother right there. My brother Spider.

We first met back during those hard COVID days over in the Juke_9:30 and the Smokehouse zoom Juke Joint. While the world was falling apart, a bunch of us came together through music, laughter, and friendship. Spider became more than just a supporter — he became family. He’s been one of my loyal patrons for a long time now, and I’m thankful for him every single day.

The funny thing…

I just wrapped up the weekend, 3 shows, and now I’m starting to see everything come in.

Pictures from the shows. Messages from folks who were there. Somebody even sent me a link to a newspaper article, and then there was a video from a Delta news station.

I’m just sitting there looking at my phone, and it kind of hits me… I’m watching myself on TV. Ill be damn ! That’s wild.

Then I see —Brotha Ric—doing his thing, Delta style we brought all weekend. Real, raw, no pretending.

I had to watch it more than once,…

Some things don’t come from thinking.
They come from somewhere deeper… somewhere older than you.

This piece been following me a long time.
I didn’t sit down one day and decide to write it. Truth is, it showed up on me — same way a memory does when you ain’t looking for it.

I remember being a teenage boy, out there working on a car with my daddy. Grease on my hands, sun beating down, just trying to figure things out. We found some chains — heavy ones. Didn’t look like much to us back then. We used them like they…

Sometimes people ask me about the pieces I wear in my beret.

They look at it like it’s decoration.

It ain’t. 

That’s a black onyx cabochon. Smooth top. No sparkle. No shit
The kind of stone that don’t beg to be seen—but somehow always is.

I got it from my grandmother.

She was born in 1910. Came up through the Roaring Twenties, back when folks say everything was loud and wild.

But where she was… it wasn’t about noise.

It was about survival.

Her and my grandfather built something down here in Alabama.
A juke joint.…

Yesterday was Easter.

Yeah… the day we talk about getting up.

Not just in some faraway, holy-story kind of way—but that deep, soul kind of rising. The kind that come after you been knocked down, counted out, left laying in the dirt longer than you should’ve been.

Resurrection.

That ain’t just about our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. That’s a mirror if you brave enough to look in it.

Because if you really sit with it…
that story ain’t just His.

It’s yours too.

It’s mine.

It’s all of us.

See, I been thinking… a whole…

I been sitting with this thing… letting it roll around in my head like a slow blues on a scratched record.

My mama… she was just a young girl when she made up her mind about something that most folks back then didn’t even question much.

She wasn’t picking no damn cotton.

See, I don’t even know if I was born yet when she told me about it, or maybe I was just too young to understand—but I hear her voice clear now. She said she heard about some work out at Redstone Arsenal over in Huntsville Al. Didn’t know much…

I been playing a long time. Long enough folks start asking the same tired question like it’s part of the setlist:
“You ever played with B.B. King? You ever met him?”

And I always say, “Nah… don’t think I have.”

But truth is… every time they ask me that, my mind don’t go, It goes somewhere else. Somewhere strange as hell.

I met this woman one time—this real, I ain’t dressing this shit up none.
She told me she was B.B.’s girlfriend. Said they had a place he used when he came through this part of the country.

Now I…

You ever sit there staring at a blank page like it done stole something from you?

Yeah… me too. More often than I care to admit.

Writing ain’t never been my strong suit. Truth is, half the time I don’t even know why I bother. But then again… I do. It’s therapy. Plain and simple. Get it out your chest before it rots in there. And maybe—just maybe—somebody stumbles across these words one day and feels a little less alone. That’s happened to me before. Somebody else’s words caught me when I was slipping. So I…

The Mojo Mug

Yeah. A Blues Coffee Cup With Instructions.

I know how it sounds.
But if you know the blues, you already know.

This ain’t just something you drink out of.
And it damn sure ain’t no magic.
It’s a Mojo Mug—built out of history, and a little everyday truth.

Let me tell you how it works.

What a Mojo Ever Really Was

Back in the day, a mojo wasn’t about luck.
It wasn’t about getting over on nobody.

A mojo was something you kept close.
Something you touched every day.
Something that reminded you of who…

Just that one line on that cup says so much . “Blues is our power “  It could say our superpower,  but the truth needs to be dug out . Let’s dig ! 

You can feel it in the air right now.
Times a little rocky. Ground shifting under our feet.
Lotta noise. Lotta uncertainty. And yeah—fear grabs folks by the collar.

You especially see it in the young people. Eyes moving fast. Minds scattered. Wondering if the future even wants them. That kind of fear don’t just happen by accident. Somebody always benefits when the people scared, unfocused, second-guessing their own strength.

But listen to me.

We don’t have to live afraid.

This ain’t the first hard season humanity…