Chuck Ragan

Hot Water Music. Awesome

Rumbleseat. Awesome.

Chuck's solo stuff. Awesome.

The man writes great rock songs and even better roots-influenced tunes. I have been listening to his song, "Do You Pray?" pretty much non-stop now for two weeks. The lyrics are easy to relate to, the harmonica work is great, and the melody sticks with you.

He is yet another musician--in a long, long line--who makes me wish I could carry a tune.

Here's to you, Chuck.

This House Was Built For Moving Out

III.

Speeding through the Eisenhower Interstate System was one of the more comforting activities that occupied our long days. Sustaining at 65 mph was much easier on our van than the ups and downs, stopping and going, winding and unwinding of back roads and city streets. Nevertheless, each mile we travelled, regardless of terrain, was a challenge. The cycle repeated itself like clockwork until we returned home: Brandon dreamt, Schuyler divided his time between electronic puzzles and cellular conversations, Robin crafted his annals, and I observed. I considered every painted white line that slipped beneath our shuttle. I committed to memory each willow tree that hung its head in sorrow as we sped by. The gas stations, fast food joints, and rest areas stuck in my mind. I accounted for every word spoken amongst us during our travels, and for every tick on the odometer, I assumed the van was creeping closer and closer to its demise. Ironically, the often uneasy feelings were at the same time encouraging because, if nothing else, I knew that we were in it together. Arriving home after any extended period of time spent on the road was always an anomaly. The comfort of my bed, the sight of familiar faces other than my band mates, and the return to a 9 to 5 lifestyle offered a security that one does not appreciate until he has cast it off without regret in searching for his purpose. I welcomed the financial stability that a steady paycheck provides and I slept like a baby underneath the clean, cotton quilt my grandmother had sewn for me. But despite all of the luxuries afforded to me, I was consumed with an impossible feeling of regret. The notion that I should have fought harder for the things I knew we all believed in raged in me like an inferno, but I no longer had the energy to fight. Things changed quickly when we returned from tour. Brandon abandoned us to live out his secluded, rural Americana fantasy. “Who’s laughing now?” I thought as he pulled off for the last time from our modest four-bedroom rental home. His departure took a lot from each of us, and despite our best efforts to move forward to keep from breaking up, we knew we were breaking down. The final blow came in early October. Hoping to re-establish our purpose and plan for the future, the three of us that remained sat together to discuss how we would move forward. The meeting was really intended as a pep-rally of sorts as there had been a lull in the action since our homecoming. The absence of our recently departed ally was obvious due to the lack of humor that was usually present during such congregations. Many times before, we all thought that being free of Brandon was a blessing in disguise but the prophecy was not proving true, and the void was about to grow even more irreconcilable. The ideas that I had hoped to propose that autumn afternoon quickly became a moot point and the conference took a sickening and unexpected turn. Schuyler piped up, and as the words were being spoken I was doing my best to make sense of the dialogue. His lips were moving, words were forming, the sentences streamed from his mouth, but I couldn’t register what was being said. Schuyler’s announcement was extremely detrimental to the existence of our music, yet he broadcast his retirement with insulting ease. I walked out, turned my back, and retreated to the safest place I knew—the place where I had so often gone to play records while riding in the van. *** Robin and I parked the van in a lot as vacant as most of the venues we had performed at along our voyage. The outdated Ford sat unnoticed for months; motorists passed it by as if it were some black sheep that had been cast away from the herd. Robin received few inquires into the for sale ad we had placed in the local paper. I thought at the time that maybe the posting in the classifieds was too ambiguous and did not give credit to the actual value of our old bus. The ad read simply: Passenger van for sale, runs good, $1500 OBO. Maybe if we had coined an ad that was more accurate and compelling, the van would have sold sooner. Something to the effect of: Van for sale, $1500 OBO; it may not get you to your destination, but you’ll always end up where you are meant to be. But that’s not what we were selling, that’s not what people want to buy. The old Club Wagon had not long ago been our home away from home. It had brought the four of us closer in a matter of months than any bar room or after-show party had done in years. It was a constant, tangible reminder of our brush with musical success, and the sacrifices we had made in pursuing something we truly believed in. But now, it was an albatross, and we needed to cut it loose so that we could purge ourselves of delusions of grandeur that seemed to plague us. The van eventually sold, and as Robin and I watched it disappear onto I81 with its new owner at the helm, we looked at one another with disappointing relief in our eyes as if to say, “We’re not the chosen ones, we’re not the diamonds in the rough.”

Time Like a Ghost

II.

To fill the eerie silence, I spun records in my head. I could hear the needle scraping, skipping, and popping across the brittle vinyl in my mind; headsets pacified the others. I could feel the rumbling of the motor, eight cylinders of American ingenuity doing what it does best. The creases in the road were humming under the large Goodyear tires, and the occasional melody from Rob’s iPod leapt into my ears, making my records skip. The world outside of our carriage was speeding by like Polaroid pictures scattered to the wind as we traversed our way to the first of several scheduled performances. Visions of my sixth birthday, the large mouth bass dad caught at the river, and the Halloween when I dressed like a pirate were all tumbling by. Tiny wet snowflakes sped to Earth in droves. From the mouth of the dull grey sky they fell furiously onto the landscape, accumulating only in sporadic bunches, resembling patches sewn onto a second-hand overcoat. The sun played hide and seek in the clouds, shining down on us just enough to provide hope that clearing was near. Brandon was passed out on the rear bench. His flannel comforter was pulled completely over his head; his mismatched socks were poking out and hanging off the edge of the seat. The bottoms were dingy and dirt-stained, one of them had a hole in the heel and I could see his callous, cracked skin through the tear. Brandon spent much of his time on the bus sleeping. Despite a closet full of skeletons, he somehow managed to keep a clear conscience and had no trouble getting his rest. When he was conscious, he would entertain us with absurd schemes of how he wished to live like Bukowski and stay drunk for days on end, drawing and selling caricatures on the street corners just often enough to pay his rent and buy wine. Our eccentric friend also contemplated moving into a shack at some remote location and living off the land. We all listened, more for a laugh than anything, but we knew he was full of it. Schuyler was occupying the seat in front of our napping comrade. He was wide awake and engaged in what seemed to be quite an extreme game of Tetris; his hands were glued to the miniature electronic gaming device, his blue eyes focused intensely on the screen. Schuyler’s sandy blonde hair was shagging down in his line of sight, and beads of sweat were forming in the creases of his forehead—he always fell victim to heavy perspiration. His concentration was finally broken by an incoming call; even I could feel the vibration of his cell phone. I knew who had dialed him before he even answered the line, Veronica called often. They’re married now. At the starboard, my co-pilot was scribbling wildly in his journal, etching with pen the thoughts and ideas that blossomed like wildflowers in every corner of his mind. I cast glances toward his documents hoping to catch a glimpse of what his imagination was conjuring up. He was furiously planting seeds of inspiration as if he were expecting a drought. Page after page was saturated in thick black ink. Despite my best attempts, I could never quite adjust my eyes on his words. Robin would pause every now and again and peer out the window. I assumed he was taking mental notes, perhaps of the landscape, passing motorists, mile markers… maybe he was just resting. After a few moments, he would return to his papers and the blue veins in his right hand would again protrude as they pumped blood toward his finger tips. In turn, his fingers continued pouring ink out onto the page. A car travelling in the opposite direction passed us by with its high-beams glaring through the pale and overcast early evening like a shooting star. I was reminded of one of our trips to Manhattan because in the city, headlights pass for starlight. We had played a show with friends whom we had met along the way. Our performance went off without a hitch, and to celebrate, the guys had all taken kindly to $4 twelve oz. cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon—the almost 100 percent markup on an otherwise cheap beer couldn’t ruin the celebration. Robin must have consumed his weight in barley and hops that night. We returned to the apartment building where we were staying—the view of the skyline from there was spectacular—and Robin was three sheets. I was feeling sickly that evening and wasn’t sleeping well, which proved lucky for Robin. I heard rustling around 3 a.m. in the dimly lit living room and caught a glimpse of his face in the bright city lights, his silhouette against the large, bay window almost looked as if it was radiating alcohol. He looked awful. I scrambled from my cozy cocoon on the couch and made my way to my fermented friend. He spoke not a word as I escorted his stumbling body to the bathroom. It’s a funny feeling to be completely sober in the presence of an over-indulged friend… I suppose it’s fair to say the event was a bit of a role-reversal. We found ourselves joking about the incident later that morning as we continued our journey, but I began to think maybe I wasn’t all that amused.

Who We Are Is Only What We Fight For

I.

Our bags and equipment were packed tightly in an order that probably made little sense to anyone other than ourselves: guitar cases crammed side-by-side like sardines in a can, cords and amplifier cables shoved violently into every nook and cranny, tattered and torn boxes of merchandise spilling CD’s, vinyl, t-shirts, and posters onto the carpeted floorboards. Our personal effects—shaving kits, sleeping bags, pillows, magazines, and clothes—were packed somewhat more neatly. They were cozy in their own messenger bags and backpacks. But those containers, too, were strewn about the boundaries of our temporary home so that the confines of our steed resembled the downtown streets of some poor township ravaged by riots. Despite a lackluster performance in organization that would surely make Martha Stewart cringe, the carton of Camels was easily accessible and the steel hip flask was at the ready, boasting a skull and crossbones logo on the front, filled with a smooth, sweet and amber fluid aged 10 years in wooden casks in Tennessee. I can’t, for the life of me, tell you where the spare tire was. None of us were the least bit surprised that starting our journey became a battle in itself. The key turned in the ignition half a dozen times but the sparks just wouldn’t ignite. My language, my reaction that morning would make the rants of a rum-soaked and sea-weary sailor seem like a Sunday morning sermon, which was fitting being that we were bound for the town of Bethlehem, Pa. The frustration that comes with unreliability is hard to explain but easy for anyone to understand. We had been planning for months and rehearsing night and day; all we wanted was to get on the road and drive. We wanted to drive the exhausting six hours north on I81 and then drive again, and then again, and again. We just wanted to go until the wheels fell off. At last, the beast hummed its throaty song and sputtered to an idle. Thick, putrid clouds of exhaust bellowed from the belly of the 1987 Ford Club Wagon, like a ghost, floating weightless and blue. The aroma of coffee entwined with cigarette smoke and the strangely comforting smell of gasoline stuck in my nose and soon crept to my throat. I could taste the moment. Neutral, reverse-CLICK-drive. We purchased the van weeks earlier from a caricature of a man with a fitting cartoonish name. Jessie Jones wore rhinestones on his shirt and sported a 10-gallon hat atop his hair piece which he wore atop his balding head. His lot was as humorous a sight as he; old, rusted sedans and beat-up pickup trucks with bad paint jobs lined the dirt isles. The fact that a vehicle almost as old as its suitors was the most ship-shape piece of merchandise there didn’t bother us, our minds were made up. The price seemed right and ol’ Jesse was eager to accept our offer, so we drove the van home that evening. It had been only hours since our transaction with Jesse Jones and things had already begun breaking, busting, quitting, leaking, and otherwise going completely to hell. We knew from the outset that the radio was a no-go, but that soon became the least of our worries. Gauges weren’t reading right, fuses were shorting out, and the engine had an irritating habit of completely cutting off at the most inopportune times, sending us helplessly coasting into intersections, emergency lanes, and on one occasion into a tree that was home to a nice little birdhouse.

Worn In Red

Last night, I got to see my friends in the band Worn In Red perform at Nara Sushi. The show reinforced what I already knew: Worn In Red is a really great band. I suppose my opinion could be taken as biased because I have known 3/4 of the band for several years now. But I can assure you that even if I didn't know them personally, I would still like them. Let's explore some reasons why:

1) Each member not only plays their instrument well, but they each play like their face is on fire.

2) They are always well rehearsed.

3) They play well as a unit. What I mean is each member seems to have a connection with the others while they are performing. You don't always see that in a band, and when a group doesn't interact, I think it hurts the quality.

4) They are as hard a working band as any. They tour pretty regularly and extensively, and it seems that they keep new material rolling out pretty regularly.

So there you have it, Worn In Red: Good band, good dudes, good job.