I’ve been fooling around with something new.

And like most things around Fat Mule, I ain’t exactly sure where it’s gonna lead yet.

This right here is my first 360° photo from Fat Mule Studio.

Big thanks to Jocko for donating the 360 camera and giving us a chance to experiment with something I’ve been thinking about for a while.

See, the blues was never meant to just be heard.

You ought to be able to stand in it.

Feel the room. See the guitars leaning against the wall. Look behind you. Look above you. Catch all…

Years ago, I walked into a Guitar Center like I’d walked into plenty of places before.

I left a few business cards.

Played a few guitars.

Didn't think much about it.

A little while after I left, my phone rang.

It was somebody from the store.

He said, “Was that you playing guitar in here a few minutes ago?”

I told him it was.

He said he'd heard me playing and thought I was pretty good. Then he told me they were looking for guitar instructors and asked if I'd be interested in teaching.

Well, hell.

That sounded pretty…

October 8th is getting closer, and that means one thing around here.

King Biscuit time.

Once again, I’ve got the honor of hosting the Front Porch Blues Bash at the King Biscuit Blues Festival.

And when I say honor, I mean it.

The Front Porch Blues Bash is basically one big blues open mic. You never quite know who’s going to walk up there. Somebody might be carrying a guitar. Somebody might have a harmonica stuffed in their pocket. Somebody might just have a song they've been waiting all year to sing.

That's part…

This lawnmower is old.

I mean old.

My daddy bought this John Deere LA145 so many years ago I can't even remember when he got the damn thing.

But yesterday?

That old son of a bitch was still cutting grass.

And I ain't talking about some pretty little suburb lawn where the grass gets trimmed every Saturday before breakfast. I'm talking about high grass. The kind that'll make a lawnmower reconsider.

That old Deere went right through it.

Rusty. Worn. Beat up.

Still cutting.

And sitting there riding that thing got me…

WEUP wasn't just a radio station. Hell, it was a lifeline.

Growing up in North Alabama, WEUP was where I first heard the blues. Back then, it was the People's Radio. If you wanted Black music, soul music, community news, and voices that sounded like home, you turned that dial to WEUP.

AM radio had its own rhythm. It came on when the sun came up and signed off when the sun went down. Everything in between was a soundtrack to our lives. Soul music. Blues music. Community. They weren't just spinning records—they…

  Now, before we get too deep into it, let me say this: if being independent is all you've ever known, it doesn't feel all that strange. Hell, it's just life.

I've never been anything other than an independent artist myself. That's the only road I've ever traveled. Sure, I've been around musicians who signed record deals. I've known folks through the years who had labels behind them, managers making calls, and people helping move things along. Their journey looked a whole lot different than mine.

I can…

That's a damn good question.

When did I first hear the Blues?

Truth is, I think I heard it the day I was born.

Maybe it was my first cry.

Now, I didn't know it was Blues, of course. A newborn baby don't know nothing about categories, record stores, or music historians. All I knew was I came into this world making noise, trying to tell somebody I was here. Ain't that some shit !

But if we're going to answer this question honestly, we have to talk about what people mean when they say "the Blues."

That's where…

There comes a time when you gotta quit waiting on the music industry to call your name like they giving out winning lottery numbers.

Man, fuck that.

I done watched too many good musicians grow old staring at their phones waiting on streams, playlists, labels, managers, blue checkmarks, and industry folks who don’t give a damn whether they eat or not.

Meanwhile the songs just sitting there dying on hard drives.

That’s a tragedy.

So I made a decision.

I quit waiting.

What I’m doing now is direct-to-fan…

I started sending these emails back in July of last year. I made a promise to myself, and to you, that I’d show up once a week. Since then, we’ve been rocking along—up and down, in and out, through the thick and the thin. Aint that some shit !

I’ll be honest with you: this is the damnest thing I’ve ever done, trying to find the right words for my fans every single week. But here we are again. Another Monday, another reckoning.

If this journey has taught me one thing, it’s that Mondays roll around a whole lot…

You can never say quite enough about this crazy Alabama weather. Just when you think you’ve shook the chill, she puts the covers back on ya.

I stepped out for my walk this morning and the air had a bite to it—a lot cooler than it’s been trailing lately. I had to layer up, throwing on the jacket over the hoodie just to get my stride right and keep the blood moving. It’s a strange kind of harmony out here right now. On one hand, you’ve got that winter sting lingering in the shadows; on the other, you’ve got…

Seems a little odd to me to have a 70° day on 13 February I mean last week it was 9° now it’s 70 I don’t know what to say. Let’s enjoy what do you think?

My daughter ran in the house, screaming Daddy , Daddy the neighbors house is on fire. I said “how do you know”  she said , you can see it . I ran outside and Wow , Big fire , firetrucks were already there. 
  I’m just pray everybody made it out ok . That’s big news here in Swancott Alabama. 
  It’s cold weather,  people trying to stay warm . No telling what happened. God bless us all.

 When it 30 degrees in Alabama, it just ain’t a whole lot to talk about getting down into the 20s tonight. Y’all stay warm.

Some of y’all know I’ve been wrestlin’ with this blog thing for a long damn time.
Never quite knew what it was supposed to be.
Never posted with any regularity.
Hell, I didn’t even know what to call it, so I named it The Diary of a Bluesman and let it sit there like a catch-all drawer.

Same way I use YouTube.
Like a closet.
I just throw stuff in there. Songs. Thoughts. Half-finished ideas.
Figured maybe one day I’d organize it… or maybe somethin’ good would rise to the top on its own.

Then today, the strangest idea…

  Now listen here—this ol’ Ovation been with me a while. 'Bout four, maybe five years back, I snatched her up from A to Z  pawn shop off the highway. She was sittin’ there like a lonely black woman with a story to tell, just waitin’ on somebody who could hear the music. I called her Second Hand. Not ‘cause she ain’t worth much—but ‘cause that’s the life she came from. Like me. Like most of us, really.

Now she had her charm—dat round back, deep tone, and that sparkle in her top like a old flame still…

I used to rent my stage lights, back when I was playin' downtown at Amendment 21—a real classy joint. Slick floors, polished glasses, and the kinda shine that made you wanna wear Sunday clothes on a Friday night. I had a regular slot there for a couple years, and I wanted that stage to look like it meant somethin’. So I’d drop forty bucks every weekend, rent them lights. 

Forty dollars. Every damn weekend. And I did that dance for a good while, thinkin’ I was savin’ money.

Then one day, the cat at the rental…

Yeah, man. So I ended up with this little rental car—a 2025 VW Jetta.
Now, back in the day? I used to want a Jetta. Thought they looked sharp as hell, had that slick lil’ style that made you feel like you had some place to be even when you don't.

But lemme tell you—they sure done changed a lot since the ones I used to look at.

This one I got now? Black. Clean.
Looks good, don’t get me wrong.
But I never really been one for black cars. Down here in Alabama, black cars turn into fryin’ pans in the sun. Step in one…

Here I go, slippin’ off down the road to the beer store, not thinkin’ much of nothin’ but gettin’ it done. Sky was cloudy, sure, but that ain’t unusual around here this time of year.

I’m cruisin’ through Limestone County, Alabama—wind pickin’ up a little—when I hear ‘em.
Them loud tornado sirens.

Loud as hell and sharp as a freight train comin’ outta the dark.

I keep on toward the store, cautious but steady. When I get there, the clerk’s lookin’ a little nervous. Says they got a tornado warning for the Cherokee…

Every time I step on stage with the Ric Molasses Patton Blues Band, I feel like I’m walkin’ in the footprints of giants. And I don’t take that lightly. This blues thing—it ain’t just music. It’s tradition, it’s memory, it’s spirit. And a whole lot of that spirit lives in how you carry yourself when we standin’ in that spotlight.

See, I came up admirin’ the greats. Not just how they played, but how they showed up. Cats like Mr. Walker—Robert Billbo Walker, and O.G.Filmore Slim for those that know—man, them…

Alright now, Huntsville.
Clear your plans. Dust off your boots. And bring your ass on down to The Coppertop on Friday, May 17th — 'cause the Ric ‘Molasses’ Patton Band is about to turn that stage into a cathedral of soul.

This ain’t your Spotify playlist.
This ain’t some half-assed cover band in khakis.
This is real damn music — born from heartbreak, healed by rhythm, and carried on the backs of three men who know what it means to mean it.

We talkin’:

🎤 Molasses on the mic and harp — sweet, heavy, and slow enough…

By someone limpin’ but still movin’

Let me tell you something—my foot’s been hollerin’ again.

Not just achin’. I’m talkin’ that sharp, hot, kind of pain. And this ain’t the first time, either. Nah, it comes creepin’ in once, maybe twice a year like a thief in the night. Makes me stop in my tracks. Makes me wonder.

Hell... maybe it is gout.

The First Time the Devil Knocked

Years back, this all started after I messed up my ankle workin’ in the yard. Next day I couldn’t walk. Had to hobble my ass into the doctor’s…

Sometimes, you just need somethin’ sweet.

Hadn’t had no ice cream in a long while. Been runnin’, workin’, thinkin’—you know how life do. But today? I figured I deserved a little joy. A scoop of comfort. So I said, hell with it, I’m goin’ down to the dollar store, grab me a treat, and chill at the park. Just me, some ice cream, and a little stillness.

So I headed down to Flamingo Park—Ttiana, Alabama. My stompin’ ground. Sat there for a spell, lettin’ the breeze talk to me, watchin’ the world go by. Then that…

Every time I roll through Arkansas, there’s one place that calls me like a blues harp on a Saturday night—Delta Dirt Distillery down in Helena.

It ain’t just a place to sip—it’s a place to feel somethin’.

A Legacy in Every Pint

Delta Dirt is Black-owned and bold, a family-run distillery makin’ waves with bourbon, vodka, and gin—but that bourbon? Lord, that bourbon.
It’s somethin’ else.
Smooth. Rich. Grown in the same soil that raised 'em—sweet potatoes and Delta pride.

They call it “a glass of dirt,” and I love…

Yeah, I’m sittin’ here eatin’ chicken soup, just lettin’ myself rest.

The weather turned on me outta nowhere today—Alabama got that way sometimes. One minute it’s sunshine and short sleeves, next thing you know, the wind got teeth and the sky’s gray. Just like that, we dipped right back down to freezing again. Ain’t even had time to put on my good coat.

But I been knockin’ out a good bit of outdoor work lately. Feels good to move, to build, to do. That sun had me feelin’ like spring was finally coming’ in.…